She rose a third time, preparing to knock again. The door swung inward before her knuckles struck wood, and she pitched forward. Before she could register what was happening, her hands landed against bare skin.
Heat struck first, then hardness.
Her palms pressed against the broad plane of Connor’s chest, and for one stupid second, her body understood him before her mind caught up.
He was warm, solid, and indecently steady beneath her hands. Some muscle rippled under her fingers as he caught the slight force of her stumble without moving back. The ridges of his abdomen tightened below where her wrists hovered. His shoulders were wide enough to block out the lamplight behindhim, and his long dark hair hung loose around his face, rougher than it had looked in the dungeons.
He was shirtless.
Good God!He was shirtless, and somehow he looked more powerful for it. His dark eyes lowered to her hands on his chest, then lifted to her face. His trousers hung loosely on his waist, and she could see the bulge beneath?—
“Got lost, lass?”
Violet jerked her hands away as if his skin had personally offended her. “Do ye usually answer doors half-naked?”
He glanced down at himself, then back at her. “In me own study? Aye.”
“That is indecent.”
“Then stop touching me.”
Her face heated. That made her angrier.
“Move,” she huffed.
One eyebrow rose. “Ye came to me door to order me aside?”
“I came to finish what ye started.”
He stepped back, leaving enough room for her to enter. Violet did, because retreating would have been worse than walking into a study with a half-dressed tyrant and her pulse behaving like a fool.
The room suited him. Of course it did.
A large desk stood near the fire, papers arranged in neat stacks. A glass of whisky sat beside an inkstand, and the low fire cast warm light over dark wood, maps, and the chair he had clearly abandoned without haste.
Everything looked controlled in the most masculine way she could imagine.
Connor crossed to the desk and picked up his glass.
“We didnae finish our conversation earlier,” Violet said.
“Which one?” he asked. “The interrogation, the argument, or the part where ye agreed to become me bride by failing to escape?”
“I never agreed to yer…”
“Proposal?”
“I would prefer ye call it an irrational demand.”
Something close to amusement touched his mouth. “Drink?”
“I am nae here to drink with ye.”
“Pity. Ye look as if ye need it.”
“I need many things at present. Whisky is low on the list.”
“As ye like.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim.
