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“At ease, Willam,” Conner nodded, “Is she inside?”
“Aye, me laird,” Willam nodded.
Gently, Conner pried the door open but took only two steps inside. The lass was asleep, her face—thankfully free from any trace of blood—was resting peacefully on a pillow, her hair, tossed over her shoulder, was gleaming rich brown in the low light. His eyes traced the line of her body under the sheets, the delicate nip of her waist, and the curve of her hip.
Silently, he backed away and closed the door, then nodded to Willam, “When she is awake, send for me.”
“Aye, sir.” Willam bowed his head, dark red strands flopping into his eyes.
One thing he did know about the lass back there—she was not as she seemed and a part of him wondered what more was there about her, he would learn. She had already started to earn his admiration and respect, maybe they would grow to be true companions one day.
Though he knew there was nothing he could have done about his marriage, Conner felt guilty about robbing the lass from finding a true husband and lifelong partner. The swell of longing in his chest was not the pain from the attack, but hot sweltering guilt. She would be cared for, protected, provided, given anything she wanted—but he would never love her. That, Conner was sure.
Chapter 3
With a stifled gasp, Olivia woke with a start. She bolted upright, the tortured gasp on her lips had her eyes flaring wide. But then, her gaze fell on her window and judging by the pale pink-yellow light of pre-dawn seeping through the open shutters, she’d slept for nearly a day.
Her hand darted to her cheek where the blood from one of the attackers she had killed had stained her face. It was not there, but the memory of the attack on Ó Riagáin’s carriage was vivid on her mind. Her hand darted to under her pillow and grasped the two daggers she had used in the attack, now cleaned from mercenary blood.
Slumping back to her pillows, Olivia stared at them. She remembered Ó Riagáin’s shock when she had darted out from the carriage and thrown the first—with deadly precision—into one of the attackers’ heads, killing him on the spot where he stood. When the battle had ended, he had looked appreciative but—she worried her lip—was he starting to think otherwise?
A lot of Scotsmen are taking the English ideals of a lady, that she should be meek and subservient. Does he think I am a termagant now?
Slipping from the bed, Olivia found one of her trunks that had been delivered yestereve during her bath, and tugged a thick plaid wrap out, twining it around herself. Perching on a chair near a window, she slipped into quiet thought while gazing at the lands beyond.
None of the landscape was familiar. There were large hills rising in the distance that gave way to mountains, gently rolling light snow-covered hills and canopied by a sky so blue it made her throat tight with the beauty. The snow on the lawns just outside was only a dusting, but soon would be thick and freezing the ground.
A brisk knock on the door had her tuning, “Enter.”
When the door pushed in, she expected to see her newly appointed maid, but it was Ó Riagáin instead. If she had not looked for it, she would have not seen the slight limp he walked with from the injury. Frankly, she was surprised he was walking at all.
She felt wary as he came closer, but as he grasped the arm of another chair, he bowed his head. “Good morning, I hope ye slept well?”
His tone was tight and restrained but his words were genial. What was he holding back?
“I did, thank ye,” Olivia nodded while tugging her wrap tight. “Should ye be walking so soon?”
“Me healers said the stab had not stuck anything vital, and the wound is sewn together,” Ó Riagáin said. “It’s nay my first time being wounded, lass.”
Thinking of the battles she had heard him winning, Olivia nodded. “I suppose nae.”
He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his breeches-clad knees, stretching his brown léine to gape that much more at the neck, revealing a soft sprinkling of hair on bronzed skin; his sleeves rolled up over strong, muscled arms. His chin was not covered with an unkempt beard—like his companions’ shaggy faces—but only bore a hint of stubble. Seeing him like this, she felt an odd warmth spread though her chest.
Her mind whirled as she let her gaze wander further across his ruggedly handsome features. His strong cheekbones, set jaw, and hooded brow spoke of power, a forceful character. Dark blond hair, glowing in the daylight, was tied back at the nape of his neck.
“I came to tell ye that I do appreciate what ye did yestereve,” he said.
“Ye daenae think it was out of order?” Olivia said warily while grasping the wrap a bit tighter again, trying not to show her nervousness. However, the way Ó Riagáin’s eyes dipped to it, he might have realized it. How did he expect her to be, though, she was talking to her family’s sworn enemy? “It was certainly not ladylike.”
His head canted to the side and inquisitiveness darkened his golden eyes. “And what, in yer opinion, is a lady supposed to be?”
She narrowed her eyes—was that supposed to be a trap? For her to tell him how unsuitable she was to be his wife?
“Meek, I suppose,” she said, watching his face for his reaction. “A bonnie face and genteel manners, always deferring to her husband?”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “But what has that to do with defending yerself or others if ye are able to? Ye can be both, lass. It is nay one or the other.”
A spark of hope lightened her chest, “Ye were nay offended?”
