The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two weeks later, Lachlan carried a beam to the roof of Duncan’s cottage. The weather had warmed perhaps two degrees, but even so, sweat trickled from his brow. Moira and other clan women had gone into the fields to check on the oat sprouts and make sure they were growing healthily.

  Since the fire, in their spare time, the clan had worked on the cottage. The debris cleared and they assessed what needed doing. Fortunately, the fields required not so much attention as they were sowed and would require work only at harvest. This freed the men to help in the rebuilding when they were not tending to the livestock, which would go out in the pastures in late May.

  The backbreaking labour suited Lachlan perfectly. Or nearly perfectly, he should say. Despite his enjoyment of physical work and the repairing it involved, it did not render him tired enough for deep sleep. Oh, no! And two doors away from the lass? That made it almost impossible.

  He would have kissed her that day after Mrs Darroch left. Senseless. The pulsing desire to do it had thrown him in an inferno of lust. Pure, explicit lust. He had been a millisecond from capturing her mouth when she pushed him away. But not before he had witnessed the naked want in her eyes. Though she might not like him very much, she was far from indifferent.

  The realisation of his own hunger impeded proper sleep. More than that, the woman had become even more skittish than usual. Ensconced in her study, she had been avoiding him. She either requested dinner in her study or left early in the morning. Which made him see little of her.

  Her only feat was that, when he in fact saw her, it was to devour every single aspect of her. His brothers would have a long laugh should they know there was one woman in this world that made him feel like four horses pulled him in different directions. When all he wanted was to taste her in every way.

  As he hammered the beam onto the roof, movement on the ground drew his attention. The women walked back from the fields to lend a hand with the building. He had been amazed in the first day at the sight of Moira leading the others to undertake the heavy tasks. They had been working side by side with the men, speeding up the reconstruction. There was nothing the infernal waif would not do for her clan. This commitment erupted warm respect for a true Highlander like her.

  Lachlan pretended to inspect the beam as he covertly watched her. Underdress and wrapped Burgundy-and-white tartan stood out from the women wearing full dresses and a plaid shawl over their shoulders. He would bet his fortune he could span her waist with his hands. He envisioned himself doing exactly that, to pull her flush against him, carry her somewhere hidden, and take her until neither could even breath.

  “My laird,” a clan member called behind him.

  Startled, he would have fallen head first, were he not kneeling and holding the beam.

  His eyes turned to the other man. “Yes, John?”

  “Wid ye move a wee bit, so I can take this beam over there?”

  In answer, he descended the ladder to retrieve more building materials. On the ground, he turned and almost collided with Moira. She held a bucket of cement in one hand, and with her other, she wiped a stray chestnut curl from falling on her eye.

  “Let me take this,” he said without thinking before he extended his hand and covered hers.

  The contact with her callused palm elicited heat. He wondered how those labour weathered hands would feel on his naked— Bluidy hell!

  His gaze trailed her throat as she swallowed a gulp of air. “No need, I can do it,” she blurted too quickly and silkily.

  The tone induced weird effects on him and, worse, induced him to caress her calluses with his thumb. Her glare snapped to his as her delicate face flushed crimson. Several heartbeats passed with them in this seemingly intimate contact. And in front of the whole clan.

  He grasped the handle and took it from her. “You shouldn’t be carrying this heavy burden,” he admonished, more to disguise the nature of his stray thoughts.

  Her eyelids narrowed. “And you shouldn’t be intruding in my work,” she hissed.

  Before he did something not intended for other people’s eyes, he grabbed the bucket and strode to the half-finished wall.

  The rest of the day he thought it better to stay on the roof—not looking at her—as she worked on the wall.

  Moira halted even before she reached the fields the next morning. A few people stood on the fringes, erect like trees.

  What met her eyes was horrifying. The cattle…apparently all the cattle that should have been in their barns, roamed the oat fields. No, not oat fields anymore. The animals had stomped the vast space that, with last night’s rain, had transformed in a sea of mud. Those little fragile spouts of oats crushed—or eaten by them.

  The harvest had just been ruined. Everything, the clan’s staple, annihilated. Completely gone.

  Desperation engulfed Moira, leaving her frozen in the fresh morning air. Her hand covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief, as dizziness spread over her.

  Faintly from behind, she heard a deep voice excuse himself. She was trying to keep herself upright. Her legs, though, did not succeed in the task. Strong arms held her before she sloshed in the mud.

  And then she trembled, her breath quick and shallow, her mind distanced from reality. Lachlan’s grip tightened.

  “Moira,” he called, turning her to face him. His dark eyes roved over her waxen complexion. “Moira, stay with me,” he urged with a light shake.

  But her eyes appeared vacant.

  “Water!” he bellowed, not removing his stare. “Someone bring water. Now!”

  A cool flask touched her mouth. “Come on, lass, drink,” he ordered, and lifted it until the liquid moistened her lips and dripped onto her tongue. She blinked and her focus returned. Shaky hands grabbed the flask and she gulped the liquid. The dizziness subsided and her legs supported her.

  Seeing her recover, he held her arm for support and turned to the people milling around them. “We’ll find out whoever did this,” he roared. “And they will pay dearly for their crime.”

  His strong hand directed her to a nearby cart. He helped her up, took the reins, and drove to the manor house.

  The short trip lasted less than five minutes before he guided her to her study and helped her sit on the armchair in front of the unlit fireplace.

  On the sideboard, he filled two glasses with whisky. Wide hazel eyes stared up at him, still a little dazed. Seconds went by before her hands accepted the drink. She sipped, uncaring the clock had not yet struck ten. The fine beverage from his clan warmed her, and put her senses on the alert.

  As she gazed at him, she saw he had tossed back the entire drink and rested the glass on the mantel.

  “We have to call in the magistrate,” he said, his arm resting beside the glass.

  With the drapes drawn, morning greyish light poured in the study, the overcast weather making it diffuse.

  Moira shook her head slightly. “I don’t have time to think about it now.” She rubbed her forehead. “I must find a way to limit the damage.”

  In front of the armchair, legs braced, fists on his hips, he looked down at her. “No, you mustn’t,” he commanded. “The McKendricks have surplus from last year. We’ll supply it to you.”

  She sat up combatively. “You cannot!” Brows pleated, she countered him. “You don’t know how much your crops will yield this year.” Surpluses served to cover for bad harvests.

  “It looked good last time I checked,” he issued the statement confidently.

  In agitation, she sprang from the armchair. “I’ll not accept it. We don’t have the means to pay for it.”

  “No payment is required. We’re allies, remember?”

  She rested her hand on her hip. “How many times will I have to remind you it is for appearances?”

  His lips stretched to the side. “As many times as you wish. Only I won’t listen.”

  “Damn you, McKendrick!” She huffed exasperatedly.


  “Yes, I’ll be damned if I allow your clan to starve when we can help,” he rebutted.

  She paced the faded rug. Shaky fingers rubbed her temple. At a certain point, she halted as if struck by a thought. Her small feet rotated toward him, two pairs of eyes clasped together.

  “I’ll sow again.” Her determined stance left no doubt she would not give up to any bully. “It’s still time. If summer favours us, we have a chance of good crops.”

  Long moments passed as he continued to gaze at her, a glint of appraisal in his eyes. “Have you got spare seeds?” he asked.

  Her nod came with her riotous curls bouncing. “I usually keep an amount to spare.”

  “Smart lass.” Lachlan expelled air through his nostrils. “Fine. But if this doesn’t work, you’ll accept our surplus.”

  She gave him an unwavering glare. “If and when we come to it, I’ll decide.”

  His head shook resignedly. “You’re the most single-minded woman to roam the Earth, Darroch.”

  Her lips opened in a dazzling smile. “I’ll take it as praise.”

  But his stare focused on her lips and she felt like they burned. Her heart raced, her skin heated, her breasts puckered helplessly. Several heartbeats elapsed before she could break the spell.

  She continued. “Do you think you and the men can corral back the cattle? I’ll fetch the seeds.”

  “On it,” he answered, striding to the door.

  They worked until the last ray of sun disappeared in the west. The muddy ground made it twice as difficult, but they had already ploughed the soil, so it was only to bury the seeds. Even so, they managed just a fraction of the fields.

  But the clan had regained their hope at her solution, and everybody worked with doubled enthusiasm.

  She was mud-spattered, tired, but hopeful. Moira ate something in the study while she tried to see to her ledgers.

  Large, purposeful strides thumped on the hallway outside the study. Her heart thumped in time with the laird’s approach. Of course, the McKendrick monument would not leave her alone. He too, laboured like a Trojan alongside the men, first conducting the cattle, then joining the new sowing.

  The door burst open by powerful hands. Damn the man for not allowing her a hiding place.

  Her head lifted. “Don’t you ever knock?”

  But her breath stuck in her throat at the view of him. Damp hair, a clean shirt, neat tartan, as if he had never worked an hour in his life, let alone toil the land the whole day.

  Clicking the study shut, he crossed his strong arms as he directed an even more disapproving look at her. “An unnecessary waste of time since I’ll come in any way.”

  Well, let’s talk about commanding lairds. “Right, and you came in like a thunder because…” she trailed off, needing the time and the concentration for her ledgers

  “I’ll take care of you, since you seem unable to do it.”

  She fusilladed him. “You don’t—”

  “Have you looked at yourself?” he interrupted unashamedly.

  Moira had a fairly precise idea that her hair pointed everywhere, that her underdress presented spots of so much mud it seemed a new fashion, and her tartan wrinkled with dust. She would request a bath after she had finished here. Not that she would tell any of it to the overbearing giant.

  One delicate brow flew up to give the impression of nonchalance. “So…?”

  “So, I’ll wash you,” he stated without an ounce of shame.

  The shame tumbled all to her side at her reaction to is words. Vermillion swamped every inch of skin at the thought of those large hands on her every sensitive spot.

  Without waiting for her reply, he opened the door. “Murray!” he bellowed and closed it again.

  The butler arrived in less than ten seconds. “Yes, my laird.”

  Lachlan’s eyes fixed on her. “Please bring a basin with warm water and a wash cloth.”

  The elderly man bowed. “Momentarily, my laird.” And left.

  Moira sprang from her seat. She would not let him…let him…Damn him!

  “I’ll have a bath drawn before I retire.” Defiantly she crossed her arms as their stances battled.

  Those impossibly tempting lips huffed a half-smile. “If I leave you here, you won’t do it until dawn.”

  How had he come to know her so well, in such a short time?

  “I prom—” she started, but Murray had come inside with the required items. Then left her at the mercy of the wolf.

  “Sit,” he ordered, pointing at the armchair in front of the lit fire.

  The fire had been blazing when she came in, despite the shortage of means for firewood. Or should she say the previous shortage, for as of late, firewood piled in every room, thanks to the troll currently ordering her about.

  Her eyes shot daggers at him, and she had this impulse to stay put, his commands be damned.

  “Will you do it by your own will or mine?” he taunted.

  Why he seemed to be furious with her when her welfare was her business, she would not ask.

  Without an option she mulishly sat. “Give me the cloth,” she said stiffly.

  For a variation, he did not heed her words and sat on his haunches.

  Those capable hands moistened the cloth as his head lifted to her. The fire light gleamed on his hair, on his tanned skin, and made his eyes even hotter. When he extended an arm towards her face, her nostrils inhaled his pine and sandalwood scent, mining her resolve.

  “You look like a Pict warrior with your face all painted, except it’s mud,” he murmured before the warmed cloth rested on her brow.

  The contact of his hand with her skin induced her to close her eyes and feel. Feel the cloth rubbing on her, and feel his manly muskiness; and her every nerve ending come to life.

  He washed her eyelids, her nose, her cheekbones, her chin. Unbidden, a sigh escaped her just before the cloth came to her lips.

  Her hazel eyes snapped open. To meet the intensity on his. It was as if he held a magic power over her. Because her spine sagged against the back of her chair as she let him wash her.

  The cloth slid down to her throat, spreading goose-bumps over her skin. He washed the curve of her neck, her nape. His other expert hand undid the ribbon on her hair, freeing her locks to spill everywhere. There was no rational reason he should undo her hair, since he was not going to wash her chestnut mane. But she had been so busy stopping herself from throwing herself at him, she did not question him.

  “You have the most beautiful hair,” he drawled in his warm Athol Brose tone of his.

  Their stares never unglued as she tried to gulp air into her starved lungs, to stanch her starved body from attacking him.

  His fingers strolled up her neck, over her ear, to fork into her riotous curls. Time froze for so long it became pure agony.

  If he kissed her, she would die. If he did not kiss her, she would perish in an inferno of desire. But this suspended sentence was already killing her.

  In a swift movement, he pulled her to him, and their mouths collided. Together with the onslaught of sensation that dominated her every sense, her mind fell into oblivion as she raked her finger through his luxuriant hair. An urgency she never experienced in her life.

  There was no finesse in his kiss, no. This would not be a foppish Englishman, ever. He simply invaded her mouth in an open, hungry kiss that took her by storm. The same storm with which she corresponded.

  There could be only one name for how she drank on him. Despair. She kissed him back with the despair of four years of wanting a man who was not for her, who would treat her as a tryst, no more. Nonetheless, all her repressed want over the years came to the surface in one gargantuan wave that threatened to choke her. Choke her with the desperate thirst she could not hide from him.

  Moans echoed in the air, but she could not tell if they were hers or his. The sounds lost their meaning when his other arm banded her waist and pulled her to his lap.
And she went, relieved to glue every part of her to every part of him, straddling his taut body as if she were a survivor from a shipwreck.

  The kiss turned carnal. Open mouths devoured each other, devoid of any inhibition. Any censure. Any shame.

  If she revealed to anyone this was her first kiss, they would have laughed. However, she had fantasised for so long about doing it that she felt it came naturally.

  After an eternity, he separated their lips just enough for air to pass, they continued feathering each other, unwilling to let go.

  “Bluidy hell! You’re an explosion waiting to happen,” he growled.

  To hell with him for stopping. She resumed the kiss, this time taking the lead, to do everything she had dreamed of doing with his banquet of a mouth. She nibbled on the lower lip, sucked on the upper, savoured one corner, licked the opposite. Her tongue probed inside him in search of its pair. This time she was certain the moan she heard was his.

  As a reward, he laced his arms around her waist and flipped her to the carpet. Only to steal the lead from her and maraud her mouth with doubly primitive intent.

  In response, her arms locked around his broad shoulders, her knees bent to cradle him while she gave herself unreservedly to him. They were a splash of tartans on the faded carpet even as she arched into the wall of his muscles, demanding relief but gaining only more despair. Especially because now she felt the iron ridge of him pressing against her core where she felt famished and tortured.

  “Lachlan,” she groaned as her body twisted, ground, and rolled all over him.

  Her voice seemed to pluck him out of a haze. He propped on his elbows and put a horrible distance between them. The whimper she emitted said it all.

  “Moira,” the softness of his voice almost soothed her. Almost.

  He rained tender kisses on her brow, her cheeks, her chin, the tip of her nose. “Shh, it’s okay.” He rained infinitely more kisses.

  Her entire frame sagged on the carpet with a frustrated sigh. Her eyes closed, trying to resurface to reality. They had to stop, of course they must. What was she thinking? If he had been the womaniser she believed him to be, he would have taken advantage of her, taken what was on offer without a second thought. He did not though. And that surprised her more than anything.