The Lady and the Smythe

A promise to their dying father that was why Mhairi Quinlin wanted to strangle the life out of her selfish younger twin sisters. Waist length cold black hair with violet eyes, Mhairi had had her fair share of suitors, but she hid an awful secret. It was the reason she vowed never to marry. She wanted to run away to escape the twin's hairbrained scheme, but her sisters had planned well. Her proxy husband was arriving on the afternoon train. No welcome awaited Connor Smythe, but how would this stranger respond to her failure to welcome him with open arms? Australian born, Connor Smythe stood six-foot-six. He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. A leather strap tied back hair, the color of freshly threshed wheat shot through with streaks of gold, at the base of his stout neck. Sinewy muscle rippled with latent power beneath the contour of black cotton pants and long-sleeved black shirt. His green eyes were icy cold. Grown men had fled in the face of Connor Smythe's anger. Connor came to Arkansas for land. But when his eyes roamed over skin the color of pink rose petals, beautifully shaped lips pursed in a pout, and violet tear-filled eyes peeking from under the brim of a silly hat, the word wife rang through his mind. Fate had placed Mhairi Quinlin in Connor's life. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain-a farm, a family, and a means to practice his trade. Mhairi knew she faced the fight of her life. Her dream of marrying for love had died long ago. Although this strange arrangement appeared to be acceptable to her sisters and Connor, it mattered not. She would accept no man as husband.