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Their eyes met. Their gazes locked. Fathomless, unspoken meaning passed between them—mutual respect, raw attraction, fervent attachment, none of which Olivia understood. He was a veritable stranger, for God’s sake.
Pinned by his golden hawkish gaze, Olivia could not find the words to say, until she whispered, “Tis only a scratch.”
His gaze fixed on her face, just as hers was on his face; he was young enough but his eyes held an old pain, darkening his mesmerizing orbs. Her stomach panged with—what? Uneasiness? Sorrow? Confusion? He blinked and dropped her hand.
“What are ye doing here?” he asked while replacing the dirk in its place.
“I came to talk with ye,” Olivia said, even while Ó Riagáin’s jaw worked as he perched his hip on the table. “About the wedding and our marriage.”
“What about them?” he asked, arms folded across his chest.
“Is the reason ye wanted to hold the wedding here instead of at me home because ye truly think me faither was behind it?” Olivia asked.
She did not know him enough to make a list of tells the man had but she decided to watch closely. When he had told her the frank truth of how their marriage would be, not once had she heard deception in his voice; now, she hoped for the same.
A twitch was in his cheek and his hand had grabbed the edge of the desk so tightly, his knuckles were white. “Aye.”
Truth—he had told her the truth. She gazed at him, “That is the only reason?”
His gripped the desk hard enough that the muscles in his arm were standing out. “It is the main one, aye, but the second is, I daenae ken how yer faither secures his house. What his soldiers do, where they are posted and how quickly they will act in a crisis. I ken mine.”
The sting in her hand drew her attention, and as she lifted her hand, Ó Riagáin grabbed it and cursed under his breath. “Give me a moment.”
He ducked out of the room and while she gazed at the cut—still seeping blood—he came back with a strip of bandages and gently wrapped her hand. “The smell of yer blood was driving me to the madhouse.”
Tying it off, he sat back while Olivia gazed at her hand. He had done it so gently—and dare she say tenderly—that she wondered if what she knew, or thought she knew about Ó Riagáin was true. “Thank ye.”
“Is that all ye needed?” he asked.
“Nay,” she held her hand with the other. “I must tell ye that I am nay one to wear dresses all the times. Most days I don breeches, boots and a shirt, all men’s clothing. Will ye be bothered by that?”
Slowly, his left brow lifted high. “And why would I be bothered by that, lass?”
“I’d imagine most men in yer position would like a genteel woman,” Olivia responded. “One who embodies all the graces, dancing, singing, playing the harp or flute, nay one who is best at archery, knife throwing, and riding.”
His head tilted, “And why would I want an adornment on my arm?”
“A woman who can play the flute is an adornment?” Olivia asked, eyes narrowing.
“I dinnae say that,” he replied.
“Isn’t that what ye meant?”
“Never said that either,” he snorted.
“It is what ye meant.”
“Stop assuming things, lass,” he said, the vague hint of amusement in his eyes. “Just because I said it, doesnae mean it is what I mean?”
“Why else would ye say something and daenae mean it?” She asked pointedly.
Crossing his booted legs, he replied, “One can be one without the other.”
“So that is it then, ye say what ye daenae mean and mean what ye daenae say,” she snorted, throwing up her hands.
“Are ye always like that?” he asked. “So inquisitive?”
Suddenly, Olivia went red, dropped her head, and muttered to no one in particular. “My apologies. It is a bad trait of mine.”
