by Lisa Torquay
“And you’ve been managing the house since then?”
“Only a little. Our former housekeeper undertook the task until I was out of the schoolroom.”
“My mother passed when I turned nineteen,” he volunteered.
“I heard she had been the beauty of her time.” Not surprisingly, he and his siblings inherited the trait.
“True,” a faint smile came to his perfect lips. “There’s a painting of her in our drawing room.”
“I guess your father did not remarry because he had an heir and two spares, am I right?”
“Perhaps. He didn’t need to. Besides, he had been happy with my mother.” He clasped his coffee eyes on her, and a heat spread throughout her. “And yours?”
“Considered his duty done, too, without the spare. As a lad of thirteen, my brother promised to become a robust man.” Sadness blanketed her expression at the thought of Malcom and how he had proved to be a worthy Laird.
“And you?” he replaced the cheese on the shelf and returned his look to her.
“Me what?” Without really meaning to, her attention remained on him, wrinkled tartan, dishevelled hair, and the shadow of tantalizing stubble on his square jaw.
“Why have you never married?” Lasses used to make matches at eighteen or nineteen.
“Busy helping father and then Malcom,” she evaded. “But when I showed an interest, I got no reply,” she needled playful.
“And as a good Highlander, you kidnapped the candidate instead,” he jested.
“Yes, well, you know, a lass has to make her wishes count,” she tilted her head with a half-smile.
“And what are your wishes?” The question came low and hoarse.
Forgotten, the pencil fell on the table and she could almost feel the heat from his expression.
And how on Earth had he come so close? The scent of him—man, pine and building materials—entered her nostrils. Suddenly the atmosphere changed to something sultry and forbidden.
Her pupils widened and she took several seconds to harness an answer. “To take care of my clan.” Her own silky tone did not escape her.
He gave one step towards her as their locked gazes burned on each other. “This is your duty, not your wish.”
Her wishes had nothing to do with any clan or Highland’s politics. Worse, it was an answer she could not give.
A gulp of air arrested in her lungs. “I have no…wishes.” The blatant evasive did not fool him.
“Liar,” he drawled.
Flexing his knees, he laced his strong arms around her slim waist and lifted her to him.
Her lungs stopped working entirely as she rested her hands on his bunched shoulders and dared raise her stare to him. Heads levelled, their eyes merged with an intensity that shook every fibre of her.
“I’m not,” she countered, trying not to feel his solid chest pressing against hers. Her traitorous breasts plucking in eagerness, everything coalescing at the centre of her, weakening any resolve she might have had.
Their irregular breaths mingled audible in the stillness of the pantry.
“I said we cannot do this,” he rasped, bringing his nose to the tip of hers.
“I said we wouldn’t,” she muttered in a wisp of voice.
Neither moved for several ragged heartbeats. But then his nose circled hers, and hers circled his, trying to prevent the inevitable.
“And we won’t,” he reiterated hoarse, circling once more.
“It’s foolish,” she agreed, doing the same.
His arms tightened, making her feel each taut muscle of his solid chest, his unyielding abdomen, and even his thighs.
Her lashes weighed down, and she stopped fighting a lost battle. Nearing her mouth to his, she sucked his lower lip, savouring it like the rarest delicacy. He let her play with his mouth to her heart’s content. She took all his lip between her teeth and licked it.
“Bluidy hell, lass!” he growled before taking control, taking her mouth, taking her to madness.
Her fingers dived in his luxuriant hair, clasping him as they devoured each other with even less finesse than the first time. Moans and groans echoed unbridled in the air. He turned his head to one side to have more access to her. And deepened the kiss to the point they devoured one another with the hunger of decades, tongues searched, tangled, re-tangled. And it was not enough.
Suddenly, her backside touched the table as he sat her on it. Her body slid down his, but she did not let go of the kiss, if anything, she clung more tightly to it.
As if the craving was not enough, his large palm covered her breast. The lightning that coursed through her multiplied her eagerness and, with it came a demanding moan. And with the latter, his hand glided between the wool, and her underdress. He made it so worse and so not enough she writhed against him. In response, he wedged between her knees, connecting every inch of their bodies.
The hunger increased. The ridge of him increased. And cradled where the need of it ached.
He lifted his head to interrupt the kiss and extracted a whimper from her. But he gave her no reprieve. As they sucked in air, his thumb moved under her tartan. Lazily, it only touched the top of the puckered tip of her breast, almost not there. Sensation washed over her as she pressed her chest to his hand even if his thumb got no firmer.
His candent eyes watched her with undivided attention. Her fingers bunched his shirt sleeves, pulling him closer and she arched her torso for more.
The horrible man thwarted her by encasing his mouth to her neck to find her pulse galloping. His stubbled caress corroded her tenfold. Deft fingers reached the front buttons of the underdress to undo them down to her first rib. When his hand snuck inside, she nearly yelled in exhilaration.
But his thumb merely lazed on the eager nipple. Damn him! He did not stop, went no further either. Kept her waiting on the verge of agony.
Then his index joined the thumb to roll the unfortunate nipple between them in sheer torture.
“McKendrick.” It was impossible not to beg. “Do something!” Somewhere along the way, her riotous chestnut mane came loose to frame her flushed face.
His mouth trailed down her throat, his other arm keeping her close. “If I do something, we’ll have to marry.” And rolled her nipple some more.
“Oh, disaster,” she sighed.
That banquet of a mouth reached between her breasts. “Yes, Darroch, together we’re disastrous,” he rumbled, and latched his lips on her dusky nipple.
The word gained a whole new meaning as she watched his mouth close on the starved nipple; his suckling of her breast caused her to see stars. Her legs shackled him, her arms clasped him. In a thrice, he had tumbled her on the table, her hair everywhere. At the same time, he filled his mouth with her breast, only to tease the other nipple with his hand. The earthquake of sensation that raided her produced a loud moan.
Disaster did not cover the half of it.
“Lachlan.”
Instinctively, she moved her hips on his hardness, seeking him, seeking release. The emptiness in her core insisted, gnawed, demanded. He helped her by pressing his hips on hers and allowing her to take what she craved.
She was so on the edge she had to move just twice more before the abysm claimed her, the orgasm so blindingly consuming she held him for dear life. Savage sounds escaped her shamelessly.
All the while, he kept his eyes on her, absorbing every little reaction. “You’re pure fire,” he murmured in amazement.
When she finally came, her eyes clasped on him, hair dishevelled by her fingers, shirt half-open, and her eyes blazed. She wanted to do the same for him, to uncover his magnificence, discover every inch of his body, explore, give the same pleasure he gave her.
Her fingers came to his shirt. “Let me—”
His hand closed on hers. “Leave it, Moira.”
Feminine brows creased. “But you also are…” her eyes sought his rampant middle.
His
head shook. “If you start it, I won’t be able to stop.”
Moira inspected his ruddy cheekbones, the tense muscles, the see-sawing breath, and all she wanted was his suppressed male energy spent in a frenzy full of passion.
But he was already straightening, pulling her with him, and adjusting her clothes. His hand entwined with hers and he pulled her upstairs to her chamber before proceeding to his.
Lachlan awoke with a start to the first lights of dawn sieving through the drapes. He had lain on bed the previous night, sleep not exactly the thing on his mind. Again, he had given in to the obscene pull that roiled in him every time he came near Moira. Without making conscious decisions, he sought her wherever she might be. It was becoming a too rooted habit.
He had known he should not have gone down to the pantry yesterday. When he saw her, he dissected every single inch of her delectable petite person. And desired all of it. That close to her, it had been an uphill battle to resist. A lost battle, despite his attempts at reason. The lass was more explosive than gunpowder, and he wanted to be the spark that fired it.
Her breasts were beautiful, the precise size for his hands. Pert and delicious.
His body instantly reacted to the memory. The very cause of his lack of sleep when he came to his chamber. He must be stronger, he admonished himself. She deserved more than a tryst, and he could not offer more than that.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings. “Come,” he answered.
“My laird,” Murray called. “I believe you should see this.” And retreated discretely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a scowl, Lachlan jumped from bed, dressed quickly, and followed the butler.
“The small barn, my laird.” Both men rushed through the fresh morning. “Mrs. Murray alerted me when she came to feed the little ones.”
They opened the barn, and Lachlan’s stomach rebelled, almost refusing to stay put. Every single kitten, pup, their mothers, and lamb had been slaughtered. Their carcasses laid on the hay in a pool of blood. No life remained in the barn. His entire being froze, initially denying what he saw. Then a fury so wild and uncontrollable over it nearly blinded him.
“Let me pass!” Moira demanded. “I need to know what happened!”
Her presence grounded him. He must hold this at bay, for her.
“Don’t let her in!” he shouted to whomever had remained outside the barn. Who the hell told her? Mrs. Murray, sure, but the woman should have had more sense than that.
Wrenching his eyes from the killing, he strode to the entrance. Moira was just pushing herself inside the barn.
“Don’t come in!” he thundered and ran to her.
Too late, her hazel eyes looked at the atrocious scene in horror. “No, no, no,” the murmur accompanied features that became a mask of disgust.
Five seconds later he reached the entrance and pulled her head to his chest. She crumbled on him in ragged sobs that seemed to come from the deepest of her being. He wished he could absorb her sorrow and free her from it.
Strong arms lifted the lass, and he strode away from the innocent creatures.
Out in the grey morning, his head turned. Murray and his wife stood by the barn’s door, revulsion on their faces.
“You know what to do,” he gave the order. They must call someone to clear the carnage and make it disappear from view if not from memory.
In his arms, Moira clung to him, cheeks buried in his chest, body shaking though the tears fell silently.
His large foot kicked the study open and then shut as he carried the lass inside. He sat with her on an armchair. Fortunately, a fire already roared in the fireplace.
Lachlan held her tight, giving her space to pour out her emotions while he murmured words of solace and stroked her hair. She had obviously dressed in a hurry, her underdress wrinkled, the Burgundy and white tartan wrapped hazardously around her delicate frame, hair tied carelessly with a torn ribbon.
“I didn’t even have time to choose names for them,” she lamented, clearly lost in her sorrow. He remembered she had told him the names she had given to the lambs, though she had not yet thought of any for the cats and dogs.
“Shh, don’t think about that.” He kissed the top of her head.
Her face lifted to him, eyes shot red drowned in pain, cheeks streaked with tears, nose sniffling. The sight lanced him with sympathy and wrath in equal measures. Her uncle had no limit.
“How could he do this?” Her ragged question came in awe. “It does nothing to further his greed.”
Looking straight into her eyes, he let one of his hands smooth her riotous curls. “No. But it shows it’s become personal now.” Whereas before her uncle had aimed at the Darroch’s assets, this time he aimed to hurt Moira’s feelings.
Creased eyebrows met his view. “But why? He gains nothing with—”
“You thwarted him with your refusal to accept defeat,” Lachlan interrupted her. The more he thought about it the more he saw what a snake the man was. “This is his way of saying he’ll not tolerate it.”
Her hazel orbs, darkened with worry, widened on him. “Won’t he ever stop?” A dainty hand rubbed her temple.
His large one embraced her hand and kissed her wrist, where her pulse beat frantically. “Yes, he will, because we will make him.”
Her breath seemed to calm with his gentle touch. “You shouldn’t involve yourself even more, he’s getting dangerous.”
As though the man had ever not been a threat.
“Don’t even think of it,” he brushed her comment with a slash of his arm in the air.
“Damn you, McKendrick, for being such a pig-head!” she vented.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s just say you’ve found your match in this particular area.” And pulled her to cradle against his chest.
“Hm,” she rumbled.
A long while elapsed before her feet regained the floor, and they headed for breakfast.
Without a warning, Lachlan stormed into the tavern that evening, his hard gaze scanning the patrons drinking their ale, all from different clans. As he spotted his intended, he pounced on him, grabbed his shirt collar, and flew repeated punches on the middle-aged face.
His rage had been boiling, though he forced himself under control for Moira’s sake. Devoid of any will or need to stop this moment, he unleashed his fury on the man that had been causing so much damage to the Darrochs and to the lass who led her clan.
Taken by surprise, The Pitcairn had not a chance to react.
Earlier, Lachlan had gone to her uncle’s place to confront him, but was told he would find him here.
“You bluidy villain!” he growled through his clenched teeth. “You’ll pay for all the trouble you’re making.” And prepared for another blow.
Someone grabbed his arm from behind, preventing him from meting another satisfying punch. A second man held him, but Lachlan did not let go of the older man. Lachlan’s head turned to see Duncan, fairly recovered, and a few other Darroch members. Lachlan thrashed to break free, almost spitting fire through his nostrils. Two other Darrochs came to hold the McKendrick.
“He isna worth the trouble,” Duncan said.
He might not be, but goddammit, the man deserved this and much more. Lachlan had no condition to use reason at that minute. By any means, he must relieve this burning fury coursing through his veins. His brothers always said he had too quick a temper, but he gave a damn to their opinion. He even regretted not thrashing the McPherson after the latter threatened Drostan and his son. This here, though, he would not let go.
Shaken from their frozen surprise, the men accompanying The Pitcairn separated both men as Hamish groped his own bloodied face. He breathed hard as he tried to keep his skinny, bald person upright.
“Stop your shenanigans, Pitcairn, or I swear I’ll drag you to jail myself!” the McKendrick barked.
Moira’s uncle stretched a dirty grin. “Is she worth all this?”
Lachlan narrowed his eyes at the taunt. “She’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” he spat.
With an end of his tartan, the older man cleaned the mess on his skin. “I hope she’s also good at blo—”
Hamish had no time to finish the lewd quip. McKendrick tore himself free and again struck his fist on the Pitcairn’s bony face, this time crunching the other man’s nose. He cared not that he was bigger and stronger than the filthy uncle, he just wanted Moira safe and happy.
Even if attacking her uncle probably would not achieve the desired feat.
With this last blow, The Pitcairn passed out, needing his cohorts to carry him away from the tavern.
Counting himself placated, Lachlan nodded drily to the other men and also left the tavern.
Moira put an end to her endless work in the study as she decided it was time to rest. In the hallway, the image of the steaming bath waiting in her chamber quickened her pace.
That was when she heard harsh steps coming from the opposite direction. Probably the giant returning from wherever he had ridden. He appeared at the other end of the corridor, expression crumped, muscles tense, a savage glint in his coffee eyes. Something was amiss, evidenced by his wrinkled shirt, rumpled tartan, and messy hair. He raked his long fingers into his hair, fingers that had…was that blood…on them?
“McKendrick,” she pivoted to call him.
He halted at his name, but did not turn. Silence followed.
“What have you been up to?” a quizzical expression on her face.
Slowly, he turned to her. Tension and stiffness strung him. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with.” And did not meet her eyes.
She ignored his deliberately vague answer. “Is that blood on your hands?” Her chin jerked at them.
Only then did he seem to realise his state, examining his knuckles. “As I said, it’s nothing.” And moved to go.
She approached. “Have you been fighting?”
The nostrils in his perfect nose flared as he inhaled. “I didn’t know you were adept of the Spanish inquisition,” he bit out irritably.
