He rounded on her and let some of his fury boil through. “That’s why he was terrified. God’s bollocks, Mairi, do you ken what might have happened to ye?” His brogue was thick this time not because he didn’t want the English to understand but because he was that furious. “I spent the last two days thinking about what might have happened to ye.”
“You’ve no cause to be thinking about me at all, Connall Aberbeag.”
“That’s not stopped me one whit from doing it these years and more.”
She glared at him, emotions clearly boiling up within her. He watched as her fists raised, ready to strike him, but she held them back. Mad as she was, she knew better than to strike him. Last time she’d tried, he’d… Well, that’s what put them in this current state of odds, now, wasn’t it?
And then his gaze chanced to land on her hands. Her knuckles were white for the most part as she gripped her fists, but he saw the scrape on them, too. The kind one gets from a fight.
He grabbed her hands, pulling them up to the sunlight to see better. She didn’t fight him, probably because he’d startled her. And when she whipped them back down, he let her go. But his tone was deadly serious when he spoke.
“What happened, Mairi? Who’d you fight?”
“It’s nothing but a scrape. I got much worse from glass nearly every time.”
That wasn’t true, and that wasn’t the point. “Whom did you fight?”
“You’ve no cause to be asking me that,” she snapped. “I’ll give account to my father and no one else.”
“And I am here on account of your father. Mairi, who did yo—”
“She was robbed, you idiot Scot,” the countess said in a weary voice.
“Robbed!” His gaze leaped to the countess who appeared in earnest. And when he looked back at Mairi, her irritation was plain.
“I didn’t scrape my knuckles then,” she snapped. She held up her abraded knuckles. “This was from teaching a man on the coach how a proper gentleman treats a lady.”
The countess gasped. “Sweat heaven!”
“You were accosted! On the mail coach. And robbed?” Panic shot through him. “Are you hurt? What happened? Mairi—”
“Ach! Quiet yerself!”
He grabbed her arms and looked her in the eyes. “You must tell me it all,” he commanded.
Then contrary woman that she was, she simply arched a brow. “And why would I do that? What right have you to demand—”
“Mairi!”
“That’s Miss MacAdaidh to you!”
He bit off his angry retort. She was correct. He had no right to demand anything of her, but damn her, he ought to! He wanted to! He had yearned for her since he’d first seen her punch an older boy who was hurting a lamb. She’d been six. She had fire then and now, a fierceness he wanted by his side as they carved out a life in the highlands.
But he’d been a boy and misplayed his hand. And she…
“What did I do to have you treat me so?” he asked. “I’ve stood with you against the MacCleal when his men got out of hand, I rushed for two days to London to be sure you were safe. I have responsibilities, as well you know, and yet I left without a second thought just to find you.”
She sighed as she set her hands on her hips. “Connall Aberbeag, what does a woman have to say to get through your thick head? I am here to find an English husband—”
“And are you that ashamed of your kin? You’ll hate the Sassenach here. Not a one could best you in a fight.”
“And that’s the measure of a man?” she scoffed. Then she punched him right hard in the gut. He’d seen the punch coming and let himself tense for the blow, but he didn’t flinch for all that she could hit like a bull. “There now,” she said. “You can take a hit better than any English. Is that the only measure of a man? Should I marry ye because you’ve got a stomach harder than a rock?”
She absently rubbed at her knuckles as her gaze canted away. He surrounded her fist in his own hand, cradling it to show that he could be gentle as well.
“Mairi,” he said, keeping his tone chiding. “I don’t mean fighting with fists. Ye like a good fight with words, ye like measuring yourself against a man, and there’s not an Englishman here who’ll know what to do with ye.”
“And you do?” she challenged as she tried to pull her hand free.
