“My thoughts! My lists of things to do, the plans to be made, the work to be done, the reasons to—”
She did it again. She stopped her mouth as if… as if…
“The reasons to not kiss me, is it? You stay angry with me because you want to tumble into my arms?”
“Of all the arrogant, puffed-up conceit! You think I can’t keep myself from kissing you?”
“You can’t,” he said, his thoughts tumbling back to the time in his bedroom. He’d been gentle with her, given her all the time in the world to run, and she hadn’t. Sure, after he’d had a thorough taste of her, she’d broken away as if scalded. But there’d been plenty of ways to break long before their lips touched.
“Of course, I can!” She was all but screaming now. Her hands were fisted and her expression hot. But he also saw the way her breath was short and her nipples tight. Smart little buds pushed through the thin fabric of her gown.
“It’s not me that frightens you,” he said, realization dawning. “It’s how you feel when I kiss you.”
She shook her head. Indeed, the gesture was so tight and fierce, he wondered that it didn’t give her a headache. But she didn’t speak her denial. And if those pert nipples meant anything, she wanted his kiss for sure.
But he knew better than to take what she hadn’t expressly given. That had been his mistake when he was a teen. So he tried a different approach.
“The feelings inside aren’t bad, Mairi. They’re the best thing ever.”
“A full belly is best. A warm fire is best. A kiss is nothing—”
“It’s not the kiss,” he reminded her. “It’s how you feel when we do it.”
“It’s not that pleasurable!”
“Isn’t it no’?” he said. He took a step forward, and she retreated quickly. But there was little room in this small patch of green and she came up against a tree trunk after another step.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Connall Aberbeag. I’ll scream if you do.”
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’ll not do a thing until you ask.”
She nodded, clearly reassured. Her arms were held tight to her sides and her fists were at the ready. She meant to punch him, it appeared. But only if he advanced, and he remained very still, two steps back from her. But he could still speak to her, couldn’t he? And maybe his words would reach her.
“You’ve always been honest, Mairi, with yourself as well as everyone else. Tell me true, do you really think I’d hurt you? I’d do anything against your will?”
It took her a moment to answer, but in the end, honesty won out. “You haven’t hurt me. You cannae.”
Guilt rolled off his shoulders. All this time, he’d thought he’d hurt her beyond apology, beyond redemption. Now he saw that it wasn’t him at all.
“So it’s yourself you fear. You lose your tasks and your plans.”
She looked away. He knew that she could still see him in the periphery, but her head was now canted away enough that her hair slipped past her cheek to cover half her face. His fingers itched to brush the lock aside. Indeed, the need to touch her burned through his blood, but he held himself back.
“Mairi,” he said softly. “Can it be passion that frightens you?” It made sense. She’d always felt things keenly. It had taken her months to learn to skin a creature, not because she hadn’t the skill with a knife or the hunger in her belly, but because she could not stop crying over the creature’s death. That’s why he’d turned to her when his mother died. He knew she felt the pain as keenly as he, though it was not her parent they buried.
“I had a plan, Connall.”
“To marry Liam.”
“We were promised when we were children. You know that.”
“And I know he married someone else.”
“Aye.”
“Aye. So now you come down to London. Why? To marry another man who doesn’t stir your loins?”
Her head snapped up. “You leave my loins out of it!”
