Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
We aren’t alone.
What have we here?
I’ve learned to walk stealthily, so without a sound I approach the shed and stand outside the door. I notice when I draw close that the door is slightly ajar. What the hell? No one should be here.
The humming stops. I look back at Cormac. Wordlessly, he goes to the other side of the shed and crouches, prepared for an ambush or defense if we’re attacked. I feel for the gun tucked into the waistband of my trousers. It’s loaded and ready.
I hold up my fingers to Cormac.
One.
Two.
Three.
I yank the door open on three. I jump when I hear a decidedly feminine scream, and just in time duck when something shiny bears down on me. My instincts primed, I fall to the ground, grab her, and roll, bringing the woman down with me. In seconds, I have her wrists pinned above her head, the gardening trowel she tried to hit me with still firmly in her hand. I pinch between her thumb and pointer finger. Yelping, she drops the trowel.
“Son of a bitch,” Cormac mutters as I get to my feet, dragging the girl with me. We can’t see much of anything in the dark interior of the shed, so I drag her out into the open.
Jesus, she’s a wild little thing, kicking and spitting at us like a feral cat. Her long, thick hair hangs down her back to her waist, and for a moment I wonder if she’s playacting or some kind of an actress, because she looks as if she’s stepped right out of another decade. Her clothes are faded and worn, and definitely out of fashion, her feet bare. But she wears no makeup, no jewelry. I hold her out in front of me so she can’t hurt me and give her a little shake. I have no more freedom to observe or speculate, as the girl’s still fighting to get away.
“Enough of that, now, lass,” I say in what I hope’s a calming voice. “We aren’t here to hurt you now, see?”
“Liars!” she screams. “My father told me about men like you! That you’d come for me, that you’d hurt me!”
Her father? What’s this, now?
Well, who knew? She has an American accent. What’s an American girl doing traipsing around these parts?
“Stop fighting us, and it’ll go better for you,” Cormac says. Though I know he’d as soon cut off his own hand than strike a woman, he knows how to use his bulk and deep voice to intimidate. Standing in front of her with his arms crossed, he draws his brows together and glares at her. “Still, now, woman.”
“Let. Me. Go!” she screams, then she twists so quickly out of my grasp she slips out and falls toward Cormac. I grab for her. In one swift move, she kicks Cormac right between the legs, and he falls to the ground, wheezing.
Aw, hell no. I’ve had enough of this.
I’ve got her back in my grip before she can do further damage, or worse, run. “Enough,” I order, giving her a shake, and when that still doesn’t still her, I spin her out and give her arse a good, hard slap. She gasps, and it seems a bit of the fight goes out of her.
“Enough with you,” I tell her. “We’ve not come to do you harm, see. For Christ’s sake, stop the attack, or we will be forced to hurt you.”
Cormac’s on his knees now, still wheezing, his face ruddy and contorted. She got him good right between the legs, the little vixen. Though I won’t tolerate her cheek, I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from grinning. There’s not much that would take a big man like Cormac to his knees, but she hit her mark.
I hold her back to my chest and wrap an arm around her front, holding her to me so tightly I feel her struggling for breath.
“That’s a good lass,” I say placatingly. I don’t want her to know she affects me. I want her to realize she hasn’t ruffled my feathers, that I’m in control. She smells clean and sweet, like garden wildflowers damp from rain, and even struggling, I’m vividly aware of her curves, her soft skin, her gentle feminine allure.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, nothing like the women at the pub or in our family, nothing at all like the brash girls I went to school with when I was a child. With her high cheeks and wide eyes framed in thick lashes, she looks almost otherworldly, as if she’s got the blood of the fae in her veins.
“Let me go!” she screams.
“Well now,” I say evenly. “I do that and you’re apt to run, and we can’t have that, can we? Hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”