Chapter 4 #2
Her mouth tightened. She had obeyed enough closed doors in her life.
Sickroom doors. Family doors. She had not crossed from England, broken into a castle, and agreed to a marriage trap only to stand politely in a passage while Connor Reed—his name had been drilled into her over and over by the servants—decided whether she deserved a response.
She rose a third time, preparing to knock again. The door swung inward before her knuckles struck wood, and she pitched forward. Before she could register what was happening, her hands landed against bare skin.
Heat struck first, then hardness.
Her palms pressed against the broad plane of Connor’s chest, and for one stupid second, her body understood him before her mind caught up.
He was warm, solid, and indecently steady beneath her hands.
Some muscle rippled under her fingers as he caught the slight force of her stumble without moving back.
The ridges of his abdomen tightened below where her wrists hovered.
His shoulders were wide enough to block out the lamplight behind him, and his long dark hair hung loose around his face, rougher than it had looked in the dungeons.
He was shirtless.
Good God! He was shirtless, and somehow he looked more powerful for it. His dark eyes lowered to her hands on his chest, then lifted to her face. His trousers hung loosely on his waist, and she could see the bulge beneath—
“Got lost, lass?”
Violet jerked her hands away as if his skin had personally offended her. “Do ye usually answer doors half-naked?”
He glanced down at himself, then back at her. “In me own study? Aye.”
“That is indecent.”
“Then stop touching me.”
Her face heated. That made her angrier.
“Move,” she huffed.
One eyebrow rose. “Ye came to me door to order me aside?”
“I came to finish what ye started.”
He stepped back, leaving enough room for her to enter. Violet did, because retreating would have been worse than walking into a study with a half-dressed tyrant and her pulse behaving like a fool.
The room suited him. Of course it did.
A large desk stood near the fire, papers arranged in neat stacks. A glass of whisky sat beside an inkstand, and the low fire cast warm light over dark wood, maps, and the chair he had clearly abandoned without haste.
Everything looked controlled in the most masculine way she could imagine.
Connor crossed to the desk and picked up his glass.
“We didnae finish our conversation earlier,” Violet said.
“Which one?” he asked. “The interrogation, the argument, or the part where ye agreed to become me bride by failing to escape?”
“I never agreed to yer…”
“Proposal?”
“I would prefer ye call it an irrational demand.”
Something close to amusement touched his mouth. “Drink?”
“I am nae here to drink with ye.”
“Pity. Ye look as if ye need it.”
“I need many things at present. Whisky is low on the list.”
“As ye like.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim.
The calm of his presence alone was practically intolerable. He stood barefoot on the rug, shirtless before the fire, drinking whisky while she fought for her life. The worst part was that he didn’t even seem to care about any of this.
“I could still take the bairn and go,” she said.
“Nay.”
“Ye didnae let me finish.”
“I ken what ye are going to say, and the answer is still nay.”
Violet folded her arms. “Then let me do something else. I can stay as his governess instead.”
He took another sip of his whisky. “He is a newborn.”
“Then I’ll be his nursemaid.”
“Moira is his nursemaid.”
“Tutor, then, when he is older.”
“And when I marry?”
The room seemed to tighten around the question.
Violet stared at him as he set his glass down. “When another woman becomes Lady Moore, will ye stand aside and watch her raise him?”
Her fingers curled against her sleeves. “Ye daenae have to marry another woman.”
He shrugged and moved closer to her. “I am a laird. I will need a wife.”
“Rather convenient to bring this up now, is it nae?”
His gaze stayed on hers. “Ye tell me.”
The answer slipped too close to something she did not want to examine.
She looked away first and hated herself for it. Jane’s son slept somewhere above them. She shivered, remembering when he had curled his tiny hand into her gown, as if her vow meant something to him already.
If another woman became Lady Moore, she would have the authority Violet lacked. A wife would stand beside the cradle. A governess would stand outside the family and ask permission, and permission… well, she had never been good at asking for it.
There really was only one way through this.
“Fine,” she acquiesced.
Connor’s eyebrows lifted. “Fine?”
“Fine. I will marry ye.”
“Wise.”
She narrowed her eyes, watching the most smug expression gather on his face.
Daenae stare at his chest. Daenae. Stare. At. His. Chest.
“So I take it that is settled?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her eyebrow rose in turn. “Daenae look pleased. I am doing it for him.”
He took another sip of his drink. “I assumed.”
Violet hated that nothing she said seemed to affect him. Eventually, she gathered the rest of her strength and looked him right in the eyes. “And just so ye ken, I will never obey ye.”
His attention sharpened. “Never?”
“Never, ever. I have spent too much of me life being told where to sit, what to drink, when to rest, and what dangers were too much for me delicate constitution. I willnae trade one set of keepers for a husband with broader shoulders and worse manners.”
For a moment, Connor said nothing.
Violet held his gaze. Her heart was still beating too fast, but the words had steadied her. They had come from a place older than this day, older than Moore Castle, older than the dungeons.
She would love Jane’s son. She would protect him. But she would not become another managed thing inside another stone room.
Connor lifted his glass to his lips again. “So ye think me shoulders are broad—”
She squeezed her eyes shut in despair. “That is yer conclusion after everything I have said?”
“That is all I’m choosing to hear, and it is quite adorable,” he said. “Now, go to yer room.”
Violet’s temper flared. “Adorable?”
“Aye.”
“I tell ye I willnae be ruled like a child, and that is yer answer?”
“Look, the marriage is happening, whether ye like it or nae. I willnae stop whatever makes ye feel better, alright?”
She stepped closer to the desk. “There is one more thing. I promised me sister many years ago that she would be at me wedding, if I ever got married. So it cannae happen until she arrives.”
Connor studied her for a minute, almost as if looking to see if she was lying or not. Then he turned to his desk, gesturing towards a piece of paper and a quill.
“Then ye’d better hurry with yer invitation, lass, because like I said earlier, the wedding is in a week.”
Violet looked at the writing supplies, then back at him. “And another thing.”
“There is more?”
“We will have rules in this castle.”
“We will?”
“Aye. The first one is that ye will wear clothes when speaking to me.”
Connor looked down at his bare chest again, unhurried and wholly shameless, then raised his gaze to hers. “Does me state of undress bother ye, me bride?”
“Stop mocking me.”
“What should I do instead?”
He moved before she could answer.
She held still as he came around the desk, though every sensible part of her advised retreat. The desk pressed near her hip, and the fire warmed the back of her gown.
Connor stopped close enough that she had to tip her head back to look at him. A shudder she couldn’t explain ran through her as he caught her chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger.
“What would me bride ask of me?” he asked.
Violet’s face immediately flushed. His fingers held her lightly, yet the awareness of them traveled straight through her.
“Distance,” she replied.
His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, then returned to her eyes. “A pity. Ye came to me study.”
“Aye. And that was to negotiate.”
“Then we will negotiate me rules soon as well.”
She sucked in a breath. “Yer rules?”
“Aye.”
He released her chin and stepped back, picking up his glass from the desk as if the conversation had ended because he had decided it had.
“Write to yer sister,” he said. “Sleep after. Tomorrow will be quite long.”
He walked out still shirtless, whisky glass in hand, and closed the door behind him.
Violet stood alone in his study with her pulse still too fast and her hands hanging at her sides. The room smelled of whisky, smoke, and him.
She had come to reclaim control and get him to agree to anything else except the wedding. However, she had somehow agreed to marry him and even abide by his rules.
Good God, Violet. What have ye gotten yerself into?