us.”
“If I’d thought about that before I left home, I’d havestayed in County Clare. Sometimes a man or a woman has to take risks.”
Shane seemed to mull that over for a while. Then he nodded. “All right. I’m no stranger to risks. Finish what you started. Shave off the rest of this beard.”
Caitlin couldn’t contain a sound of amusement. “You sound like a convicted felon going to his hanging. Do you think I’ll cut your throat?”
“You might,” he grumbled.
“I used to shave Papa. He found it relaxing.”
“Don’t push your luck. Just shave the damned whiskers.”
She reached for the straight razor. “My pleasure, sir. When you ask so sweetly, how can I refuse?”
He turned his face so that she could soap his other cheek. “I’d do it myself, but my hand’s none too steady.”
Neither was hers. For all her bravado, she was nervous. Shaving Shane was nothing like performing the service for her father; this was strangely intimate. She kept remembering the feeling of his arms around her and how safe she had felt.
Shane was infuriating, insulting, and she was certain that he’d betrayed her with Cerise. Yet something drew her to him. In spite of everything, she wanted him to hold her again.
“Hold still.” Her fingers were trembling slightly, and she didn’t want to cut him.
“What are you doin’?”
She jerked back. “Stop yelling at me. You told me to shave—”
“Use the scissors first, woman. Cut the whiskers off close to my skin, then shave them.”
“All right.” He was impossible. What had made her think she could ever make her peace with such a demanding,egotistical man? She dropped the razor into the bowl and looked around for the scissors.
Soapsuds dripped down Shane’s neck onto his shirt, or rather what was left of his shirt.
“Could you take that off?” she asked, pointing to his ruined garment.
Groaning, he stripped the torn shirt off. She winced as she saw the purple bruising along his ribs.
“Satisfied?”
Taking a deep breath, she tried to ignore the wide expanse of heavily muscled male chest and began to clip away his chin whiskers. She worked cautiously, trying not to jump every time Shane complained.
“Aren’t you done yet?”
“If you’d sit still, maybe I could finish.” Caitlin gritted her teeth and rinsed off the razor. She finished the last of the shaving just as the sound of hoofbeats drifted through the open window. Caitlin went to look out with Shane not a step behind her.
“Look.” She counted no less than five men riding toward the house. “We’ve visitors.” She laid the scissors on the windowsill.
“Visitors, hell! That’s Earl Thompson, our nearest neighbor.” He started for the door. “Keep the colleen inside. There may be trouble.”
“But, Shane, you’re hurt. You shouldn’t—”
“Damn it! For once, Caity, do as I say!”
“Gentlemen, welcome to Kilronan.” Caitlin stepped out the front door and smiled at the men on horseback. She’d miscounted from the window. There were six strangers, all carrying weapons strapped to their saddles, and all scowling like Satan’s imps at Shane and Gabriel and Justice.
Her men stood shoulder to shoulder; Shane cradled his rifle casually in the crook of his arm.
“I am Caitlin McKenna, Shane’s wife,” she said graciously. “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Thompson.”
She didn’t need Shane to point out which man was Earl Thompson. He was the stocky, no-neck figure on the tall gray horse. Thompson’s hair was white, and his face weathered by wind and sun, but he was still in his prime. Caitlin decided that he was a force to be reckoned with.
“Mrs. McKenna.” Thompson touched two gnarled fingers to his broad-brimmed hat. “I thought McKenna’s wife was in Ireland.”
“So she was, sir,” Caitlin answered, “but now she is here.”
“What happened to you, McKenna?” Earl Thompson asked. “You look like you’ve been trampled by a herd of
“If I’d thought about that before I left home, I’d havestayed in County Clare. Sometimes a man or a woman has to take risks.”
Shane seemed to mull that over for a while. Then he nodded. “All right. I’m no stranger to risks. Finish what you started. Shave off the rest of this beard.”
Caitlin couldn’t contain a sound of amusement. “You sound like a convicted felon going to his hanging. Do you think I’ll cut your throat?”
“You might,” he grumbled.
“I used to shave Papa. He found it relaxing.”
“Don’t push your luck. Just shave the damned whiskers.”
She reached for the straight razor. “My pleasure, sir. When you ask so sweetly, how can I refuse?”
He turned his face so that she could soap his other cheek. “I’d do it myself, but my hand’s none too steady.”
Neither was hers. For all her bravado, she was nervous. Shaving Shane was nothing like performing the service for her father; this was strangely intimate. She kept remembering the feeling of his arms around her and how safe she had felt.
Shane was infuriating, insulting, and she was certain that he’d betrayed her with Cerise. Yet something drew her to him. In spite of everything, she wanted him to hold her again.
“Hold still.” Her fingers were trembling slightly, and she didn’t want to cut him.
“What are you doin’?”
She jerked back. “Stop yelling at me. You told me to shave—”
“Use the scissors first, woman. Cut the whiskers off close to my skin, then shave them.”
“All right.” He was impossible. What had made her think she could ever make her peace with such a demanding,egotistical man? She dropped the razor into the bowl and looked around for the scissors.
Soapsuds dripped down Shane’s neck onto his shirt, or rather what was left of his shirt.
“Could you take that off?” she asked, pointing to his ruined garment.
Groaning, he stripped the torn shirt off. She winced as she saw the purple bruising along his ribs.
“Satisfied?”
Taking a deep breath, she tried to ignore the wide expanse of heavily muscled male chest and began to clip away his chin whiskers. She worked cautiously, trying not to jump every time Shane complained.
“Aren’t you done yet?”
“If you’d sit still, maybe I could finish.” Caitlin gritted her teeth and rinsed off the razor. She finished the last of the shaving just as the sound of hoofbeats drifted through the open window. Caitlin went to look out with Shane not a step behind her.
“Look.” She counted no less than five men riding toward the house. “We’ve visitors.” She laid the scissors on the windowsill.
“Visitors, hell! That’s Earl Thompson, our nearest neighbor.” He started for the door. “Keep the colleen inside. There may be trouble.”
“But, Shane, you’re hurt. You shouldn’t—”
“Damn it! For once, Caity, do as I say!”
“Gentlemen, welcome to Kilronan.” Caitlin stepped out the front door and smiled at the men on horseback. She’d miscounted from the window. There were six strangers, all carrying weapons strapped to their saddles, and all scowling like Satan’s imps at Shane and Gabriel and Justice.
Her men stood shoulder to shoulder; Shane cradled his rifle casually in the crook of his arm.
“I am Caitlin McKenna, Shane’s wife,” she said graciously. “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Thompson.”
She didn’t need Shane to point out which man was Earl Thompson. He was the stocky, no-neck figure on the tall gray horse. Thompson’s hair was white, and his face weathered by wind and sun, but he was still in his prime. Caitlin decided that he was a force to be reckoned with.
“Mrs. McKenna.” Thompson touched two gnarled fingers to his broad-brimmed hat. “I thought McKenna’s wife was in Ireland.”
“So she was, sir,” Caitlin answered, “but now she is here.”
“What happened to you, McKenna?” Earl Thompson asked. “You look like you’ve been trampled by a herd of
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