They rode hard that morning, stopping briefly only once to eat some food and rest their horses. Laurel ate very little and said less as they rode. Conor knew she was in great pain, as she tried not to wince each time his horse took unexpected turns through the rocky passes. But she never complained.
At first, Laurel had been reassured when Conor picked her up to ride with him. But her physical reaction to him was so intense, so unexpected, that when he whispered his name in her ear, she wanted to retreat into the unappealing arms of another.
Throughout the morning, she tried to ride with her back rigid, so as to not make familiar contact with the highlander. But by the afternoon, she had no more strength and began to relax against his chest. He was so strong and smelled so good. His scent reminded Laurel of her grandfather—earthy, warm and comforting.
Conor was relieved when she finally gave in to her fatigue. It had pained him to see her discomfort compounded by her refusal to lean on him for support. But once she did, the torture he had been experiencing was even worse.
All morning he had been dealing with the scent of lilacs, trying to ignore her soft skin when it came into contact with his. Now, with her leaning against him, he was living in agony that only would have been surpassed by seeing her in some other man’s arms.
About an hour before sunset, Conor motioned to Finn to make camp up ahead. He veered to his left, leaving the others, and rode towards a thicket shielding a small rocky river. He dismounted and lowered her slowly to the ground, handing her a small pouch.
He knew it was folly to continue holding her, but he seemed to have no power over his actions. She looked up at him expectantly but did not attempt to escape his embrace.
“There is a stream just ahead for you to bathe in. It should not be too cold this far south,” he nodded towards a path through the bushes. “I must see to my men and will return shortly.” He let her go and turned towards his horse. Just before he left, he added, “You are safe here,” and rode out of sight, leaving Laurel to her privacy.
Conor returned to the unmade campsite and found his brothers gathered, speaking animatedly about something, or someone. He handed his mount to Cole and went to establish a perimeter watch with Hamish.
“What do you intend, laird?” Hamish ventured, wondering what his laird’s plan was with the English lady named Laurel. Hamish was a stout man, muscular with shoulder-length auburn hair. His dark green eyes flashed with whatever strong emotion he was feeling. Currently, it was a mixture of protection and possession.
Conor saw the fierce need in his guard. “My word.”
Only slightly appeased, Hamish needed to know the extent of his laird’s promise. “Your word? Did you promise her safety? Or to return her home?” When Conor did not respond, Hamish uncharacteristically pressed, “Surely, you did not promise to return her to England, laird.”
This line of questioning was unusual for his normally quiet, reserved guard. The fact that it was centered on Laurel made Conor uneasy. “Enough, Hamish. We are returning to McTiernay land. I will take care of the Englishwoman.”
Hamish did not care for his laird’s tone. It felt harsh and without warmth. But then, what did he expect? Conor had made it long known how he felt about the fairer sex. Hamish decided then that if she could not return to her people, he would ask for her hand.
Conor’s brief discussion with Hamish left him irritated and cross. He knew Hamish was attracted to Laurel as were most of his brothers and his guard, maybe more so. Damn, he wished he knew what it was about her that made men desire her so quickly, so definitively.
Conor told Hamish to finish checking the perimeter. He would meet up with him and Seamus near the rocky pass once he finished one more task. He told himself that he was just going to make sure that the Englishwoman was safe.
As Conor approached the clearing, he could see Laurel sitting serenely in the river, facing away from him with her shoulders just cresting the water. She had washed her hair and it now glistened in the sun’s setting light. It was the color of spun gold with pale highlights that seemed to shimmer with its own light.
He was about to reveal himself when she stood up. Upon her back were several ghastly welts where she had been kicked repeatedly. As she turned towards shore, Conor could see bruises on her arms in the shape of large hands that had once gripped her tightly. He still could not see the front of her body, but he was sure the same brutal markings would be there as well. She had never said a word. He could not help but respect the English maiden’s strength. She was beautiful and courageous and, as he watched the water drip off her naked form, she was more desirable than any woman he had ever seen.
Not today—but soon—he would kill the Douglass beast for laying a hand on her. He would have his answers about what happened before they arrived home. Whoever he was, he had touched Laird McTiernay’s woman. And for that, he must die.
Conor paused at that thought. Laird McTiernay’s woman. Was that who she was to him? Or was she a temporary fascination that would soon fade?
The ache in his loins grew as he watched her dress, unable to turn away. The unmarked portion of her skin, now clear of the dirt and blood, was exquisite. It had been kissed by the afternoon sun, making it appear warm and sensuous. He shook his head, ran his fingers roughly through his hair, and tried to gather his thoughts. He was filled with waves of emotions—lust, possessiveness, need, and an overwhelming urge to keep her safe.
When he finally moved into the clearing, Laurel had donned her delicate thin chemise and was trying to pull on her bliaut. Both were still fairly damp from her attempt at washing them. She should have been embarrassed or at least uncomfortable by his appearance and her state of undress. Instead, she only felt relief.
She looked at him beseechingly. “Could you please help?”
He gripped the damp garment and took it completely off of her. “I need to examine your ribs.” Her teal-colored eyes darted around the small clearing as if she expected others to approach.
“No one will see you. The others know that I am seeing to your safety,” Conor stated.
She snatched her bliaut from his hands and covered her chest. “My ribs are fine, really.”
Conor was not deterred. “Your breaths have been shallow all day, and you winced every time my horse had to turn.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m just bruised. I assure you I am fine. I will not be any trouble,” Laurel said, backing away.
Conor was getting annoyed. “Stop cowering. I will not harm you.”
Laurel shot him a look of contempt. “I am no coward, sir, and I will tell you now that I have never cowered.” Heated emotion flooded her eyes, turning them the color of a North Sea storm again. “I just do not wish you to feel my—my ribs,” she finished in a bit of a fluster.
“Fine, my English mystery, you are no coward. But I will be looking at your ribs.” He reached out and held her gently, but firmly, giving her no choice but to submit to his examination. He started gently pressing on her ribs one by one.
“Breathe, lass.”
Laurel was trying to, but, with his hands touching her so tenderly, it was impossible. She had never been around a man quite like this Conor. He was huge, but kind. A warrior, but a protector. When he was near her, like this, she never wanted him to leave. Oh, what was wrong with her? The sheer closeness of his body with hers made her feel incredibly alive and aware that she was a woman with physical needs and desires.
She gasped and then moaned. She tried not to, but he kept probing. “Enough,” she softly cried, “please, no more.” She collapsed against him.
He held her gently, stroking her hair. “It’s all right, lass. It’s all right.” He waited until she had stopped trembling. He lifted her chin. And what happened next he