The Highlander's Bride. Michele Sinclair

miss the change of emotion flash across her face. She was extremely frightened, but trying very hard not to show it. He saw her look of surprise when Loman mentioned her crime and was fascinated when the shock turned into sheer fury. However, Conor was not ready for his reaction to the defiant female when she turned her attention towards him.

      Her tousled appearance and torn clothing faded for a moment, and he could only see her eyes. They were the color of the North Sea after a storm—a dark blue-gray with flecks of green. They stared at each other for several moments before he regained his wits.

      “Who are you?” he demanded without inflection, somehow giving the question even more power.

      She was tall for a woman, but held herself regally despite the grip Loman continued to exert. Her dress was torn at the shoulder so part of her sleeve hung down to her elbow. Her eyes sparkled intensely and she protruded her chin confidently. Still she couldn’t hide a faint tremor as Conor moved closer. He doubted most men would have seen or recognized her small shudder for what it was. He was surprised by and wary of the immediate pull he had towards her.

      Laurel was desperate. She realized that the advancing man was her captor, but she instinctively knew this huge Scotsman would somehow also be her savior.

      She rose her chin even higher. “My name is Laurel. Laurel Rose Cordell.”

      Conor nodded at Loman to release the proud mystery. Loman immediately let Laurel go and stepped back. Conor watched her absentmindedly massage the spot where his guardsman had seized her. Dirt and twigs from bushes were ensnarled in the long golden waves of her hair. She had high cheekbones and ideal full lips that were meant for kissing. Suddenly, he realized that he was drawn to her in a very physical way despite her chaotic appearance. It had been a long time since he had a woman. Trying to regain control of his unexpected sexual need, Conor concentrated on her qualities that would calm his desire.

      She was English. She was filthy and a complete mess. But somehow, she smelled of flowers, lilacs to be precise. His mother had loved the blossom and kept them throughout the keep when they were in bloom.

      He was drowning in her scent and the color of her eyes, which had never budged from his, when he noticed the small pearl-handled dirk in her hand. She didn’t even seem to realize that she was holding it. This was obviously a very confused woman if she thought she could harm any one of them with her toy dagger. He reached out to take it away before she got herself hurt.

      Laurel instinctively flinched as he moved forward. She wanted to run but had already experienced the foolishness of that idea. Then the giant leader reached out and with a gentle force took the dirk from her hand.

      Laurel had not intended to recoil in such a cowardly manner, but she felt overawed by one so big. The man was enormous, and she knew herself to be tall for a female. All of his features were strong. And while his large muscles made him appear to be menacing, Laurel felt somewhat comforted by them. He looked like he could fight a whole army by himself if he was so inclined.

      He was now so close to her Laurel could see a small scar running along the ridge of his right eyebrow, severing it in half. But other than that single small flaw, his face was masculine perfection, unlike his arms, which were riddled with scars. It was clear this man had seen and knew how to survive battles.

      The warrior had thick, dark-brown hair and mesmerizing silver eyes, unlike any shade Laurel had ever seen. They reminded her of crystal glass reflecting firelight, warm yet also cold, studying each of her movements, even the most minuscule.

      Despite his enormous size and the coolness in his eyes, Laurel knew she was safe with him. He would help and protect her. He had to.

      In the faint moonlight, Conor watched the Englishwoman stare at him as she calculated her next move. Her dress had been torn in more than one place, revealing a white, lacy, very feminine chemise. She was definitely a high-bred lady. No one he knew wore undergarments like those. Her hair looked to be a pale gold color, but it was difficult to tell with all the grime matted within it. Even her face was covered with smudges of what could have been dirt or blood.

      As Hamish approached her with a wet rag so she could wipe off her face, Laurel instinctively shrank away.

      “My men did not do this.” Conor made the statement as a fact, not liking the idea that she was fearful of them.

      She confirmed his statement with a simple “No.” He nodded and turned to retrieve the wet cloth from Hamish. This time when he reached out to give it to her, she did not recoil.

      As Laurel began wiping her face free of the dirt and grime, she revealed a portion of her beauty. Her features were that of Scottish nobility—soft, feminine, but full of strength. Her nose lifted slightly, and her fair skin was very pale. Her lips were full and round, made for a man to leisurely explore. Conor again felt the urge to kiss her hard and deliberately, deeply and passionately, and every other way a man can drink from a woman’s lips.

      As Laurel finished cleaning her face and hands, she heard a rustle in the woods and complete terror consumed her until she saw Seamus appear at the wooded edge. Instantly, she remembered that she was charged with wrongly attacking the emerging giant.

      Laurel looked up defiantly at Conor. “I did not commit a crime.” She didn’t expound on her defense. Instead, she glared at Conor as if defying him to reject the truth.

      Conor had seen the quick changes from panic to relief as she had seen Seamus emerge. The lass was definitely running away from something, someone.

      “You are safe. No one will harm you here,” Conor clarified, trying to ease her fear. “Are you running from your husband?” He dreaded asking the question, but he had to know the answer.

      Laurel remembered how close she had been to being just that—married. She shook her head vehemently. “I am not married,” she practically shouted. For a moment, the attractive giant seemed relieved by her answer, but that didn’t make any sense at all.

      Suddenly, it was becoming too much. Laurel just wanted to sit down and think about what to do. Too much evil had been witnessed and endured the past two days. She was so very tired, and it hurt just to breathe.

      Think, Laurel, think, she thought to herself. She still wasn’t safe regardless of what the large highlander said. She needed to find some quick means to get as far away from here as possible. She looked up and saw a quiet strength in his silver eyes. Here was someone who would honor his word—if Laurel could only get him to promise to bring her with him, wherever he was going.

      “Please take me with you,” she softly pleaded. “Please help me—just for a little while. Once I am far enough away…” and just then, her strength gave out. She reached out and grabbed Conor’s arm just as she crumpled to the ground.

      Conor and his guard were momentarily stunned. She had given no indication that she was on the verge of collapse. Finn reached down to pick her up. But Conor abruptly stopped him, reaching down himself to take her into his arms. A fierce desire to protect her came over him as he lifted the frail, limp form. He whispered into her ear as he walked toward the campsite, “No harm will come to you, lass. I give you my word of honor.” Then he put her down on his plaid and covered her to protect her from the night’s chill, smiling as he laid the small dirk next to her hand.

      Chapter Two

      Just before dawn, Laurel stirred from her sleep and sat up, once again feeling pain course through her body. Last night’s recollection was distant, half dream, half nightmare. Looking around, she was momentarily alarmed waking up in the middle of a camp full of Scottish, bare-legged giants. Then she remembered. Her side was aching, and it still hurt to breathe, but her head was not pounding as it had been.

      Laurel stood up, closed her eyes, and recalled the rugged man with lustrous gray eyes that seemed to peer into her soul. She carefully reached down and picked up the dark woolen blanket of greens and blues she had slept on. She lightly fingered the soft, well-used cloth accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy and wrapped herself in its warmth. It smelled of horse flesh and of the man who had promised to keep her safe