From The Rancher's Irish Bride
"Look into my eyes, Clay Roberts. Are these the eyes of a woman bent on revenge? Or, are these the eyes of a woman who would do everything in her power to protect you?"
He felt the warmth of her breath caress his face. His need for air struggled with his want to breathe in her presence. By all that was Holy, he couldn't look away. She drew even closer. Without touching, his skin warmed along the shadow of her frame and places best left unexplored came to life. Her face lifted up and he stilled at his own reflection in the deep green of her eyes.
"Yes, look at me for the first time in your life and see me without the prejudicial words others have cast against me. There is no dim light. What you see is truth and nothing but the truth."
Her hand touched his. Her fingers leaving scorched marks upon his skin as they pulled his hand to her chest, only to flatten his palm against her heart. Clay's eyes widened. Beneath the cotton of her nightdress, he felt it's gentle thump.
"Ask me again," she demanded. "As me again if I planned to set your meadow ablaze and see what my heart tells you."
His mouth went dry. His lips twitched, and then he heard his voice croak. "Did you mean to set my field on fire?"
Beneath his hand, her heart continued its steady beat. No skip. No half beat of doubt, just a steady, thump, thump, thump. To his amazement, his own heart began to do the same, almost - no, it couldn't be. Where they beating as one? His eyes widened.
"Yes, now you see," she whispered in triumph and her eyes released him.
Clay stumbled back. His knees hit from behind by an armchair and he tumbled down into its seat as Maeve walked past him, back straight, head held high, and disappeared from the room. Minutes passed before his breathing swung again into its regular pattern. He brought his hand up and ran his fingers through his hair. "What the hell was that?"
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