The Highlander's Bride by Michele Sinclair Page B

investigate Conor’s merry roar, their laird was grinning wildly. This sight in itself was enough to astonish every last one of them. For it was a rare thing for Laird McTiernay to smile, let alone laugh—and loudly. Added to their shock was the change in Laurel. She looked furious.
    Her eyes were blazing and, if hostile glares could cause bodily injury, Conor would be permanently disfigured. The lass really did please him, Conor thought. He couldn’t wait until he got her home.
    But just as the idea of home and Laurel in his castle and bed were taking shape, Laurel snapped. Before he knew to react, she had changed the grip on her dirk and taken the knife from his belt. She swiveled so fast that later, all present would say she was just a blur when she aimed and threw.
    First, Laurel launched her dagger. Sure and swift, it hit one of the guard’s leather sporrans hanging in the trees. With the other arm, she threw Conor’s knife. The accuracy was a little off due to the unexpected weight of the hilt, but it still hit the intended log of wood next to Conor’s plaid on the ground at least thirty feet away.
    The immediate quiet that fell upon the group was palpable. Everyone just kept shifting their stares from her to the blades she had wielded with such precision. Laurel knew she should be ashamed of letting her temper goad her into silencing Conor’s guffaws. Still, she couldn’t do it. Moreover, she couldn’t let well enough alone.
    “I told you that I could take care of myself,” she spoke in a completely unrepentant voice.
    “Woman, how did you do that?” asked Loman.
    Instantly, Conor’s anger flared. He shifted his gaze for one moment to Loman and corrected him. “She is ‘my lady’ to you, Loman,” he stated in a cold tone so that none questioned his meaning.
    “Conor, do not use that voice with Loman. He was just asking me a question. There is no need to take your anger with me out on him,” Laurel said, trying to redirect his anger towards its intended target.
    Conor was not calmed. “I will say what I like, when I like, and how I like to him and to whomever else I choose. I am their laird,” he roared back, this time with no cheer at all. He glared at Loman until he finally nodded in acknowledgment.
    Laurel watched him overawe his guardsman and refused to follow Loman’s example. “Well, you may be their laird, Conor McTiernay, but you sure as hell are not mine. Remember earlier? I thought you said I was not to call you laird . I could only call you Conor,” she shouted back.
    “Watch your cursing, love, or are you not a lady?” he bellowed in return, thinking that such a criticism would surely hit its mark and force her to withdraw from the argument. But his aim missed—completely. Retreat was not what she had in mind. Laurel went on the offensive.
    “A lady ? Well, I guess that is all how you define a lady , Conor.”
    She turned and looked at the brothers, who were standing with dumbfounded looks on their faces. They had never seen anyone stand up to Conor this way before. Anyone . Most women cowered in his presence and if he even slightly raised his voice or looked crossly at one, they slunk away, whimpering from intimidation.
    What was transpiring between Laurel and Conor was nothing short of miraculous. First he laughed, next she demonstrated that she could indeed handle herself, and then they both were shouting at each other.
    Laurel began pacing. “In England, a lady is any female born to a noble house. The word refers to her title of nobility or of other rank. Some people refer to the woman of the household as lady, meaning they are wed to men who have great houses, but are without titles. Then, again, you may be referring to women who are regarded as proper and virtuous. But all ladies should be well-mannered, considerate and with high standards of proper behavior. I sense this is the point you were making. Am I correct, Conor?”
    He just stared at her. She had stopped her angry