Page 43 of Laird of Flint
“What?”
“I’m turning myself in as the cateran. ’Tis the only way. ’Twould only bring shame to your clan for the laird’s daughter to be exposed as a thief,” he explained. “The Boyles may be dunderheads, but they’re not cattle reivers, so ’tisn’t righttheyshould take the blame. Still, they know my face now. They’ll surely tell your father I’m the one who stole his coo and tied them up. ’Tis far better if I return the coo myself and confess to the laird before they have the chance to accuse me.”
For a moment, she only stared at him in amazement.
Then she said, “Ye would do that? Ye would take the blame for my thievin’?”
Her surprise irritated him. Had he not just said so? What else would she expect him to do? Did she not know about chivalry? About honor? What kind of a villain would not protect a lady? But he replied simply, “Of course.”
“But ye’ll bring shame upon your clan.”
He shrugged. “’Twouldn’t be the first time.” His impulsive actions were always getting him into awkward scrapes. “They’re used to it by now.”
Her gaze softened. She lowered her shoulders. And when her lips opened with a grateful sigh, it took all his willpower not to pull the awestruck woman into his arms and capture her mouth with his own.
“That’s so very honorable of ye,” she gushed, “offerin’ to sacrifice yourself for my sake.”
He dismissed her praise with a grunt. “I wouldn’t be much of a knight if I had no honor.”
“And I’m grateful for the gesture. Truly I am. But…”
“Aye?”
“I won’t return my coo.”
And just like that, her enchantment over him shattered into a thousand pieces.
“What?”
“I won’t give him back.”
Ire began to bubble under the surface of his stolid demeanor. What was it about this coo? Was it some sort of magical beast? He’d gone out of his way to come to the lady’s rescue. And now he was offering to bend over backwards for her to keep her out of trouble. To think she was refusing his help…
He clamped his teeth together hard enough to crack walnuts. It would do no good to lose his temper with the lass. He had to try to use reason.
But before he could explain to her that she couldn’t keep the coo, that stealing was wrong, she blurted out, “I can’t return him. I don’t expect ye to understand why. Nobody does.”
Her words—so raw, so hurt, so vulnerable—shot him straight through the heart, wounding him to the core. His ire dissolved like iron in a crucible.
If there was one thing Hew prided himself on, it was understanding women.
He knew they sometimes felt small and powerless. Insignificant and unheard. As if their thoughts and hopes and dreams didn’t matter.
But they did matter. They mattered to him.
“I want to understand,” he told her.
“Ye don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
She blinked in surprise, then lowered her gaze. “Ye’ll only think me foolish.”
“Tell me.” He clasped her arm. “I pray you.”
Carenza never let men touch her unbidden. She was skilled at diplomatically ducking away from their attempts. She could peel their fingers off of her person, smiling all the while. Make them feel as if they’d earned her affections even while she sidled out of their reach.
But the Viking’s massive hand wrapped around her arm didn’t feel like a dalliance or an intrusion. It felt curiously like a comfort.
