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“I liked your eyes,” she said.
“Really?” He crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows, seeming genuinely surprised.
She gave him a dubious look. “Surely you’ve been told that before. You have rather unusual eyes.”
He shrugged. “I’m interested in what you think, lass.”
“Very well. You have striking eyes. They’re pretty.”
“Go on,” he said.
She would have rather hit him, but she was curious what he would say about her. “Your—” She wasn’t quite sure how to mention his body. She liked how lean and muscular he was. But she would rather have her toenails pulled out than speak of something like that. “Height,” she finally said. “I like how you’re tall. But not too tall.”
“Sure and men of average height are hard to resist. Try a little harder, lass, or our neighbors in Dublin will think we’re playing at being in love.”
“Fine! Your hair—”
“Needs a trim. Say something to make them sigh.”
She did like his hair. It was a bit too long and she wanted to run her hands through it. She liked the color too—not blond and not brown but so many colors woven through.
“Your face,” she said.
“I’m a handsome bastard, so I am. Is it me nose? Me lips?”
Oh, she would not say anything about his lips, else he might get ideas about kissing her again. “Fine.” She searched for something and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Your hands.”
He looked down at them, curious, but he didn’t argue. The silence seemed an encouragement for her to continue. She stared at his ungloved hands as she spoke. “I like how they look strong but also gentle. They’re the hands of a man used to hard work, but a man who knows kindness and care too.”
When she looked back up, he was staring at her. The air in the coach suddenly seemed thick and too warm. She wanted to tug off her scarf and unfasten the top few buttons on her coat.
“You’re a poet, lass. Spoken like a true Irishwoman.”
“Yes...well...” She didn’t quite know how to take the compliment. She’d never thought of herself as an Irishwoman. She’d never been proud of her father’s heritage and always thought her Irish surname a detriment. But she wouldn’t be here now if she didn’t have a knack for the accent and her Irish looks, so she supposed she should be grateful to her father for one thing.
“My turn,” he said. Her head jerked up, and her heart began to pound. She was both curious and terrified about what he would say. Their eyes met, and the way his gaze roamed over her face, made her cheeks heat. She looked back down.
“It wasn’t but a minute or two after I met you, lass, that the idea of marrying you popped into me head. I could see right away—well, once I pushed past the prim and punctual rubbish—that you’re clever. Not just clever, but wily and not a little mad when there’s something in your way. Sure and I like a fiery lass.”
Bridget stared at him. “But that doesn’t sound like me at all. No one will be convinced if you say that.”
She saw a flash of something in his eyes, something she hadn’t seen from him before. “They’ll know it’s you if they pay attention. I didn’t concoct a word of that.” He was angry—or not angry perhaps, but annoyed. Was that really how he had seen her at the train station? Fiery, clever, and—she could hardly be flattered by the last—wily?
“But I thought—” She paused. What had she thought he’d say?
“You thought I’d only taken note of your bosom?” he said.
“Mr. Kelly!”
“I noted it. A man would have to be blind not to, but your umbrella seemed a more useful asset at that moment.”
She sighed. “I should have known.”
He sat forward. “But that’s just the point, lass. You didn’t know. You assumed I would comment on your ample charms. You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I woke you up, since we have quite a bit of work to do before we reach Ireland.”
He made a sound low in his throat.
