Before she realized it he had his arm around her, his lips almost touched hers. Then she broke away from him, her eyes flashing, her face on fire.
“You go too far, sir,” she cried angrily, “you say you base no claim upon our relation, and then—and then—” she stopped, her breast heaving, tears in her eyes.
He smiled. “And then? I would have kissed you,” he said, “by Saint Patrick, I would give a kingdom—if it were mine—to kiss you, but I will not force you to it, Lady Clancarty!”
“You dare not!” she flashed at him angrily.
His eyes blazed. “I dare not?” he repeated, “forsooth, madam, that is an ill word to use to Donough Macarthy; I dare—anything! But I want no woman against her will. I wouldn’t give that, madam,” he snapped his fingers, “not that—for you without your heart!”
She was silent for a moment, but the expression of his face, his masterful manner, stung her pride and angered her.
“You are a proscribed traitor, my lord,” she said angrily, “how can you ask me to share your life?”
His look withered her.
“Madam,” he said, “I ask for your love. No loving woman ever thought of valuing her husband by his misfortunes. I am a beggar and an exile, my lady, and I have done wrong to sue for your heart. I see that—like your father—you value men by their positions in the world!”
Her face was crimson. “You insult me, my lord!” she cried passionately.