Unwilling (Highland Historical #2)

mentioned an impressive
library the day they’d met, and Lindsay felt certain she could find it on the
lower floor of the west wing.  A book might be just the thing to offer her a
much needed escape from her situation. 
    The faint strains of a lute caused
her to pause half-way down the stone steps.  Straining to catch the melody, she
could barely feel her toes touch the cold flagstones as she stole down the rest
of the staircase and peered around the corner of the long left hall, at the end
of which,               was the library. 
    Firelight spilled into the hall
from the large library archway.  Golden light and inky darkness bent and danced
with each other to the solitary tune of the lute.  Lindsay felt herself
floating toward the melancholy sound, drawn by a melody so breathtaking and
disconsolate that her heart bled.
    Blowing out her candle, she peeked
into the doorway and had to clasp her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. 
    Connor’s bulk, silhouetted by the
flames in the man-sized hearth, rested against a heavy study table situated in
the middle of the library.  Propped by a haphazard chair, his strong leg
supported the negligible weight of the lute that wept beneath his deft fingers. 
    He glanced up sharply at her
movement, the song dying on an abrupt plunk .
    She couldn’t make out the exact
expression on his face, but Lindsay assumed it was any variant of displeasure. 
The thought made her sad.  Though, she supposed, she was still angry with him. 
Wasn’t she?
    They stared at each other for a
still and silent moment.  He looked out of place here, in this room filled with
brittle, oxidizing scrolls and well-worn books.  The delicate baubles and
keepsake treasures that rested on stone columns or wooden shelves sometimes
caught the light of the flames and Lindsay worried for them.  They were
breakable.  What if they didn’t survive the presence of this volatile force of
a man?
    What if she didn’t?
    He stood, breaching the moment. 
His massive shoulders seemed to bow beneath an overwhelming burden and his brow
tightened.  “I’ll leave you."
    Her eyes rested on the fragile
instrument resting in the clutch of his massive hands.  Instead of crushing it
with his brutal strength, he’d coaxed the softest melody from it.  One that she
wanted to hear again. 
    “No.”  She put a hand out, as if to
stop him.  “No.  Please, continue.  It was lovely.”
    For an uncertain moment, he paused
and Lindsay held her breath until he sank back against the table.  Positioning
the instrument, he inhaled audibly and resumed the lyrical tune. 
    Prompted by her cold feet on the
stones, Lindsay padded the few paces toward him. 
    Likely due to the autumn chill, Connor
wore a loose black shirt beneath his tartan and still wore his boots, though
the laces had been loosened.  He smelled of firewood, hearty scotch, and clove
spice, as though the autumn sun perfumed his skin.
    Lindsay swallowed convulsively as
saliva flooded her mouth.  Why was her blood quickening when the mellow strains
of the lute should be soothing her restlessness?  She tentatively moved a stack
of books and a magnifying glass out of the way before taking a perch on the
table next to him, but not close enough to touch.  If he noticed or cared, he
gave no signal.   
    After several measures he asked,
“Were ye lookin’ for me, lass?  Is there something yer in need of?”  He never
looked up from his nimble fingers.  Her notice was arrested by them, as well.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered
honestly.  “I came in search of a book.”
    He nodded, his jaw grinding a bit as
his throat worked over a swallow.  But his fingers never paused, though the
melody dropped into something like a mourning song.  “I couldna sleep, either.”
    Lindsay realized she’d never seen
him like he was now, loose-limbed and intent on something that required a
delicate and practiced proficiency.  Never would have thought he had something
beautiful in his heart as the music drifting from his instrument.  In this
moment, he wasn’t a domineering baron Laird or a lethal berserker.  He was just
a man, concentrating on something that brought him solace and sometimes joy. 
Something he’d had to have done many times, judging by his considerable skill.
    The size of the hands and the girth
of his wrists astounded her.  Sinew danced beneath the thin skin of his wrist
as his fingers changed their positions on the