by Lisa Torquay
His right hand manacled her wrist, and he tugged her to him, making her pert breasts come to an inch from his chest. “Nobody ‘returns’ me anywhere.” Her womanly scent assailed him, and mingled with burned wood and wind. He bent his head in order to match her glare, which brought him even closer.
Their stances battled fiercely. “I will,” the infernal waif insisted.
From where he touched her, something rampaged right to his groin. Time froze while his breath accelerated. His body responded to her as a rush of blood sped to his groin, leaving none for his mind to process clear thought.
In response, her chest moved up and down ever quicker, sending air through open lips. A rosy tongue moistened the plump delicacy, and he wondered if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. Her irises darkened to a mossy shade when she darted them to his mouth.
His instinct clamoured he pull her flush into him.
Her feminine nostrils sucked in oxygen before she stepped back, shaking his hold on her. He let go, though his guts rebelled at the notion.
“Let’s call this pantomime off,” she said.
For a moment, he continued studying her, intrigued at the mixed signals she sent. One minute she devoured his mouth with her enormous eyes, the next she shut him down resolutely.
“Meaning?” His eyebrows shot up.
“We break the ‘betrothal’, you go back to your merry life, and I to mine,” Tiny hands braced a narrow waist as she cast a defiant look at him.
If she was having a merry life, he must be having a ride in Paradise Lost.
“The hell we will,” his answer came dry and final.
Naturally, the little lass did not care for that. “What, you mean to impose on my hospitality?”
He scowled and she narrowed her gaze. “This fire has arson written all over it.” His arm shot out, hand pointing at the general direction of the cottage.
As he ran inside the crumbling building, he saw burnt torches suspiciously scattered on the ground. A family in their rest would never use any of those.
“You think I don’t know that?” Her reply had the power to surprise him.
“It’s not the first time something like this happened,” he surmised, calling himself stupid for not realising it.
“No,” she said simply. Her arms wrapped protectively around her, and he had this impulse to offer a harbour of protection.
“The manor income has been drained to cover for the damage done,” he completed.
“Yes.”
One hand went to his tapered hips, the other raked his hair as he drew air in forcefully. “Damn it all to hell!” His glare bored into her. “And you want to ditch the only possibility to save your clan.” By breaking their fake betrothal, she would be out at sea, alone and exposed.
“Your clan is too important to be embroiled in this.”
“Well, Darroch, unless you chase me out of here, we’ll continue to be.”
CHAPTER FOUR
After Murray informed Lachlan that Moira had gone to the small barn, he found her inside one of the enclosed pens. Woofs and little mews came from the others.
The sun headed to the west, most of the afternoon gone, Lachlan and Moira had spent the day managing the aftermath of the fire and organising the rebuilding of the cottage.
He approached and saw she sat on her haunches holding a fluffy lamb while two others competed for her attention, emitting eager bleats. The scene forced Lachlan to halt, touched by the tenderness. Her arms tried to scoop all three of the little white animals as she murmured soothing words to them.
At the sound of her voice, the calico she-cat left her nest and brought her kittens to Moira. Faint mewling came from the defenceless tiny devils before the feline mother gathered them at Moira’s feet. Seeing the cosy reunion, the dog also brought her puppies and, in a minute, the cramped pen transformed into a merry party.
The lass gave attention to everyone, stroking their coats and talking softly.
His insides melted at the view of Moira and her menagerie, relaxed and content.
“These little devils will be catching mice in no time,” he announced.
Her head swivelled to him, a ghost of a smile still on her pouty lips. The smile died, but not before he absorbed its exquisite beauty.
“Is there any problem?” she asked, and straightened to face him.
Instead of answering, he strode to the festive pen. “A diverse collection you have here. Where do they come from?”
Enormous eyes strolled over his frame, taking in his clean tartan over a white shirt, bare knees, and boots. Eventually, she found his gaze. Her perusal scoured over him as if it had been a physical touch.
Parted lips breathed, making her tartan-clad chest rise. He longed to measure her pert breasts with his palms.
“The cats and the dogs are strays. The lambs are orphaned,” she summarised, finally ungluing her gaze from him. “These are Belvedere, Fleece and Cloud,” she introduced the fluffy lambs.
“Why Belvedere?” Fleece and Cloud he could understand, but the other name puzzled him.
She shrugged a delicate shoulder, her eyes fleeing from his. “It means ‘good to look at’ in Italian,” she said as if it explained her choice.
The petite woman had a heart of butter, by the looks of it. Together with her unwavering resolve, it made for an explosive combination.
“And did you know your name comes from Greek, meaning destiny?” he asked amused.
“My mother told me the story of the Moerae, Fates, they weaved the destiny of the humans.” A wistful smile shadowed her lips.
And now she was trying to weave the destiny of her clan, he mused.
“And the kittens and puppies?”
“Haven’t chosen their names yet.”
Ever active, she busied herself with replenishing food and water in the occupied pens. “I’m sure you did not come here to meet up with a bunch of sorry orphans,” she said. With her back to him, she bent to place a bucket of water where the cats had been lounging.
And presented him with a full view of her shapely hips. Godamnit! Did no one tell the infernal waif she was too tempting by half?
Her frame turned to him and he quickly had to lift his eyes to her. “You requested Caitlin to come talk to you.” They needed to have more details on how the fire started. “She’s waiting in the drawing room,” he completed.
“Oh, I’ll go meet her.” With a wide berth, she passed by him towards the exit.
“We’ll do it,” he determined, accompanying her.
“Why you think you have the right to order me about is a mystery,” she spat over her shoulder.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a playful grin. “I’m having a lot of fun vexing you.”
She turned from him again, not bothering to produce a reply.
Outside, the fresh weather hinted at rain, a cool breeze soothed her flushed skin.
Unnerving as it might be, having the McKendrick around in such a dire situation did not feel bad at all. Moira washed her hands and face in the backyard before she met her friend. Not that she would confess the sin to any soul. But she feared she may get used to the man being around, and that would not do. The McKendrick monument would remain in her life in a very temporary fashion.
The downside of it was how the man unsettled her to no end. Well, unsettle seemed too mild a word. He completely churned her insides. And foolishly, she barely could take her eyes off the giant. It became progressively more difficult to hide the powerful pull he had on her.
She should have abducted his cousin Alistair.
Except the dandy lived in London with no intention of ever returning to his home country. Apart from short visits that is.
As Moira sped towards the drawing room, she sensed his presence behind her. The need to burrow in his sinewy form was so strong it hurt. Larger than life, he compelled her to do things she would never dare in her life. His nearness made the most ludicr
ous fantasies sprout in her out-of-control mind. Like just now, he displayed his usual goose-bumps-inducing half-smile. Her outlaw fantasies imagined her nibbling at those lips to taste him even if for a few seconds. She so wished she were immune to the man. Wished she were capable of ignoring him. She feared that would not be the case. Ever.
Stifling a sigh, she entered the drawing room. She saw Caitlin as she stood by the window. Her posture tense.
“My lady,” she greeted, nearing Moira. Her gaze then focused on the giant. “My laird.” She gave a clumsy curtsy.
“Caitlin. How’s Duncan?” Moira asked worried as the women held hands.
“Thanks to Laird McKendrick, he wilna have more than a few scars.” Gratitude written on the woman’s weary face. She dressed clothes that seemed too large for her, certainly lent by the other clan women. They had lost everything but their lives.
Moira had a fairly clear notion that Lachlan’s swift action had saved Caitlin’s family from a deep sorrow. One that would have followed Moira to the last of her days. She owed this to Lachlan. There was no saying if she would have been able to do what he did had she gone inside the cottage on fire. Lachlan’s exuberant muscles and height certainly gave him an advantage in physical challenges.
“Excellent news, Mrs. Darroch,” he said truthfully.
The two women sat as Lachlan stood by the unlit fireplace.
At Moira’s call, Murray offered tea. “Would you care for something stronger, my laird?”
“Later, perhaps, Murray. Thank you,” Lachlan answered, before turning to the Duncan’s wife. “Caitlin, we need you to tell us every detail of what happened,” he coaxed.
“After the ceremony, we walked back home and went to sleep.” Her features contorted with the bitter memory. “When we woke up, the fire had already taken most of the hoose. Duncan had time to put the three of us oot, but had trouble with oor wee bairn.”
“Did you see anything out of the normal or someone that does not belong to the Darrochs?”
“At this time of year, many hired hands come for the sowing, my laird.”
“But no one around your cottage,” he insisted.
“Canna remember. We’ve been oot in the fields a lot.”
No one would deny how much the Darrochs had been toiling on the land, everyone was up to their heads with work.
“You said Duncan had been worried about the future,” Moira said.
Caitlin lowered her head as if ashamed of her husband. “Aye, my lady,” Despite Moira’s insistence, Caitlin resisted in calling her friend by her given name. “But we were all so happy tae hear of your betrothal.”
Lachlan and Moira exchanged gazes. “Did Duncan think to do anything as to his worries?” he asked.
“Dinna think so, my laird.” Her hands twisted on her lap.
“Did Duncan voice his misgivings to others?” Lachlan insisted.
She took a long time to answer. “Ye ken the men take a dram in the tavern and blether.”
“You can trust us, Caitlin,” he reiterated.
“Oh, my laird.” Tears ran down her reddened cheeks. “He told me someone came to talk to him.” Her breath became errant.
“Not from the Darroch clan,” Moira certified.
“Nae…they wanted him tae do…nasty things.” Her hands covered her face.
“What kind of things,” Lachlan pressed.
“Wicked, my laird. Destroy places here.” Her sobs turned desperate.
“Did he accept it?” Moira asked.
Caitlin snapped her head. “Nae, nae, my lady, refused fiercely, he did!”
“So, they showed you what happens with those who don’t cooperate,” concluded Lachlan.
Her sobs multiplied. “Lady Moira dinna deserve it. Aught of it.”
Again, Moira held the other woman while she poured her concerns.
Lachlan and Moira exchanged another glance. He proved to be right, the Pitcairn would not stop despite her strategic move with the betrothal.
Murray came in and served tea. After that, they resumed their conversation.
“Remember last year, Lady Moira, the mill was smashed, hay disappeared. We dinna ken if there’d be enough fer the livestock in winter.”
Moira closed her eyes for a moment. The last thing she wanted was for Lachlan to know of every illegal act her uncle had castigated against her clan, because of his unmeasurable greed.
When she opened her eyes, she found him staring with an expression she hoped was not pity.
“Yes,” she strived to stop Caitlin from stringing along with problems that did not concern the giant. “But we pulled through, didn’t we?”
Caitlin grinned in admiration. “Och, aye! Ye arranged fer us to use the McTavish mill and bought hay from Aberdeen.” Not to mention the fixing of the mill, that had cost a dear portion of the income, but was ready on time for the harvest in the autumn.
Well, that made it worse. If Moira did not stop this talk Caitlin would give a day-to-day report of their struggles since her father passed. “Thank you so much for coming, Caitlin. We appreciate it.”
That seemed to make Caitlin come back to the present. Swiftly, she took her leave.
As Moira saw herself alone with the McKendrick, she motioned to make her exit without fuss.
“A smashed mill?” Came Lachlan’s dark voice in a tone that denoted the gravity of the situation.
No, he would not let her slip away this easily.
She pivoted, and he dished her with six feet plus of male, legs braced, fists on tapered hips, a scowl on his chiselled face. “Yes, someone destroyed the millstones.”
The cylindrical stones crushed the grains for the three to four hours cooking needed to make them edible. Without the millstones, the mill was virtually useless.
“Bluidy hell, Moira! You had to deal with this type of crime?”
“We fixed it, you heard Caitlin.” She aimed at nonchalance, but succeeded only to imprint a shade of remembered distress.
“At what cost? Time and money?”
“High, of course,” she admitted grudgingly.
“What else happened?”
Her brows pleated at his intrusion. “I don’t think it’s your busi—”
“Tell me!” he cut, giving her no room for evasion.
The sigh she expelled told of resignation. “Mostly stolen property. Like the hay, sacks of apples from the orchard, milking cows.”
Each missing item caused a hole in the manor’s finances. The apples would become cider that yielded a profit when sold. Good milking cows cost veritably a fortune, together with the milk that meant to produce cheese and other dairy products that would feed the clan.
The ugly expletive he muttered under his breath left no doubt as to what he thought of her plight. “Why didn’t you come to us?”
Moira had contemplated the possibility. The McKendrick support meant that she would have the whole of the Highlands backing the Darrochs.
“Involving your clan would have been the same as declaring war. I hoped to put a stop to the troubles without resorting to extreme measures.”
“But ended up having to do exactly that,” he concluded.
“Unfortunately,” she answered with frankness. “The McTavish have no male relation to spare.”
Of Laird McTavish’s two daughters, Catriona was married to Fingal McKendrick.
If she believed he had scowled before, now he exhibited a nakedly savage look. His long, strong legs strode to her and his large hands held her shoulders. The firmness of the warm touch made her crick her neck back to meet his determined eyes.
“I am the suitor in place at the moment.” His masculine overbearing tone did not escape her. Neither did the overheated quiver that took over her insides.
To keep her balance, she put her hands on his bunched upper arms. A colossal mistake because the silky shirt combined with his warm skin seeped through her palms, making them hungry to stroke th
e whole length of his biceps and then more.
Hazel eyes widened when the pressure on her arms became softer at the same time his strong hands pulled her near. They were so close she could see each fleck of amber in his eyes. He did not stop pulling her until their chests almost touched.
She inhaled his scent. Her mouth fell open in the act and, suddenly, it seemed to have dried as if she had not drunk a drop of water for days. Her lashes threatened to weigh down and her entire body nearly sagged against him.
Darn! Was there not a single woman in this world that could resist him? That did not want to savour every inch of his god-like person? She must force her wits to prevail. Her teeth caught her lower lip, attracting his heated gaze.
“Moira?” he rumbled.
She felt vibration of his voice run through her and the sound pour in her ears like warmed Atholl Brose, smooth and inebriating.
Hearing her name served to wrench her back to reality. Little strong-will remained, but she mustered the shreds to jerk free from the promise of delights he dangled at her with his very presence.
In long strides—as long as her small stature permitted—she put maximum distance between them.
“The silver lining is this is a temporary post,” she quipped at his taunt. She surprised herself she was able to speak amid the fog in her brain, which manifested itself anytime Lachlan was near. The other good news was that Atholl Brose, the beverage made with whisky, oat milk, heavy cream and honey would be served only at New Year, very far from now.
By then, the Darrochs would have surely sorted their problems.
As she pushed him away, he turned his back to her, approached the window, and raked his dark brown waves.
“There are more pressing matters than thinking of when this will end.” A steel clink rang in his voice when he turned to face her fully.
Sparks of lightning zinged in the space that separated them and landed like butterflies on her stomach. She needed to flee from here at once. No matter how cowardly.
“You’re absolutely right,” she replied tersely. “It’s time to free the herb garden of weed. If you’ll excuse me.” She pivoted, temporarily freeing herself of the unruly feelings that grew like weeds inside her.
