The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

  They sowed the first fields by the end of March, but the clan still had a lot to do.

  Lachlan turned to her, his smile enlarged. Approaching, he took her hand. “My Lady Darroch.” Gallantly, as if they stood in a ballroom of a lofty London town house, he bowed, maintaining his gaze on her face.

  The contact of her tiny limb with his callused, strong one produced a veritable earthquake in her veins. Her hazel gaze widened as her insides flipped on themselves. Speech rebelled together with the air in her lungs. Her glare clashed with his amused glint when he lifted his broad torso. Hurriedly, she retrieved her hand, not about to become a puddle at his booted feet.

  Clearly, he did that for show, true to their earlier agreement. His humour evident in the enactment, the cad!

  “Your clan is very helpful,” he said, pointing at the ever-increasing crowd of females.

  Helpful, huh? What they wanted was to help themselves to him. And Moira would not be the one to deny how enticing the man was to a woman’s senses.

  She understood his lure more than anyone. How many times had she not been to a festival or a gathering of some kind to which he also went, only to keep as far away from him as she could, watching the lasses vie for his favour? How many times did she wish to come closer to try her luck but felt unwilling to make a fool of herself? How many times did her heart race, her body combust at the mere view of him, to go back home and toss and turn in her bed in a feverish state? Unlike the other lasses, she made it a point to leave early before she lost her will to resist. No, this monument of a man was best avoided. He might be every woman’s dream in the dark, but in the light of day he would be solely a nightmare. On her own, she was safe. She channelled her energies toward her clan’s welfare. A more sensible and rewarding endeavour, especially in the long run.

  With that in mind, she glared at him. “If you excuse me, someone must sow the fields.” She cared not if she sounded stern or even boorish. As she turned, she trudged to the farthest point where the labour began.

  “Say it again?” Drostan, The Laird McKendrick, snapped his whisky-coloured orbs toward his younger brother.

  That evening, Drostan, Fingal, and Lachlan lounged in the study, drinking their amber beverage.

  “Moira Darroch and I are getting betrothed.” Lachlan thought it wise not to mention the temporary status.

  “Ha!” came Fingal. “He must be in a delirious fever.”

  “The Darrochs sent several proposals. Why didn’t you say anything?” Drostan asked.

  “We wanted to be sure.” Talk about lies that brought on more lies.

  He boasted a very productive day in the fields, disentangling himself from the lasses and focusing on the sowing. It would not do to accept their flirtatious offerings if he planned to announce an alliance with the lady of the clan. Said lady did not seem to like him very much if her behaviour in the morning was anything to go by. The lass kept away from him all day. And only said a brief good bye when he explained he would have a drink with his family before returning to the Darroch’s manor. Their lands bordered each other which made it a quick ride between lands.

  “In that case, I’ll have the solicitor prepare a betrothal contract,” Drostan intervened.

  “The spit-fire lass will make you walk the line,” Fingal taunted.

  The lass in question would not even stand near him. He remembered seeing her at celebrations and gatherings. The will to invite her for a dance, and share a drink or a conversation had always lingered. On those occasions, he realised she remained with her girl-friends, engaged in lively conversation. Moira displayed levity then. But that was before her father, and soon her brother, died and she undertook the heavy leadership of her clan. A sobering experience he reckoned. On those festive nights, though, Lachlan felt tempted to be with her, he knew she was not to be trifled with. Not the daughter of a laird. But a dance or a drink would not harm anyone. Would it?

  Yet the petite lass proved to be more slippery than an eel. One minute she had been in a group of girls, the next she vanished like smoke. Lachlan never succeeded in even saying hello to her. A country dance would have afforded him the opportunity to lay his palm on that slim waist, or test the smoothness of her skin, or hear her laugh. He stood no chance, and now he knew why. The lass did not seem to favour him. The novelty struck him as vexing. This Darroch lass had been the only one he found intriguing. And she was the only one who cared nothing for him.

  “I rejected marriage because I intended to remain free. If it happens, I’ll stick to the rules,” he stated his true concept. He held no intention of deceiving anyone. What he did not want was to limit his life with a wife. His clan secured the next generation’s heir when Drostan’s son was declared laird of the McKendricks and McPhersons. So he, Lachlan, could skip the chore.

  And after this charade with the Darroch lass was over, he would regain his freedom and resume his pleasurable life. Even if he wanted to be on his way to the Darroch. For the lass’s protection obviously, why else?

  “Let’s call in a feast to celebrate,” Fingal suggested. “So, people can witness miracles do happen,” he jested.

  “I prefer if we do it at the Darroch’s,” Lachlan answered. The presence of their whole clan played a key role in the context of boasting a clan alliance.

  “Freya and Catriona will be excited by the news,” Drostan added, referring to his and Fingal’s wives.

  “I’ll send word to Eileen, too,” Lachlan volunteered. Their youngest sibling and her husband, the mighty McDougal, would not want to miss it.

  Lachlan entered the Darroch manor after caring for his horse. The place looked understaffed. He would have to address the issue in the morning. As he walked along the hallway, he saw light under the study door. The woman was nothing short of tireless. She spent the whole day in the fields. Then disappeared somewhere in the barns to check on the livestock. And now she was in the study. Did she ever stop?

  Without knocking and, worse, without thinking, he opened the door. She sat at the desk, which minimized her form, with a quill in one hand, a document in the other. Her head snapped up, and Lachlan felt her enormous eyes engulf him. The heat that spread in him darted to a very forbidden place in his lower abdomen. Their gazes clashed and clasped for long moments.

  “Do you ever rest?” was all he managed to ask.

  “After I finish my duties for the day,” she dismissed him yet again. “I’ve made dinner, if you haven’t eaten.” Her attention went back to the document.

  “You’re telling me you don’t even have a housekeeper?” His strong arms crossed at his broad chest, he refused to be dismissed.

  Dropping paper and quill with a sigh, she returned her attention to him. “We’ve not been exactly solvent in the last few years.”

  Since her father passed, he surmised. “I’m hiring staff, starting tomorrow,” he stated.

  At that, she sprang from the chair and braced her hands on the flat wood. “You’re here temporarily. No need to go ordering people about.”

  Spit-fire sounded like a really appropriate moniker for the lass. “While I’m around, I’ll do what I consider necessary,” he countered.

  “And when you leave, what then? Those you hired will lose their position in short notice?” She, too, crossed her arms, mirroring him. But it only served to mould her proud breasts for his appreciation.

  “When I leave, this clan will function like clockwork.”

  “So, you say.” Rounding the desk, she paced towards him.

  “So, I promise.” His inflection brokered no argument. But the woman seemed not to abide it because she kept on nearing him.

  “Look, this ruse is a shot in the dark. We don’t know if it’ll work.” Her petite form halted a mere three feet from him.

  The candle lights played with her riotous chestnut hair giving it fiery shades. Bound by a simple ribbon, it fell down to her waist leaving loose strands around her delicate face. Lachlan had an urge to tug a
t the satin and set the mane free. And then merge his fingers in its soft curls, maybe pull her head back and—

  “It will,” he forced his mind back on the conversation. “My brothers are throwing a feast here for the signing of the betrothal contract.”

  Her hazel orbs widened at the information, and he felt as if their betrothal was a reality, a done feat. An irreversibility. For the world’s eyes, it would appear so. “Good,” the loose strands jerked when she gave a curt nod. “The sooner, the better.”

  That she would fake an alliance with a man she surely did not care about told of how much she was willing to sacrifice for her clan. Noble as it proved to be, Lachlan had to admit he had never met a woman whose focus fell on something beyond society’s expectations for women, like marriage and children.

  And he was at a loss as to how to deal with such a woman, moreover, one who did not behave coyly around him. Though he wished she did.

  A week later, Moira stood under the canopy in the shabby Darroch garden clad in her best underdress, wrapped in her best tartan. Lachlan sat at her side on the big table on a dais. The entire Darroch clan gathered here in a feast fit for a king. The McKendricks spared no money or effort to prepare the gathering.

  Her “intended’s” clan had introduced themselves one by one. Drostan and his wife, Freya, their children Ewan and Sorcha. Fingal and his amazon wife, Catriona, with their daughter Ava. And then there was the sister, Eileen, her giant of a husband, The green-eyed McDougal, and their son Roy. Between them, they held most of the power in the Highlands. Freya came from the McPherson clan, Catriona, from the McTavish. All of them together represented a solid backing for her plans. At least there was that. As for the man standing by her side… Lachlan also dressed in a pristine white shirt, impeccable green, black, and white tartan, black brogues and hoses. His luxuriant damp hair fell on his forehead, and he looked the most magnificent man ever to grace the Earth. To her dismay and the envy of every woman between eighteen and eighty present.

  It had not been an easy week. With that monument around the place day and night, Moira felt gritty. They had been working the fields, or caring for the livestock. That finished, the man would go fix whatever needed fixing. He had spent the week hiring staff for the manor, the stables, and the grounds. And then there were the nights. Even when she sought refuge—or should she say barricade—in her study, he would find her there to discuss plans for the next day. Or the solution for this or that problem in the manor.

  Day after day, it became steeply more difficult to tamp down her feverish reactions to the man. Her entire body sprung to alert at any moment they encountered each other. Or when she glimpsed his green, black, and white tartan in the fields, or heard his deep voice talking to the men. The effort not to gobble him with her eyes and everything else she possessed took up a great deal of her energies.

  “Ready?” he drawled at her side. It startled her from her musings, the deep sound pouring over her.

  “As ready as one can be at the thought of getting married.” Her depleted energies were making her irascible as well.

  “This is not forever,” the murmur made it all worse.

  Any lass in her betrothal feast hearing him would crumble to a pitiful state of disappointment. Not Moira. The statement reaffirmed how no marriage would imprison her.

  “Which is a solace,” she quipped.

  But when he took her hands and turned her to face him, the contact caused lightning to vibrate on her nerve endings. There was no way not to bend her head to look up at him and melt in his dark brown eyes. The whole world faded into a blur and her entire universe reduced to just him.

  His father, Laird Wallace, talked of the importance of marriages and alliances, support offered and given, unity and respect to Scottish traditions. She heard none of it, only the blood pounding in her ears as her heart thrashed behind her ribcage. The scarce air transformed her in a breathless ninny and she bit her lips not to gape at the man before her. His head bent forward, his gaze felt like two scorching suns burning on her. It appeared as if he also saw nothing but her. A crazy idea, considering who he was.

  The McKendricks insisted she wore a ring as a symbol of commitment. As Laird Wallace signalled to his younger son, Lachlan opened his sporran and took out the ring. A hazel jasper, rare and expensive.

  She wanted no jewel, even less one this costly. With her busy life, it might become damaged.

  “I thought this matched your eyes.” He cut through her distraction with his deep bass.

  It rendered her speechless. He had noticed her eyes to the point of finding a gem that matched them, her heart fluttered at the prospect. Silently, she shook herself. He was just playing a role here, the role of a man affianced to her. And she must play hers too. With a brittle smile, she extended her hand.

  “Thank you,” she blurted.

  His warm skin grazed hers as he slid the jewel along her finger. The gesture sowed goose-bumps over every inch of her, and her gaze latched to his. The man did nothing in half measures, so he bent and kissed her hand near the ring.

  A good thing everyone burst into cheers at that precise moment. They reminded her she and the McKendrick monument were not alone even if the contact of his sensuous lips with her ultra-sensitised skin threatened to catch fire. The caress radiated up her arm to reach her breasts, which stood to eager attention. Thanks to the thick tartan, no one would be able to see it, especially him. Nonetheless, a flush bloomed on her cheeks, and she retrieved her fingers from his hand lest he saw the disruption he caused in her.

  After that, the celebrations swallowed her. The McKendricks and their spouses surrounded the betrothed to wish them happiness.

  The bountiful banquet became merrier with an endless amount of ale and the McKendrick whisky. Moira had to count herself happy with the occasion, seeing her clan so hopeful in the future. This happiness was why she risked Lachlan’s abduction. And if she achieved her aim, she would hold no qualms about it.

  Far into the evening, Lachlan offered Moira his arm and they mingled among the guests. No one would have a lint of doubt as to the authenticity of their union.

  The bagpipes and drums sounded vibrantly as couples crowded the floor to dance.

  “Come dance with me,” invited Lachlan, and she had no choice but to accompany him.

  Dread filled her. If a simple peck on her hand turned her world upside down, in his arms she would certainly disintegrate.

  The moment he placed one capable hand on her waist, holding one of hers with the other, she was doomed. Her fingers held his bunched shoulder under the pristine shirt, the heat of his body mingling with hers. They stood so close she could see each prickling stubble on his chiselled jaw under the light of the torches. They danced as if they had done it for decades and decades. In fact, they had. In her dreams and fantasies.

  But this, being with him was light-years beyond any fantasy she might have harboured. This was the wall of his body towering miles over hers. This was the heat of him inflaming her. His muskiness, pine and sandal, invaded her nostrils like a wicked army. This was dream and perdition, memories and wishes, sin and elation all wrapped in one forbidden male. A dance, everything she had ever wanted to do with him, and never allowed herself. Each unfinished function she fled from, left her cold and alone. Surely the planet would not explode if she did it once in a while.

  Yet the planet may have exploded. Because it felt like her insides blew up in a million shards of sensation, cutting through her, burning her with promises and yearning. And a need to grab his hand and pull him somewhere deserted, dark, and hidden.

  “You dance like a fairy, Darroch,” he said in her ear, multiplying her weakness. Had he come closer? The heat of him enveloped her with more allure as her entire body craved more proximity, to be totally glued to the wall of muscle and sinew, warmth and power.

  She dared lift her head to him, and what she saw mirrored on his coffee eyes almost knocked her off balance. His st
are contained fire and anticipation. It dared her to follow her desires, dared her to follow him to the confines of the universe. If he only knew she would. She would go anywhere, everywhere if he joined her.

  “You’re not bad yourself, McKendrick,” she managed.

  But the man had to go on wreaking havoc. Because his hand on her waist slowly splayed and moved farther, tugging her nearer to his temptation. Her fear heightened, and she was unwilling to reveal how much she wanted this man. Her self-defences rose as her frame rose rigid.

  Tensing her arms, she tried to keep a safe distance from the laird, though she more than wished to devour him. “What are you doing, McKendrick?” she hissed in order not to sigh.

  His head came lower putting their eyes—and mouths—inches away. “Why, Darroch, I’d think it clear. Dancing, of course.” Those lips designed to torture a woman lifted into a half-smile. If he meant to be innocent, he succeeded in being anything but.

  A blunt thumb strolled over her palm, sending quivers through her nerve-endings. The forcefield he represented demanded she connect her whole silhouette to his muscular person, decency be damned. Though she resisted it with a bravery worth a military medal.

  She filled her lungs with fortifying air, or at least it was supposed to be, since the scent of him followed, mining her resistance from the very base. Congratulations were in order, for she had taken the right path in avoiding him like the pest in previous years or she would have fallen for him hard and foolishly.

  With the remaining of her forces, she mustered threadbare resolve. “Stop it, you blackguard!” To imprint anger in her voice took effort, the man was a landslide of temptation. “I am not one of your women.”

  Those tragic lips smirked. “No. If you were, we’d be very far away from a crowded place.”

  The idea simply washed over her and pooled in a very clandestine place in her middle. Her whole being threatened to become mouldy clay, for him to do whatever he wanted because it would be what she wanted, too.