The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

  Her gaze scrutinised him. He did not usually behave this grumpy. “You’ve been to the tavern, I gather,” her hands braced her waist. “I’ll go there and ask Mary.” The owner and his wife delighted in a good gossip.

  Her back to him, she headed to the stairs that would lead her to the front door.

  “I punched Pitcairn,” he spat behind her.

  It was her turn to freeze. Blasting, fuming hell!

  With a swift swivel, she fusilladed him. “You did what?”

  He merely stared back, the phrase ‘you heard me’ all over his stance.

  “Are you crazy?” Her forehead pleated.

  “No, only mad,” his apparent calm betrayed his tightly leashed temper. “The villain killed your pets cold-blooded.” His bunched arms that banded her so deliciously just yesterday crossed over his broad chest.

  The sight of those defenceless creatures lying in a pool of their own blood flashed in her memory, making her sorrowful all over again. During the day she avoided thinking of them, pressed by her duties. But she did not imagine how she would spend the night free from her grieving. This would be a problem for later though.

  “You shouldn’t have.” Her lips expelled a sigh attracting his glance there.

  “But I did, and he left unconscious and with a broken nose.” His attention did not waver.

  “And when he wakes up he’ll certainly find a way to retaliate.” Her arms hugged herself, daunted by what would come from it.

  At this, he paced the narrow hallway, hands raking his luxuriant hair. The giant stanched before her. “My temper got the best of me.” For a long moment, their glares merged with an abysm of jumbled emotions. Anger, worry, tension. “You need to be safe and happy.”

  His words made her melt a little. Even wrong, he did it for her. The realisation cracked open something deep inside, and it had nothing to do with anger, more with…warmth and tenderness.

  “Oh, Lachlan.” And just like that, she was in the shelter of his arms, feeling protected from every harm in this world. She did not shy away from burrowing in his taut heat, inhaling his pine and sandalwood scent.

  “When I recalled you crying in the barn, I had this urge to…wipe him from the Earth.” His rage came off in droves.

  Her head cricked up to him. “I know.” She patted his biceps trying to calm him. “I know.” Silent communication vibrated between them. “We’ll sort this out.” She smiled faintly.

  “No! We’ll eliminate this damned problem,” he said fiercely.

  “Yes, but try to keep your head clear,” she coaxed.

  “That’s the difficult part.” His head lowered inches more to dive in her eyes.

  “You can do it,” she reassured him.

  Gradually, the sense of safety gave way to a whole different kind of smelting. Moira made an effort to catch herself before her weakness drove her to do something she should not.

  Like invite him to share her bath.

  Good gracious! Would she ever stop having these heated thoughts about him?

  Disentangling from his alluring body, she put distance between them. “Good night,” she said for lack of anything better.

  He nodded before she turned and entered her chamber.

  In an old-fashioned night rail and a wrap, Moira watched as the maids removed the tub she had bathed in minutes previously. Gratefulness bloomed in her for the luxury presently provided by the giant located in the next chamber. The maids, the fire wood, even the new tub that had appeared out of nowhere.

  There was no delaying it, she would have to face the night ahead despite what the day had dished her.

  As the last maid left, ready to close the door, Moira lifted her gaze. The giant stood there starkly handsome in a clean shirt, tartan, and hoses. He dismissed the giggling girls with a wave of his large hand.

  “Is anything the matter?” she asked, her eyes gobbling the damp hair falling on his brows, the chiselled jaw sporting an evening stubble framing his sculpted lips. The same she had savoured not twenty-four hours ago. The memory stirred her.

  Still standing in the threshold, his fists braced his tapered hips. “I’m not letting you fall asleep alone.” Deep, his voice reverberated in the most secret corners of her.

  “What, you think I’m a fragile damsel in distress?” A hint of ludicrousness in her expression.

  “No.” His dark gaze bored into hers, too smouldering for comfort. “And that’s the point, you’ve been too strong for too long. You can afford to lean on me for the time being.”

  His last expression was the deceptive one. This temporary arrangement was proving to be more than she had bargained for when she had the original bad idea of abducting the McKendrick monument. And she did not want to get used to his presence or his support even if they soothed her in the same measure they tempted every cell in her body. He would leave soon enough to plough his usual fields, so to say.

  But she sensed the giant would not budge on this. And she did not want him to if she was honest with herself.

  She sighed. “Fine. A few minutes won’t make any difference.”

  A step inside, and he closed them in the chamber, increasing the impression of intimacy to the umpteenth degree.

  “Good.” He jerked his jaw toward the bed “Tuck yourself in, I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

  Problem being, there were no chairs in her spartan chamber. Only a bed and little else. She slept merely a few hours a night and spent most of her days between the manor duties and the study. Which meant she saw no reason for more furniture here.

  “Want me to turn my back?” he asked to her surprise. He was not known for his gentlemanly behaviour, and she still had to remove her wrap before lying down in the sheets.

  “I’m not wearing anything beautiful nor luxurious.” He must surely have seen more alluring women wearing lacy things that covered much less.

  The look he cast her contained an oddness she did not understand, even preferred not to, in fact. Despite their…interactions, the physical ones, she was a hundred percent certain she would be his last choice should he not be acting as her fake betrothed.

  The thought stung.

  To disguise it, she opened her wrap to display her very common and unrefined night rail that surely did nothing for him.

  “I agree with the not luxurious bit.” She heard his low tone and snapped her eyes.

  Her lips breathed a self-derogatory laugh “I didn’t know you were prone to flattering, McKendrick.”

  “And I’m not, Darroch,” he responded in the same way. “You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,” gruffness and truth rang in his statement.

  An intense tide of heat surfaced on her skin and it had nothing to do with embarrassment, but with pleasure at his words as well as his sight.

  Damn it! She should send him away and try to regain her balance and clear thought.

  Instead, she sat on the bed, leaning on the pillows against the headboard and covered her already modest night gown with the bedclothes. Her loose strands covered the pillow case.

  He made no move, just watched as she made herself comfortable.

  “You might as well sit on the mattress,” she said. “Or you’ll be weary of standing like a soldier.”

  “That’d be nice,” he said and sat by her side, back on the headboard.

  This close, the man evoked everything but sleep. Her insides were more alert than ever, attuned to his every breath and every tiny movement.

  A long time passed as sleep eluded her. Perhaps she should pretend to fall into slumber and get rid of his disquieting presence.

  “Why Belvedere?” his low question startled her.

  Her mind took a few seconds to understand his question until she remembered how she had named the lambs. Strangely, talking about the cute things did not cause disgust but evoked good memories. She moved, feeling tense as she resisted her attraction to him.

  “You remember
what it means in Italian,” she started. “But that’s also the name of the Apollo Belvedere I once saw reproduced in a book.” Of course, she would never reveal she held the giant in mind when she had the silly idea for the name—even under duress.

  “The classical statue, if I’m not wrong,” he replied. “You like works of art, I gather.”

  Yes, especially the one sitting by her side. “I didn’t study art in depth, but what I saw I liked.”

  “When this whole thing is over, I can take you to the British Museum, they have a few pieces from Greece and Rome.”

  Adjusting her sitting position again, she looked at her hands. “Have you visited it?”

  “Our tutor once arranged a study trip there,” he volunteered. “Only for us boys. Aileen was furious for being left out.” A side-smile came with the reminiscence.

  “I sympathise with her feelings,” Moira commented and moved yet again.

  “Come here,” he said and made her torso lean on his.

  Rough woollen tartan rasped her face as she rested on him. The warm tautness of him was so much more comfortable. She did not even protest when her nostrils met the scent of soap and man she unrealistically recognised as hers. Her man.

  “Are you trying to take advantage of me, sir?” she jested to dispel the dangerous thought.

  “If memory serves, madam, you took advantage of me not long ago.”

  Those moments in the pantry would remain in her memory forever, his taste, the feel of his weight on her and the explosion of her body against his.

  “Oh, yes.” Now she was in contact with him, a delicious laziness took over her. “If memory serves, you weren’t very reluctant.”

  “I can’t say that, no.”

  She rested her arm over his ribs and burrowed further in him. “I did not think so.” And sighed in delight at the feel of him before her eyes closed.

  Broken images of kittens and puppies mixed with lambs played in her mind in a cry for help. Moira awoke with a start and a gasp.

  The room was dark except for the dying fire in the fireplace. But cushioned in a warm taut surface, one that held her tighter at that moment, she took in air.

  “It was just a dream.” She heard his low rumble.

  They were still leaning on the headboard, her head resting on his broad, tartan-clad chest.

  “They were all running to me for help,” she told him in a sleepy voice.

  “You’re safe,” he answered, bringing her closer and making her more comfortable. “Go back to sleep.” And kissed the top of her head.

  Her eyes drifted shut as she did exactly that with a reassured little grin.

  Slowly, so slowly, Moira came back to consciousness, her head on the pillow, she stretched on the mattress in warm, cocooned delight. At her back, a giant furnace of muscles kept her from the chill. Weary of opening her eyes, she tried to convince herself she could stay here all her life. Life? Her lashes snapped up to the grey early morning seeping through the tired drapes.

  And then she realised that the giant furnace held her tight.

  A giant hand covered her breast.

  Oh…

  Funny how said breast had this urge to push into said hand.

  Stay put, you ninny!

  Better than shoving him away.

  Just a little pushing will do no harm.

  Yes, it will. It will harm your defences, silly!

  Yes, right.

  But the bunched arm brought her closer.

  Hm, it is so good.

  And the hand squeezed the breast.

  Dear me!

  Talk about playing with fire because…

  Taut became…tauter.

  And, well, wet became wetter.

  In that place between sleep and wakefulness, Moira wished she could undress the man holding her so deliciously and ogle every single inch of his male beauty. With the sculptures she had seen on books, she held a fair idea of what she might encounter. But he gave the impression of being so much more, all that solid, broad frame. If dressed he was perdition, naked he would be her doom.

  The giant at her back awoke with a start. “Bluidy hell!” he grumbled.

  The large hand flew away from her breast. Pity.

  With no other option, Moira turned to him. “Good morning,”

  If anything, he cradled her more snuggly, his arm surrounding her waist now. “Are you all right?” he rasped.

  She could only nod as his eyes clasped and held her captive.

  “Good,” he said at the same moment tauter became tautest.

  How was a woman to resist?

  She did not even have to do it as a stubble-lined mouth pressed on her neck as her lashes drifted down with the sensation of his touch. Her frame glued to him and only now did she realise that her night rail had bunched around her hips.

  “I have a doubt,” he murmured, nuzzling behind her ear.

  “What is it?” she answered in a threadbare tone as that mouth of his would not stay still.

  “You knew what was to come down in the pantry.” The drawl landed on her throat.

  The way she exploded, which only he could deflagrate in her. “What of that?” she asked with a sense she had been discovered.

  His hand roamed the cotton driving her to a madness of want. “Did someone do it to you?” The question brought a hard look to his eyes even though his hand continued as seductive as ever.

  “It’s none of your business,” the man aimed to occupy every corner of her life and he would if she let him.

  His fingers rolled her nipple extracting a moan from her. “Answer me,” he demanded.

  “I just did. None of your damned business!” she tried to sound firm, but merely managed to sound melted.

  His teeth nibbled her ear while the hand headed down. “You did it to yourself, then.” He surmised correctly, darn him!

  The heat on her skin came from his uncovering of her secret as much as for his large hand reaching the cluster of hair between her legs. And then the heat migrated there. Unbidden, her thighs slacked giving him room to explore further.

  “Who do you think about when you’re at it?” he asked on her shoulder.

  That was a state secret she would not reveal even if he… His fingers found the swollen button.

  Unable to suppress the keen sound that escaped her mouth, she rummaged for an answer. “It’s none—”

  “It is now,” he drawled as he teased the poor thing in the centre of her.

  So, it would be his business, would it?

  “Not answering you,” she warned in a tortured tone.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” he rasped and rubbed his stubble on her breast through the fabric.

  Blast him!

  His spine arched with a ragged groan.

  “Who?” he reiterated, his voice muffled by the cotton.

  “To the devil with you!” she swore as the sensation escalated.

  He flicked the button down below that seemed to swim in her wetness.

  “What does he do to you in your fantasies,” he changed tactics as his fingers pressed harder.

  Exactly what he was doing to her. Except it was all reality this time. The deed and the man.

  “This,” she answered without meaning to do it.

  He tortured the unfortunate nubbin further. “And the man who does ‘this’?”

  His horribly well-shaped mouth hovered over hers, tantalising her with a kiss that never came.

  But her centre was on the verge of finding happiness as her hips moved to help that paradise

  He froze, nothing in him stirred as he spread despair and longing in her. His attention searched every inch of her face.

  “Lachlan,” she begged.

  In response, his palm caressed her inner thigh. Lightly.

  “Blasted hell!” she nearly roared. “You, I thought of you! You cursed scoundrel!”

  With a triumphant grin, his fingers returned to
her centre and heaven smiled at her. “Me?” he sounded genuinely surprised.

  But she had no time to say anything, merely scream as the earthquake hit her full force. He rode the waves until there was nothing left, of the earthquake, or of her.

  Strong arms gathered her and he allowed her respite for a long while

  “I’d never have imagined,” he started at last.

  Her head turned to him. “No surprise there,” she dismissed. “They say you’re the most handsome sod in the Highlands.” She felt rather embarrassed with her confession.

  Unwilling to disclose any more on the subject, she left the bed, threw on her wrap, and neared the washbasin. “Time to start a new day,” she announced, signalling to him she required privacy. “Thanks for…well…everything.” Unable to meet his eyes, she kept her back to him.

  The door clicked shut and elicited a sigh of relief from her.

  Both sat silent in the morning room at breakfast. Lachlan witnessed Moira eating with a remoteness to her. He should not tell her it had been the best night he had ever spent with a woman. Even less that the thought of doing it for the rest of his days crossed his mind. As to confessing that he had felt a burn of jealousy at the possibility she fancied someone else? Not under the cruellest threat. But to admit to utter smugness upon hearing he had been the object of her fantasies, this he would take to the grave. And here he thought she did not like him. Well, she did not have to like him to fantasise about him, did she? Her explosion of pleasure in his arms caused him to feel powerful. Perhaps, extracting the fact from her in the way he did may not have proved his best moment, but the revelation inflated him shamelessly. It also forced him to accept he desired her all the more for that. Something he would have to keep to himself if he intended to remain an honourable man.

  Granted, he was not the most honourable man in the Highlands. What with the lasses swarming to him.

  When it came to Moira Darroch, he must be. Difficult as he wanted her more than any other woman he had ever met. The fire in her spoke to something in him. He imagined it turning him to ashes and scorched even more for her. Her fierceness, determination and loyalty did not help things. His admiration for her added fuel to the fire already blazing between them.