CHAPTER NINE
Freya thought often of the moment in which McCready’s gaze had met with hers that day outside his farmhouse; the second when, challenged by his eyes, carnal instinct had bubbled to the surface. Civility decreed she fled; it taught to run from conflict, or to console it where possible, to neuter it as a dog relieved of its potency. But she had stared into McCready’s eyes, bright with understanding, and recognised the hunger. She held his gaze unflinching, even as her lips formed the lies she had known they would. And though she concealed the truth, there was no hiding the lustre in her own eyes, as she had seen in his.
The memory served as a constant reminder of what lay beneath the skin, waiting to escape, should she let her guard down for but a moment. For weeks afterwards
