Connor nodded, thankful for the change of subject. “Aye. I found it to be filled with numerous passages of pronounced sagacity.”
“Yes!”
That same smile she’d favored Bram with months ago, the one that lingered in his dreams and roused him unbearably, blossomed on her lips. It held the same joy and, aye, relief as before, and rendered him as lightheaded as it had the first time. ‘Twas a dangerous weapon the lass wielded.
Her eyes darted to the book before rising to meet his. “There have been moments where I’m of the opinion that the author somehow knows me. The narrative speaks to my life with astonishing resonance.”
Did she know what such an admission revealed about her life, Connor wondered. In the novel, the main characters contract an ill-advised marriage with Dorothea struggling against Casaubon’s attempts to subjugate her. Eventually Dorothea is freed from her mistake when her elderly husband dies. Of a heart attack, if he remembered correctly.
Was she suggesting a parallel to her own life experience? Or perhaps Mrs. Milbourne referred to Dorothea’s passion for social reform. That had been Fiona’s takeaway from the novel.
“Do you have a favorite line?” She paused and turned to him, her expression clear of the more troubling implications of her pronouncement.
“Aye. ‘The troublesome ones in a family are usually either the wits or the idiots.’”
After a heartbeat, her laughter burst forth like the sweetest of chimes, light and musical, as he’d hoped it would. He relished the smile on her lips and the swell of delight in his heart. A dimple flashed in her left cheek, and without thinking, he lifted his hand to cradle her jaw, his thumb grazing the indentation.
She froze, his bonny doe, her eyes rounded, though not filled with distrust this time. She didn’t run away or even tense. In fact, Connor thought she pressed her cheek ever so subtly to his palm. The next moment, mind too dulled by her presence to check his impulses, his mouth swept over hers and settled there. Her gasp of surprise died against his lips, her kiss soft and chaste. He made no effort to deepen it further, but enjoyed several long moments savoring the taste of her. The rush of simple pleasure. Exhilarating desire.
And would have sworn they were lips that had never been kissed before.
Raising his head, he stared down at her upturned face and something flip-flopped in his chest. He’d never seen anything as enticing. Eyes yet closed, her lashes an ebony fan across her flushed cheeks. Her lips damp, slightly parted. Begging him to resume his tender exploration.
Another need called for him, though. One having far less to do with desire than he would have liked. It sobered him. This sweet innocent lass, so taken by wariness that it blanketed her like the mightiest steel armament.
Until one found the chink in her armor.
“What do ye run from, Mrs. Milbourne?”
Chapter 5
‘But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.’ When I read that line aloud today, so much of what I’ve done, what I felt, began to make sense. Despair came upon me the day I realized my hopes that Harry would come to my aid would never come to fruition.
~ from the diary of Piper Brudenall, August 1895
It took a moment for the intoxicating rush of his kiss to be burned away by Connor’s solemn question. The need to flee set upon her much more readily. Before she managed a single step, he caught her arm to stay her flight. The delight he’d infused her with minutes before was offset by an influx of panic.
“Nay, lass, dinnae run. Ye have nothing to fear from me.” Contrary to the quiet reassurance in his brogue, her heart hammered against her ribs. She refused to call it fear. This was betrayal. As if life hadn’t already proven itself a cautionary tale. “Lassie. Please, I want nae more than to help ye. Trust me.”
He released her and Piper stumbled back a step, then spun on her heel determined to run. Not more than two paces away, she stopped.
What good would it do to flee? Unless she wanted to curtail the general practice of living more than she already had and keep to her cottage without exception, she sensed there would be no hiding from him any longer.
Damn him.
Anger welled, hot as the fires of hell. She whirled back, brimming with fury. “You said you would allow me my secrets! A promise that lasted mere minutes. How can I trust you at all?”
Connor shook his head, compassion in his tender gaze. “Och, lass. There are secrets and there are burdens. One keeps a confidence and the other weighs on you. If you let it go unchecked, it will drive ye into the ground. Let me share it wi’ ye. Bear the burden and help ye if I can.”
“I have no need for your help.” Her ire lost some of its heat to the despair that had long encumbered her. “No one can help me.”
Not against the greater threat.
He shook his head, denying her certainty. “I cannae believe that’s true. There is always help to be had if one asks it of the right person.”
Every fiber of her being denied the implication thathewas the right person to ask. Every nerve in her body demanded she run. The fortitude and tenderness in his eyes held her there. They weren’t merely green as she’d thought. His irises were rimmed in the darkest forest green, fading to a moody moss speckled with shades of light olive and chartreuse.
Those eyes had ensnared her interest and sparked her imagination from the moment they’d met. Nevertheless, whatever fantasies she might’ve had—and they were legion given her general boredom during the long, lonely summer nights—Connor wasn’t the sort of man she would ever seriously entertain. If she’d been given the chance to entertain beaux, that was.
