The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

  “The Pitcairn?” He scowled quizzically. “Their clan is insignificant.”

  “Precisely, he’s aiming to expand,” she completed. Her grand-father gave permission for her Aunt Olivia to marry into a minor clan because she was dreadfully in love with Hamish. No sooner than her father granted Olivia’s wish and she tied the knot, did she see a parade of mistresses. There was no love for Olivia. Hamish merely grabbed at the opportunity to join into a bigger clan.

  “No one in the Highlands will accept him as The Darroch.” As a McKendrick, he grew up well versed in Highland’s politics.

  “No one has to if he forces his way and consolidates his power,” she added.

  “He cannot do that if your brother has an heir,” Lachlan insisted.

  “I strongly suspect Hamish poisoned my brother.” Malcom had been about to get married which may have precipitated her uncle’s actions to prevent a direct heir.

  “Bluidy hell!” was all he said.

  “An alliance with the McKendricks would provide support for the Darrochs.” Moira supplied, becoming disheartened by Lachlan’s noncommittal stance.

  “And you had to abduct me for that?” Long fingers raked his luxuriant dark-brown hair while the other arm fisted his tapered waist. She made the colossal mistake of following his every move.

  “Malcom sent a marriage proposal to The McKendrick and, after he died, I must have sent half a dozen at least.” She snapped. “All unanswered.”

  “By which anyone would get the message,” he said. That Lachlan McKendrick was not about to get leg-shackled any time soon.

  Since he seemed to be paying attention, she pressed ahead. “We need not stay married. After the danger is contained, we can divorce.”

  “What do you propose to claim to get this divorce, your adultery, barrenness?” he taunted as if she said the stupidest nonsense in the world. A magistrate would demand a lawful reason to break a marriage: a wife’s adultery, her barrenness. Or insanity.

  A divorce would come at a high cost of money and time. For Moira, it would also cost her ruin whatever the reason they gave. A divorced woman lost all and any prospect for a future match.

  “I don’t care!” And she did not. “I have no intention to make another foray into marriage. Ever.” Her eyes met his with determination. “I just want to take care of my clan.” Truth be told, she harboured no wish for a match, not even this one. A man in her life would be a completely unnecessary complication.

  “I cannot disagree with you there.” At thirty-two, the giant held no reason to walk down the aisle. Rich, handsome as sin, a member of a powerful clan which made enough alliances to last a millennium, the youngest McKendrick was free to enjoy life as he pleased.

  She looked at him and sighed. No one could blame her for trying, though his refusal flourished.

  “All right.” She blew out. “I don’t mean to be accused of forcing an inveterate bachelor into marriage.” The last of her energies drained away, and she sat on the old, sturdy chair behind the desk.

  “What are you going to do?” He strode to the desk and looked down at her.

  The weight of his stare made her insides nearly combust. For four years, she had been struggling with this nefarious attraction, she a woman who never planned to marry anyone. Luckily, they would not strike a bargain, or she would have a hard time resisting him. A silver lining in her awful situation.

  “I’ll think of something.” Snatching her gaze from him, she pulled a ledger from the pile and groped for a pencil. “If you’ll excuse me, I have loads of work to do.” With a decisive flip, the ledger opened. “Your horse is where we left it.”

  Lachlan observed her dismissive posture, and wondered if it was a means to draw his attention. Women of any age and station tried every trick in the book to get to him. As the minutes ticked by, she did not lift her head to him once. It was as if she had forgotten all about his presence.

  There was a first time for everything in life.

  An unprecedented deflated feeling filled him. A rather unpleasant first.

  Moira Darroch might be petite with a delicate face, but the woman was a force to be reckoned with. As far as he could see, she had been holding her clan together single-handedly for more than a year. A ripple of admiration cut through him. And a sense of protectiveness arose from nowhere. He could not just turn his back and go on his merry way, leaving her to fend off a usurper and possible murderer of a Laird.

  If he walked out, she would find someone else to do the job and marry her. Why it was vital such marriage did not happen he had no clue. But her fierceness and courage deserved his consideration.

  “Fine,” he said, causing her head to shoot up in surprise as though she expected him to be gone. “I can agree to a temporary betrothal to put the Darroch in the right track.”

  A crease formed between her shapely brows. “Betrothal?”

  Her spine straightened in interest, pushing her breasts forward. He struggled not to glare at them, which almost caused him to smirk. Since when did he not register a woman’s assets if they were on display for his appreciation? “Yes, a public and official one,” he hastened to answer. “As good as marriage, but easily backed off from, you’ll agree.”

  She stood up, giving him a full view of her slim waist, the thrust of her hips. He wondered if her legs would complete her silhouette as beautifully as he imagined.

  “I suppose it should work,” she answered.

  “With the advantage of not being as inescapable as marriage,” he added. He had not been tailored for the institution. To choose one woman above all the others seemed like the ultimate waste of time.

  “Certainly. And I’d have no man bossing around when all is said and done.”

  That she had no interest in staying with him came as a breath of fresh air.

  A woman with no interest in him? Another first. And why it made him a tad disgruntled was a mystery.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Next morning, Moira hurriedly opened the front door to go take care of her first task of the day. And nearly bumped into a pair of muscled legs clad in green, black, and white tartan. Her eyes travelled up his long limbs, his tapered waist, and his impossibly wide shoulders to find the McKendrick monument standing on a ladder. He was fixing a screw at the top door hinge.

  Her heart exploded in sprint. No, she was not startled. That heart of hers jumped for reasons she preferred not to acknowledge at the moment.

  Yesterday, focusing on the ledgers had provided a refuge from the man. In minutes, she had been engrossed in them. When he spoke, she startled, especially since she expected him to take his leave and forget all about their encounter. Not for a second did she imagine he might draw a counter-offer. A counter-offer that fitted the bill so beautifully she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it. Availing themselves with a way out of marriage gave her thrills of relief, because a man like him for a husband would be a gigantic headache. No woman in her right mind should have a husband with his looks for it was a recipe for disaster.

  After he left, her knees buckled and she sat while the whole thing hit her. She had agreed on an appearances-only betrothal with a man the lasses said was for the bedchamber rather than for the church. That the man was able to let go of the fact she had, yes, hunted him proved surprising. That he proposed a betrothal which would help her muddled circumstances could only be called dumbfounding.

  In her mind, they would set on a function to publicise their “engagement” as a strategy to fend off her uncle. After which they would carry on with their lives without disruption.

  “What the darn are you doing there?” she asked, more out of a need to cover her reaction to him than to gauge the information itself.

  Big mistake, of course. His deep-set coffee eyes latched onto hers. Not only did her stomach give a wild flip but also her heart tried to run from her ribcage. Not to mention the tightening of her breasts, or that already familiar melting sensation in her core. Fou
r-years familiar to be more precise.

  But then one corner of his perfectly shaped lips lifted in a smirk, and she wondered what she had been thinking to abduct this man and propose marriage so disastrously.

  “Good morning to you, too, Lady Darroch.” Moira added his rich voice to her list of disasters regarding the man. He continued. “This door needs adjusting to lock well for the night.”

  People in the McKendrick clan boasted Lachlan as a handyman, able to fix every and anything in his lands. From roofs, to ploughing devices, or broken fences. They also advertised how tirelessly he worked, with a never-ending well of energy. The latter mostly from women in low, suggestive tones.

  “I can do that.” If the McKendrick monument would go taking charge in a fake betrothal, what would he not do were it a real one? Stand in her way perpetually, no doubt. “You need not surge like a ghost when the sun is barely up.”

  She was thankful few witnessed their conversation. More than that, with the intense work in the fields, most of her clan would head there. Spring used to be a busy season.

  With a last firm twist, he climbed down the ladder and stood before her. Close…too close. His frame occupied almost all the width of the casing as well as the height. The light dimmed as her neck cricked to look up at him. A cool breeze blew inside, carrying his scent, a mixture of pine and sandal. Her mind produced an image of unwrapping the green wool from his body and grazing her nose along the wall of his chest to discover every hint of muskiness. Her breath caught as ripples of sensation coursed through her.

  Clad in a white shirt under the tartan, Lachlan crossed his bunched arms and lowered his head. Several heartbeats elapsed as they stood in charged silence.

  When he moved, it was to step forward, eliciting her to step back. Another step of his followed by one of hers. It repeated once more. And then he closed the door behind him. Her stare widened because he seemed to be even closer. Reluctant to give way, she kept her ground.

  “Look,” he started. “If we’re going to do this, we must do it thoroughly.” Merely inches from her, she registered amber freckles in his eyes. They seemed to move with the light from the window to their right.

  “W-what do you mean?” Moira really hoped it did not come out as a sigh even if it did. And then she hoped he could not tell she was breathless.

  “I’ll be around a great deal,” he said, his tone hoarse.

  “Great deal…” she echoed dumbly. Her eyes did not even blink, for pity’s sake. As though she wanted to engrave him in her memory. As though she had not already.

  “Which is to say I’ll be moving in here.” Such a thing was not unheard of, especially if a clan could use all the help one offered at busy times like these.

  Moving in? Blast it all! If just bumping into this ode to male beauty caused a revolution in her insides, his being ‘around’ amounted to nothing but a tragedy.

  “But—” The protest clogged her dry throat. Her tongue darted to moisten her mouth, promptly followed by his unwavering attention.

  “We should put up a united front. Your people will get the feeling we are solid about the alliance.” The seriousness on his features left no doubt of his commitment to their ruse. “If this offends your sensibilities, hire a lady’s maid or a chaperone.” In short, money would be no issue here. He possessed loads of it.

  Moira’s brows pleated. There was no fragile London-bred ninny in this clan. “I don’t need a chaperone.” What she needed was to have thought her crazy plan through before she set it in motion.

  With a slow nod, he uncrossed his arms. “Suit yourself.” He turned, opened the door, grabbed a satchel laying by the frame, and dropped it inside the hall.

  Her gaze darted to the leather bag and back to him. The arrogance of him to assume he could stay before asking. Not that she wished he had consulted her, far from it. Even if the manor belonged to her family and this concerned her clan. Resisting an urge to roll her eyes, she gave him as wide a berth as she could. And let herself out before she told him exactly what she thought of his conceited actions.

  “I’ll be in the barn if you need anything,” she threw over her shoulder.

  Lachlan watched Moira’s brisk walk in the cool morning and called himself a thousand kinds of fool. What the bluidy hell was he thinking going along with this charade? Every time he looked at her it felt like a trail of fiery gunpowder ran through him. Just being close and recognizing how her height barely reached his chest triggered a chain-reaction of protectiveness totally strange to him. It had made him jump out of bed before sunrise, stuff a few personal belongings in the satchel, and ride here without even contemplating the consequences of his actions.

  If, as she suspected, her uncle had anything to do with Malcom’s death, Moira would be in danger, too. Foolish as it might seem, she was standing up to The Pitcairn with no intention of backing down, practically alone. In an ill-locked manor, she became an easy target. His conscience would not rest should something happen in his watch.

  Malcom and Lachlan had not been close, but they were comrades in that they undertook responsibilities for their clans. They had been peers and met in taverns in many a raucous occasion filled with whisky and wenches. The fact the circumstances of The Darroch’s death seemed less than acceptable proved reason enough to be on alert. So here he stood, doing what he always did, handy work in which he thrived and felt useful.

  Needless to say, he saw the spark of contrariety in her hypnotic hazel eyes. He suspected she’d not relinquish her decision-making position so lightly, despite being a woman. And why it caused his chest to inflate with admiration he cared not to understand.

  These musings would get him nowhere. Therefore, he left the entrance hall and headed for the fields where there would be plenty of work this time of year. Lachlan understood the importance that folk become used to his presence. Wagging tongues would make the ruse look real.

  Moira entered the smallest of the barns where she allowed strays to sleep. Currently, a bitch occupied it with its puppies. The poor thing appeared in a cold rainy day with sad eyes and a swollen belly. Led to the barn, the dog gave birth to five puppies. A stray cat joined the group soon after, her six young clinging to her in avid suckling. The dogs greeted her with eager licks. The mother-cat bumped her head on Moira as she visited their pens.

  At last, Moira headed to the pen where three orphaned lambs lay. During birth, the ewe had not resisted death. The sight of the lonely lambs broke her heart. She made a bed for the lambs and took care of them herself. She fed them bottles and did not relent until the little ones became stronger. At two months old, they gave the impression they would make it to adult life. In the pen, she changed the water bucket and renewed the fodder as the cute balls of fur did not need a bottle anymore.

  Deep fondness filled her heart for those strays and the orphans. She lost her mother at ten to a fever and understood how lost the lambs must feel. Since the little ones had been born, Moira’s morning routine included checking on the animals. Inside the pen, she knelt and the fluffy lambs circled her while she held them to her bosom, relishing in their growing furs. Tenderness filled her with the display of their affection. That they were happy overflowed her heart with joy.

  After making sure all of them received food and water, she left the barn for the fields.

  “My lady Moira,” someone called behind her.

  Her head turned to see Caitlin, a clan member’s wife approaching. Caitlin and her husband, Duncan, came from generations of Darroch. Loyal to the clan, they went to any length to offer help in times of strife.

  “Caitlin.” Moira greeted the woman in her forties, whom she considered a friend. “Is something the matter?”

  Dark hair and a sturdy constitution met Moira’s eyes. The other woman lowered hers in hesitation. “Aye, my lady.” After a pause, she resumed speaking. “Duncan is getting a wee worried ‘boot the clan.”

  “How so?” Moira held no illusions that the clan mem
bers wondered where their future would lead, or if they would have enough for their families by next winter. Their fretting kept her awake at night.

  “He keeps saying we dinna do well last year and wilnna get any better if we dunno do aught.” The strong brogue betrayed the poor woman’s affliction.

  Moira wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “I know, Caitlin. Tell him not to dwell on it, I’m trying for solutions.”

  She had a fairly good idea the people were becoming restless with their situation. They must think about their children after all. The yields of the clan had been…disrupted by her father’s and her brother’s demise. A few had not been so patient and sided with Hamish.

  “I dunno want to leave here, my lady,” she said in a disgruntled way. “All me family is here and me dead father and mother and them parents.”

  “Ask Duncan for a bit more patience, will you?”

  “Aye, I’ll tell him.” Arm in arm they headed to the fields.

  The green, white, and black tartan was visible from the distance, different from the others from her clan. And then there was the height, setting him apart by at least a head. But what made the McKendrick monument really stand out was the number of girls surrounding him with starry eyes and open smiles.

  Something scalding and uncontrollable threatened to erupt from Moira’s insides. Especially because the scoundrel grinned back at them. Even teeth shone through his treacherously appetizing lips and highlighted the cleft on his chin. His smile was a piece of art. She wished she were skilled at painting to commit his likeness to canvas, so she could stare at them for hours and hours without a witness.

  As it were, she directed her eyes somewhere above his head. It was that or join the club of admirers.

  “Does anyone plan to have any work done here?” she asked as she approached the group.