veins flowed MacIver blood, the blood of a Laird.
Revenge was near at hand.
Chapter Six
"I thought you were supposed to be protecting me," Sorcha snapped, as she tossed the thigging gifts on the table.
"Aye, I am." Ian picked up the pewter tankard on the long table before him and took a long, unhurried swallow.
"Nay, you put us directly in her path. Had we stayed but a moment longer, she would have demanded for me to spread my legs." She stood over him, her skin flushed in a way that made him wonder if she was pink all over, or only where he could see.
"I think you once again misjudge my abilities, wife. I was assessing the enemy."
"Do you think to charm her into accepting my maidenhead’s disappearance? As if it would just melt away on its own to convince her after you’re gone?" She folded her arms tightly over her breasts, which served only to push them to near bursting over the top of her bodice, and threw a disgusted glance at the pile of thigging gifts on the table. Ian took another long draft of the ale, letting it cool the back of his throat and soothe his heated thoughts of what his wedding night should have been like.
She claimed she wanted him only for the necessity of removing her maidenhead, but her reactions to him both in the wood and in the bedchamber the night before said otherwise. The possibility that he could draw such a response from her intrigued him.
"Well, what say you?"
He set the mug down and paused before answering, shifting in his chair to disguise the source of his discomfort.
"You don’t trust me."
"Trust you? What has that to do with your pathetic attempts to woo the midwife?"
Ian chuckled, stifling it with his hand when he realized her fists were balled tightly on her shapely hips. Perhaps she did not realize just how telling her anger was, nor how it pleased him to know he affected her.
"I believe that you are jealous," he teased.
She turned her back to him.
"Jealous? I would have to be besotted by you to be jealous and that is not a possibility."
She was unconvincing. Ian had seen Mary try to wheedle her way with protests, but Mary had been far more versed in the art of manipulation than Sorcha.
"And pray tell, why am I so unlovable?" Ian sat back in the chair.
"You’re a professional murderer, for one thing. Not the sort of profession you would want passed onto your children. Someone would always be seeking you out for revenge."
He cocked a brow at her comment and reached for her hand.
"Anything else?" He turned her about and pulled her closer to him. She stood near enough he could smell her skin, nearly taste it.
"You snore."
He suppressed a grin. As long as he had her in his bed to know that he snored, he was making progress. Ian began rubbing small circles on her wrist and palm, noting with satisfaction that her pulse ran faster beneath his fingers.
"And?"
She looked down at him, her eyes growing liquid at his touch.
"And you’ve no proper family."
Her comment, innocent enough, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He leaned forward, his mood darkening.
"Oh, aye, I have family, but there’s nothing proper about them. I’ve no wish to think, let alone speak, of them again. Is that clear?"
The softness in her face dissipated instantly at his words. His hold on her hand tightened enough to hurt. He eased his grip, not wanting to frighten her further.
She ran her free hand through his hair, her touch soothing him.
"I’m sorry. I didn’t know."
He looked away from her, his anger raw and fresh, stinging as if it were a new wound. He did not want to betray this weakness to her.
"I pray you never know such treachery from your own kin."
Her touch faltered. "Perhaps I already have."
Her cheeks had lost their color. Silently Ian cursed himself. Embroiled in his own bitter memories, he failed to see the fact bluntly put before him today that her own clan held no regard for her. She was as wounded as he, only being a woman, had no way of leaving it all
Revenge was near at hand.
Chapter Six
"I thought you were supposed to be protecting me," Sorcha snapped, as she tossed the thigging gifts on the table.
"Aye, I am." Ian picked up the pewter tankard on the long table before him and took a long, unhurried swallow.
"Nay, you put us directly in her path. Had we stayed but a moment longer, she would have demanded for me to spread my legs." She stood over him, her skin flushed in a way that made him wonder if she was pink all over, or only where he could see.
"I think you once again misjudge my abilities, wife. I was assessing the enemy."
"Do you think to charm her into accepting my maidenhead’s disappearance? As if it would just melt away on its own to convince her after you’re gone?" She folded her arms tightly over her breasts, which served only to push them to near bursting over the top of her bodice, and threw a disgusted glance at the pile of thigging gifts on the table. Ian took another long draft of the ale, letting it cool the back of his throat and soothe his heated thoughts of what his wedding night should have been like.
She claimed she wanted him only for the necessity of removing her maidenhead, but her reactions to him both in the wood and in the bedchamber the night before said otherwise. The possibility that he could draw such a response from her intrigued him.
"Well, what say you?"
He set the mug down and paused before answering, shifting in his chair to disguise the source of his discomfort.
"You don’t trust me."
"Trust you? What has that to do with your pathetic attempts to woo the midwife?"
Ian chuckled, stifling it with his hand when he realized her fists were balled tightly on her shapely hips. Perhaps she did not realize just how telling her anger was, nor how it pleased him to know he affected her.
"I believe that you are jealous," he teased.
She turned her back to him.
"Jealous? I would have to be besotted by you to be jealous and that is not a possibility."
She was unconvincing. Ian had seen Mary try to wheedle her way with protests, but Mary had been far more versed in the art of manipulation than Sorcha.
"And pray tell, why am I so unlovable?" Ian sat back in the chair.
"You’re a professional murderer, for one thing. Not the sort of profession you would want passed onto your children. Someone would always be seeking you out for revenge."
He cocked a brow at her comment and reached for her hand.
"Anything else?" He turned her about and pulled her closer to him. She stood near enough he could smell her skin, nearly taste it.
"You snore."
He suppressed a grin. As long as he had her in his bed to know that he snored, he was making progress. Ian began rubbing small circles on her wrist and palm, noting with satisfaction that her pulse ran faster beneath his fingers.
"And?"
She looked down at him, her eyes growing liquid at his touch.
"And you’ve no proper family."
Her comment, innocent enough, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He leaned forward, his mood darkening.
"Oh, aye, I have family, but there’s nothing proper about them. I’ve no wish to think, let alone speak, of them again. Is that clear?"
The softness in her face dissipated instantly at his words. His hold on her hand tightened enough to hurt. He eased his grip, not wanting to frighten her further.
She ran her free hand through his hair, her touch soothing him.
"I’m sorry. I didn’t know."
He looked away from her, his anger raw and fresh, stinging as if it were a new wound. He did not want to betray this weakness to her.
"I pray you never know such treachery from your own kin."
Her touch faltered. "Perhaps I already have."
Her cheeks had lost their color. Silently Ian cursed himself. Embroiled in his own bitter memories, he failed to see the fact bluntly put before him today that her own clan held no regard for her. She was as wounded as he, only being a woman, had no way of leaving it all
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