Chapter Eight #2
Bonny looked at Seamus, who was staring where Conan had been standing, still looking a little befuddled. “I have to go,” she announced, and then she, too, disappeared out the door. Bonny took the shortcut, glad she knew where Brenna liked to hide in the Warden’s Tower when it was only her.
* * *
Mhàiri took a deep breath when she heard the sharp knock on the door. She wanted to shout at her friend that she had meant what she had said, that she was done talking for the evening and wanted to hear no more advice.
When Maegan had joined her earlier, Mhàiri had been happy to see her nearly as angry as she was.
She had been even happier to hear that Maegan had ambushed Seamus, telling him how disgusted she was with his part in all that had happened.
Then Maegan had done the unthinkable and begun to defend the man.
It was as if Conan were there himself, trying to minimize what he had done.
Maybe they had jumped to the wrong conclusions about what Seamus and Conan were trying to do.
Maybe it was not really as bad as they’d first thought.
Maybe they should believe Seamus and Conan, for they had looked truly shocked and betrayed by their accusations.
Maybe they should have thought things through before wanting revenge.
Maybe it was somewhat underhanded to entrap someone with only one goal—to humiliate them.
Mhàiri had finally had enough and practically shoved Maegan out her door, proclaiming she needed time to think. Unfortunately, the ceaseless knock on her door proved Maegan was not so easily gotten rid of.
Mhàiri was almost resolved to let her friend knock all night when it occurred to her that Maegan might be trying to apologize.
Ready to listen to an apology or, once again, send her friend away as politely but firmly as possible, Mhàiri opened the door. The moment she saw who was on the other side, her jaw literally dropped.
She was still in shock when Conan moved around her and entered her room without even asking.
Her wits were just returning, and she was about to order him to leave when he pressed one index finger against her lips and one against his own.
Then he tiptoed over to the large tapestry that hung from ceiling to floor next to the hearth.
With a grand gesture, he pulled back the heavy drape and then rammed his foot on the half-sized wooden door it hid.
The planks gave way and the semi-door creaked open to reveal a dark, narrow passageway.
Mhàiri realized she was looking at the very place she, Maegan, and Brenna had sat huddled together, listening to Conan as he planned to persuade her to give him all her hemp paper.
Conan closed the door and let the tapestry fall back into place. “Good,” he announced. “We are alone. Now we can talk.”
Mhàiri crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. “I have nothing to say.”
Conan’s gaze burned into Mhàiri’s. “Aye. You do. You are going to answer my questions,” he said without equivocation.
His directness shook her, but Mhàiri did not want Conan to know he affected her at all, so she shrugged her shoulders in mock resignation. “I will never lie to you,” she said, echoing what he had told her.
“I only want to know if you really thought that I would try and take your things away from you.”
Mhàiri blinked her peridot-like eyes. She was going to declare that she did, but seeing Conan, with his blue eyes smoldering with indignation, she wondered if she had been wrong. “But I heard you,” she finally said, for it was true.
“Then let me ask you this. Before overhearing Seamus and my conversation yesterday, would you have ever thought that I would try and take your things away from you?”
Mhàiri swallowed with difficulty, but after a couple of seconds, she found her voice and once again answered honestly.
“I would have thought the opposite, probably even come to your defense if somebody had accused you of such an act. But then I heard what you said,” she finished, emphasizing that it was not a simple misunderstanding, and that Conan had damned himself with his own words.
Fury began to build within Conan once again. “So all the hours we spent together, talking, sharing, and getting to know one another were just what—a lie? A waste of time?”
Mhàiri’s brow furrowed. “Of course not.”
“They must be! Because if you truly believe that I would stoop so low to steal paper, you must believe everything else we shared was a falsehood. I cannot be both your friend who would do serious bodily injury to anyone who did what you accused me of and your enemy at the same time.”
Nervously, Mhàiri bit her lip. She hated to admit it, but Conan had a point.
“Then why?” she whispered, the pain she felt coming through.
“Why would you say all those things about me being susceptible to your kisses? And that I should give a gift in return for these shelves? Or that it should be all my idea to give you all my paper?”
Conan reached out and gripped her arms tightly.
“First, I never wanted all your paper but only what you were willing to give me. I was hoping for some pages and, in my dreams, perhaps a book. But I realized not even an hour later that your father was coming and I could probably buy as much paper as I wanted from him. But as for why I said all those things, haven’t you mused something aloud?
Some fantasy that if someone overheard they could misconstrue into thinking you actually believed what you were saying? ”
Tears began to roll down Mhàiri’s cheeks as she finally understood. “I didn’t want to believe what I heard. I’m sorry. I just was so hurt.”
Conan pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Shhhh,” he whispered into her hair. “I wished you had come to me. Confronted me directly. Why didn’t you?”
Mhàiri clung to Conan, reveling the feeling of being in his arms. For the past twenty-four hours, she had felt alone and bereft, and now all she felt was safe.
A part of her wanted to stay there forever.
Another part wanted to run and protect her heart.
She batted the painful thought away into a recess of her mind and, instead, pressed even closer to his warmth.
There was something about his physical presence—Mhàiri never wanted him to stop holding her, plain and simple.
The feel of his hand on her face caused her lashes to flutter open and look up in the bluest of eyes. She had no idea how he could channel so much intensity through them, but the look he was giving her made her heart race.
Conan pushed Mhàiri’s soft, thick hair off her shoulders, wishing he could hear what she was thinking.
He knew he should step away. His control was already on a knife’s edge, inflamed by her anger, her tears, and now the desire shimmering beneath the apprehension in her green eyes.
But he couldn’t. Mhàiri was the most stunning woman he had ever seen.
Everything from her satin skin and silky tresses to her tempting lips and unusual green eyes fringed with long lashes called to him on a primal level. Not a detail escaped him.
Mhàiri’s breath caught in her throat. Conan’s fingers traced the planes of her face with a feather-light touch, tipped with heat. She felt herself melt under his scrutiny, aching for him to speak, to touch her, to do something other than stare into her eyes.
Conan lightly caressed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered in a thick, gruff voice that sent an ache racing through her. He bent his dark head and his warm breath sent a shiver of heat through the pit of her stomach. “Kiss me, Mhàiri,” he demanded hoarsely.
Needing no more coaxing, Mhàiri met his lips and opened her mouth, allowing Conan to make slow love to her with his tongue.
Mhàiri closed her eyes and let herself fall into the embrace, sinking into his strong arms. Unlike their previous kiss, which had been powerful, claiming, and aggressive, Conan was kissing her slowly, lingeringly, and with deep, tender possessiveness.
Her heart slammed in her chest as Conan was creating an irresistible desire to become his, and only his, in every way.
Conan captured her sigh and deepened their embrace, kissing her over and over again. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, exactly like he had remembered.
He cradled her face in his hands and drank hungrily from her lips, delighting in the feel of her wild pulse underneath his thumb telling him that she desired him just as much.
Soon, need would overtake them both. Conan was about to pull away when he felt Mhàiri’s hands press against his back.
The soft, hesitant caress caused him to growl and delve once again into the sweetness of her mouth.
Her fingers traveled up his back and plunged into his hair. The impassioned touch sent a new heat curling through his blood. Mhàiri’s mouth responded to each stroke of his tongue, hot, wet, and clinging. Her body moved against his, each touch innocent, and erotic.
God, she was soft, inviting. Conan knew he would never get enough of her. No caress, no kiss, no touch would ever be enough. He wanted to consume the essence of her vibrant spirit.
Mhàiri felt herself quivering. Conan’s sheer masculinity was overpowering.
With each kiss, she wanted more, but he refused to give in and it was making her senseless with a growing need she did not understand.
His kisses were soft but consuming, filled with so much tenderness it felt as if her heart was swelling in her chest, nearly choking her.
But the longer his lips caressed her, the less will she had.