by Lisa Torquay
He stood up and extended his hand. On the floor, her eyes travelled up his hoses, his solid knees, and the green, black and white tartan that widened where the wool tented. She wanted so much to discover what the wool hid.
“If you continue looking at me like this, I won’t be able to behave honourably.” His voice was hoarse, his coffee irises blazing.
Sod honourable, her blood screamed!
Despite his honour, she allowed herself the pleasure to appreciate his flat abdomen, broad chest, and large shoulders under his white shirt, unhurriedly meeting his gaze.
At last, her hand clasped on his and he pulled her to her feet. They looked at each other and the air sizzled anew.
As if her hand burned him, he dropped it and headed for the door, nearly yanking the it from its hinges as he opened it to yell for the butler. When Murray materialised seconds later, Lachlan ordered a bath to her chambers.
“Come,” he called.
In a daze, she accompanied him to her chamber and then he proceeded to his.
What the blasting hell just happened? Lachlan wondered as he paced his chambers like a caged beast.
The moment he touched her face, he realized he’d been a fool. He wished to help her, take care of her. But his mind fobbed him with self-deceiving mastery. After that, he barely kept his mind clear, all his blood rushing down and he abjectly obeyed his impulses. His base, out-of-control impulses.
And her response, goddammit! The lass was as explosive as gunpowder. She did nothing short of inflaming him. And he would have burned to ashes had he not forced himself to a halt before any damage ensued.
No other woman ever did this to him. They mostly offered, he mostly took, choosing the ones with no strings attached. They enjoyed a good time, and that was that.
Incineration with a mere kiss? Ludicrous! Only it took place not half an hour ago, with him, no less. The lass proved to be pure fire. And the single thought that sprouted in his mind was that he wanted her ashes, all of it. As often as possible, as dark as possible. As dishonourable as possible.
But no. This temporary situation must end as it started. With no other consequences than what it intended. He must stay on the alert not to fall again, because if he did, it would be total perdition. Hell, it would be a delicious perdition.
The best way of dealing with it was to forget it. If only he could. Those kisses branded him. Thoroughly. Inexorably.
Moira and Lachlan walked side by side to the courtyard where they summoned the clan to deal with what happened in the fields.
In silence.
As they had been most of that week while they finished re-sowing the fields.
As they had been since the stupid incident in the study.
Stupid, yes. As for incident, Moira doubted seriously. Incident implied a minor event. The event proved to be anything but minor.
It was full of explosion, irrationality. Danger.
Everything she dreamed of, only amplified a thousand times. She would never forget the taste of his mouth, the bristles of his stubble, the scent of his skin, or the tautness of his body. She had merely to close her eyes to relive every single second with alarming vividness. Remembering everything she wanted to do to him and fantasised of him doing to her.
The sheer collision of their bodies astounded, and yet left a gnawing void she yearned to fill, refill and refill some more.
She was no naïve ninny, she knew what went on between a man and a woman. She dealt in farming, for pity’s sake. Heard other women who had more freedom and leisure than her. Heard of their escapades as they had no obligation to be untouched for the sake of clan intermarriage and alliances.
Her single resource should be to retreat, to put a distance between her and the man she always wanted. Because the stupid part was she made a fool of herself. He might not be a womaniser, as she suspected, but every woman in the Highlands would fall at his feet if only for five minutes of his attention. She did not want to be that woman. She did not wish to scrape for crumbs from his table of sensual delights.
“Have you thought about how you want to handle this?” he asked without looking at her.
“I suppose I have,” she answered, vaguely looking ahead.
This stifled sort of dialogue constituted the tenor of their exchanges in the last few days. Rife with superficiality, emptiness and meaninglessness.
Moira understood his remoteness. He would not risk his bachelorhood by risking this much with her, the daughter of a laird. Not when he had his pick of any lass anywhere. The laird would leave here a free man when this was finished.
Even if she would walk away unshackled, for her, nothing would be the same again. She would lose her reputation and prospects. But this should be no excuse to act like a witless woman. And she would not let it.
At last they neared the place where the clan and their families gathered. Externally, nothing changed, they kept the united front and acted as if in agreement with each other.
A dais lay in the middle of the yard, and Moira felt grateful the weather held, without rain or low temperatures. As she neared the clan, she waved and nodded to those she passed by, receiving words of encouragement and admiration. Nobody expected her to turn the disaster of the fields around and try to recover the lost crop. In her point of view, it was the only way to save the Darrochs from the nasty consequences even though Lachlan offered help. Perhaps she would need to swallow her pride and accept it, should the re-sowing fail to yield the necessary staple.
Both Lachlan and Moira climbed up the dais and greeted the crowd. After the initial formalities, she started talking.
“The gravity of this incident cannot be ignored. It’s clear that taking the cattle into the fields required a number of hands willing to do it.” Her head rotated to look each individual in the eyes. “This crime will not go unpunished. The magistrate is on his way to go over what happened. I’d like to ask you to cooperate with his every request.”
Murmurs of approval echoed from the clan members. “Ye ken who’s doing this?” A woman asked.
“That’s what the magistrate is coming here for, to discover it.” Lachlan answered.
Moira understood it to be unwise to raise suspicion and animosity between clans when they could prove nothing. She held no illusion that gossip ran loose among them, but to confirm it would put the clan in danger if her uncle retaliated.
“We wilna stay put when we ken the culprit!” shouted a man at the back.
“We will let the law follow its course,” she reiterated.
“Laird McKendrick, dinna ye think we must skelp the dunderheid?” An angry man poked in search of vengeance.
Moira peered at the man by her side to see his utterly stony expression.
He stared at the clan. “Much as I’d like that, I will respect and follow Lady Darroch’s lead. She’s been showing exceptional commitment to her clan and deserves all our trust.”
Heads nodded in agreement while Moira stood there in wonderment. Never did she expect a laird to say such a thing in relation to a woman. Warmth spread over her at his words. Despite their…awkwardness these last days, he did not allow it to come in the way of their original plans.
After that, the clan shared a dram and toasted to good crops.
CHAPTER SIX
Moira worked in the pigs’ pen, cleaning and caring for the piglets. As she finished, she stepped outside and witnessed the approaching evening, with a bright sunset in a riot of pinks and purples colouring the horizon. These spring dusks listed among her favourites. Her eyes tracked the sun as it almost touched the lake in the distance. She sighed at the sense of peace that invaded her. A light breeze rustled the trees and spread the scent of their new leaves in the air. Even with the turbulence affecting the clan, at this right moment, she felt serene.
“Darroch,” came the laird’s rumble.
Felt, past tense.
Serenity had nothing to do with the reaction that erupted in her
at the sound of his voice. Or the nearing of his large, purposeful steps on the grass. Or the large frame that loomed over her. Even less with the sensations thrumming through her.
At the peril of getting stuck in his rugged beauty, she lifted her eyes to him. “McKendrick,” she answered, innerly cringing at the effect her had on her.
The fading light fell on his eyes, making it almost translucent. A day’s stubble lined his jaw and now she knew how it bristled around her mouth when he rained kisses over her face. Was it possible to die from such an acute want? Because she might be on the verge of succumbing.
His gaze fell on her like a blast of fire that turned the cottage to ruins. For a millisecond, it attacked her mouth before darting to hers. He stopped a mere two feet from where she stood, making her favourite pink sunset seem dull in comparison.
“Duncan’s sister said the Magistrate’s men have been around,” he said, directing his attention to the pen.
She turned to face the sun, taking him off her line of vision. “I cannot decide if that is good or not.” Surreptitiously, she gave a step to the side, regaining distance from him.
“The presence of the law should hold your uncle back, I’d say.”
“For how long?” she huffed.
“Long enough, I should hope,” his tone an octave lower.
With a slow nod, she wished him right. Rummaging for something to say, she found nothing. Silence stretched between them heavy and tense. Her nerves overstrung from her immobility.
At her side, he turned to face the sun as he crossed his powerful arms across his large chest. She dared not look at him even sideways, forcing her avid attention to stay on the ball of fire before her, not the one raging her insides. The memory of their kisses inflicted ripples and more ripples through her nerves.
With everyone gone back to their families, it seemed the world had emptied of people, leaving them in complete solitude.
Dangerous.
By her side, he braced his legs. “Duncan is healing fast,” he said to the sun.
“Thanks to you,” she admitted humbly.
“To all of us,” he added.
“I’m not sure I’d have been able to bring him out of the cottage had I gone inside it.”
“You can do anything you put this stubborn head to,” amusement seeped in his deep tone.
“I try,” she answered simply.
“And do a good job of it.”
Unbidden, she turned her head. The blast of heat that assailed her insides in reaction to him made her eyes go back to dear sun. “Why, McKendrick, I never thought I’d hear you praise a woman.”
He huffed out a half grin. “You don’t have a very good opinion of me, do you?”
“I must say I don’t.” The timbre of his voice was doing funny things to the core of her. “We hear all kinds of stories,” she said.
“Gossip is not the best source to form opinions,” he stated.
She agreed. “True, but where there’s smoke…” she trailed off, letting the proverb speak for itself.
She did not know about the smoke, but as for the fire, she could account for it every time she spied him. Every time she returned home from seeing him, in a feverish state.
They fell silent as they watched the red ball sink into the lake.
Long moments elapsed before his deep voice caressed her ears one more time. “It cannot happen again.”
She was not so naive as not to understand what he was talking about. Even if a rush of heat ran through her at the mention of their explosive episode in the study. The sun should receive thanks for pouring a red glow on her skin to disguise the veritable flood of vermillion that surfaced on it.
“It won’t,” the certainty in her reply came in total opposition to what she felt. Of course, she did not want it to happen for a second time. Wrong. Want was not the word. Because she craved it every single second of the day. For it to repeat, re-repeat, and then escalate and go up in the air. A hundred million times.
But it should not.
No, not because of the ruse they were playing. They could deal with it somehow.
As to any moral consideration, hang it! The life she predicted ahead would be lonely and dedicated to her clan. A mere tryst would not change it. Not for his too short attention span concerning women either, which made him unfit for marriage. They were not aiming at it in any case.
It should not repeat, because it was pure addiction. Already she wanted more. Foolishness had limits. Another taste and she would be crawling at his feet for everything. And then some more.
The awkward stillness returned, their gazes on the horizon until almost all light faded.
“A nice dusk to enjoy,” he commented.
“Spring ones are my favourite.” Relief for the change of subject apparent.
“You don’t say,” he answered simply.
Her feet veered towards home. “Are you going to the manor?” she asked.
“Not yet, the men invited me for a pint.”
“All right, see you.” And walked away.
“What would you say if I asked you for the surplus of oats to donate it to the Darrochs?” Lachlan tested the waters with Drostan.
Even though he had offered Moira help, he must take it with The McKendrick. No doubt he would accept it. The tricky part would be to say why Lachlan needed it.
“Aren’t they growing theirs this year?” his oldest brother probed, sitting behind the desk.
“They are, but the clan faced a…situation recently.” In his brother’s study next day, he sat in front of the desk spread with paperwork. The late afternoon raced outside the window with its watery light.
At that, the other man’s eyes snapped. “What kind of situation?” Any instability in the Highlands would affect the McKendricks and The Laird would not sit in his comfortable study if he must take action.
Which encouraged Lachlan to answer carefully. “Inadvertently, the cattle invaded the fields.”
“Excuse me!” Drostan’s brows raised quizzically. “Doesn’t your woman know how to manage a manor?”
She’s not my woman, he should say. And the thought of saying it made him feel like a liar. This scared him to the point he briefly entertained running bare feet to the Far East.
“She’s better at it than you,” he taunted his brother.
The Laird inspected him, a curious glint in his eyes; nothing escaped his attention if it involved his family. “I feared I’d never see the day my youngest brother fell for a woman,” the older man taunted back.
I didn’t, and I won’t! He vowed silently. And again, his guts told him he lied.
“My question was about the surplus, remember?” he reminded The Laird.
“Of course, the McKendricks would donate it,” he reassured. “The chit will be family after all.”
And that was when his conscience bit Lachlan. Their ruse was not for real. Ultimately, the McKendricks would donate to a non-related clan. Lachlan possessed money of his own, he would buy the grain in Aberdeen if need be. Luck being on their side, none of this would be necessary. Lachlan must own how he increasingly admired the lass. In her shoes, he would not have contemplated trying to sow again. Moira showed spirit, leadership, and resourcefulness. Her strength and clear mind in times of crisis was invaluable. And would probably save the Darrochs.
Fingal and Wallace joined them as the conversation steered to general topics.
Down in the pantry late that night, Moira took inventory of oats, pickled vegetables, cheese, jams, and other preserves made last autumn. The list would serve to plan for next winter. On the table at the centre, lay a parchment and a pencil next to a candle on a holder. The quiet house indicated that the servants had already retired. She could have asked for Murray’s wife, the housekeeper, to do it, but Moira did not want to go to her chamber and risk another sleepless night. Sleepless with fretting and—
“Don’t you ever ask for help?” The McKend
rick monument said behind her.
Startled, she almost dropped a jar of blueberry jam. “Don’t you ever knock?” she rebuked. Annoyance creased between her brows when she swivelled to him.
Unbelievable how the man found her wherever she was, never allowing her a reprieve from his stirring presence.
Without answering, he strode to the table. “Mrs Murray can do that.”
The pantry was four by four feet at most. Its enclosed space in the basement under the kitchen assured its freshness, but also its stillness. With Lachlan inside, the place brimmed with an intimacy she did not care for.
His six feet plus of taut male made it feel cramped, especially as he loomed with those chiselled features. His focus intent on hers.
“I’m doing it,” she replied drily. “If this answers your question, you can go back up.”
“And leave you to work until you’re dead on your feet?”
He himself had toiled all day on the rebuilding of Caitlin’s cottage. Certainly, he would be tired, too.
Moira stifled a sigh, summoning patience to deal with the overbearing laird. “I’ve been doing it since my late teen years. I’m quite used to it.”
His hand extended to take the jar and replace it with the pencil, clearly with the intention of counting the preserves while she took note.
For a while, they worked in silence, though her insides were anything but. His presence and the cramped space proved to be a lethal combination. It seemed summer had overrun spring to install itself in the pantry. The effort to concentrate on the task at hand used all her energy.
“Your mother passed a while ago, I remember,” he started.
Her eyes darted to him; the topic was unexpected. Standing before a shelf, he held a jar of pickled carrots in his large hand, inspecting the label.
“I was ten.” Quickly, she lowered her head to the parchment, though it did nothing better. Her reaction to him continued to thrum through her even if she did not stare at him.
