by Lisa Torquay
“But we found a compromise,” she disputed. “A comfortable compromise.”
“Which isn’t working any longer,” he rebutted.
Moira rubbed her forehead, feeling cornered by a world where men set the rules. If she accepted his suggestion, the problems ripping her clan apart would be close to a solution. But she would be stuck with a man that had the shortest attention span in the Highlands. Eventually, he would turn to others and what would be of her? Even married, he would attract women in droves and would cast her aside without a second thought.
She had watched it happen with her aunt. How many times had Olivia come to visit her mother to seek support for a heart fallen to pieces? Because of a husband who took countless mistresses. Moira had been too young, but as she grew up, it made sense. Hamish had no consideration for his own wife. Her aunt’s misery engraved in her memory, the tears, the helplessness, hopes and dreams shattered. It was too much of a warning for her to ignore.
“I need not list all the advantages that our alliance would bring to your clan,” Lachlan snatched her out of her musings.
Her attention snapped to him. He had the right of it. She compressed her feelings to a remote corner of her mind to regain focus. The Darrochs came first at this precise moment. There was no wailing about what her life would look like in the future. The single certainty was that he would stray. When he did, she would continue living as she did at the moment, busy with her duties, caring for her people and the land.
“You said you didn’t intend to be shackled,” still, she insisted.
“No, but my brother wouldn’t leave me alone one way or the other, and I’d have to take the step soon enough.”
Of course, he would. These things did not depend solely on his wishes. A Darroch lass would be as good as any other, she read between the lines.
The clearest notion she was entering this with her eyes wide open served as a cold solace. But at this point, keeping her clan together must be her priority.
With a resolute nod, she lifted her eyes to him. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Darroch’s chapel did not display a pristine state with its chipped pews, falling plaster, or peeling paint. Lachlan did not notice them though. Impeccably dressed in his full tartan, he stood at the altar while the reverend prepared for the ceremony.
Despite the short notice, his three siblings sat here to witness what they had called the impossible turning possible: The change of his bachelor status. Their teasing did not bother him especially because he had done a lot of teasing of them himself. The proud expression on his father’s stance had not been lost on Lachlan either.
Needling apart, he felt that standing there waiting for his bride was the most natural thing in the world. In the past few weeks, his involvement with the Darroch’s predicaments gave him a sense of purpose he rarely experienced in his life. The youngest sibling in his family was Aileen, but he held the place of the youngest son. His family left him to his own devices when it came to clan politics and alliances. He carried a pretty much carefree life so far, which must have encouraged his disregard for settling down like his peers. No doubt he undertook the tasks in The McKendrick, acting as the handyman whenever necessary, but that did not really afford him a focus in life.
The fact Moira needed his alliance to secure the integrity of her clan meant he would work towards an aim, a significant one. Perhaps that had been the reason he went to great length to convince her to marry him. He could not fathom why else he would set out to leg-shackle himself to the headstrong lass. As matches went, this seemed a good one, approved by his father and Drostan, the Laird. The Darrochs were a traditional clan that traced to long before Culloden, and Moira was their former leader’s daughter and then sister. The weight of this match would also add to the McKendrick’s stand in the Highlands. Which led him to conclude he held fair reasons to fall in the parson’s mousetrap.
A noise reverberated in the chapel packed full of Darrochs. He looked at the opening door to see Moira standing there on the arm of Wallace, his father. And then he could not take his eyes off his bride. Not because she dressed fashionably or something. In fact, she dressed her usual clothes, like him, only more formal. The underdress moulding her petite, delectable form was lacy and pristine. The Burgundy and white tartan wrapped around her with care, marking her slim waist and pert breasts. Those riotous chestnut curls fell free down her spine to the small of her back, crowned by a garland of colourful flowers that illuminated her hazel eyes.
She looked stunning.
And he had no chance of tearing his stare from her.
As his wife, the lass would offer no hardship, he concluded unashamedly. Her beauty did something with his guts, and when he remembered their…moments, he knew that together they were like gunpowder and tinder.
The day seemed to stretch too long ahead until the night came and he could—
A feminine hand resting on his forearm stifled his impatience. And his clandestine fantasies.
Moira might have all kinds of misgivings about this marriage. Only they vanished in thin air as she spotted the groom standing tall and formidable at the altar. Her eyes and her mind had attention solely for him.
She tried to remind herself that this wedding was not the real thing, that they would carry on living their separate lives, presenting a united front for the Darroch’s sake. Tried to remember that when he showed interest in other women, she would keep her head clear—and held high—to continue dedicating her time and effort to her clan.
Regardless, the sight of him this morning led her to forget everything but his presence and the knowledge they would leave this church as man and wife. Legally, he would be hers, exclusively hers. Even if their marital bonds were for mere appearances. On the periphery, she noticed the other lasses’ eyes lighting on the McKendrick monument. Possessiveness chafed, but today, she was the woman on his arm and the one who would leave here with him. To a lonely night, unshared chambers, yes, but no one would get wind of it. They would become Laird and Lady in a question of minutes. That was all that mattered.
In reality, she should not even be thinking about the marriage bed. Whether Lachlan bedded her or not, the aim of this alliance must remain in the forefront. But the truth was, if she accepted his attentions, she would be in danger of losing her focus and, worse, giving him the chance to reject her and find other women to satisfy his need for variety. Moira did not know if she could take it. With the few moments they shared, she already desired him forever. If consummation became a done thing, she would suffer doubly when she was not his favourite anymore.
The priest prompted them to turn and she forced herself to drop her musings.
Facing each other, they said their vows and, at last, Lachlan slipped the wedding band on her finger to meet the hazel jasper betrothal gem. The one he put there in what felt like ages ago at this point. She did not wear the precious stone during her daily chores for fear of damaging it, keeping it for the social functions. Her eyes fixed on the simple gold band as a shiver ran through her at the enormity of what took place here. She was a married woman from this day on and, by the time he strayed, she would never have the opportunity to seek her own happiness with anyone. Again, she told herself that this represented something bigger than her, than them. This represented the guarantee of a future for her people.
Moira did not want him to kiss her in front of so many people and make a fool of herself by melting all over him. So, she tugged her hand up for him to kiss it instead. Those coffee eyes clasped on her with a knowing glint that said the both had been doing just a little more than kissing. She did not care and cared even less what others thought. She would not allow him to reduce her to a brainless ninny in this public set. Acquiescing to her mute wish, he lowered his head. The second his sculpted lips touched her hand, heat spread through every cell, and she could not stop the sucking of breath that stuck in her lungs.
So much for not melt
ing in public. Damn the giant!
In the next breath he led her down the aisle to the feast they would offer to her and his clans outside the chapel. The surrounding garden had been prepared for the occasion with canopies and long tables.
The newlyweds led their people and sat on the highest table. On both their sides Lachlan’s siblings and spouses took their place followed by his father.
Who would have imagined that Moira would get married in a perfectly balmy day in May? The blue sky and the mild sun forecast a lovely time for celebration. Full bloom trees and flowers peppered the church garden, adding to the light mood.
Most of the revellers dressed in their usual McKendrick or Darroch colours. But Laird Taran and his wife Aileen wore the red, black and white of the McDougals. Discretely peering around, Moira hoped not to see her uncle. No doubt he got word of the wedding, but with a little luck he would not show here.
“I expect you’re not already regretting marrying this blackguard,” Taran ripped her from her restless musings, probably reading her distracted expression.
She turned a quick smile at him. “I’m sure I’ll have no cause for that, Laird McDougal,” the answer came cheerfully. There would be no regrets since she knew what awaited her.
His usual stern countenance gave way to an amused look. “Call me Taran, we’re family now. Good to hear it,” he answered.
“Don’t go getting too familiar with my bride, McDougal,” jested Lachlan.
“He won’t, I assure you!” Aileen said in a warning tone while her husband directed a heated look at her, causing a blush.
“Not even remotely,” Taran answered. “The Darrochs deserve every ounce of respect.”
“But a comely lass deserves even more praise,” interjected Fingal, earning a hard stare from his wife. But when he smiled lovingly at her, she broke a smile back.
Fingal almost got into fisticuffs with Lachlan when the younger man took Catriona on an innocent ride. The lass, though, stopped their silliness.
“We just want you to remember we’re here for you,” The Lady McKendrick offered.
Drostan looked at her adoringly before turning to the bride and groom. “She’s right. And, by the way, your maid, Mary, is safely tucked away in our lands,” he reiterated.
A Darroch called at Moira, diverting her attention from her new husband’s family. But it did not escape her that The McDougal and The McKendrick talked in low tones, probably about what transpired so far in her clan.
The free-flowing McKendrick’s whisky and the music from the bagpipes and drums soon had everyone dancing and cheering.
Late that night, Moira, in her unfashionable night rail, lay in her canopied bed, looking at the tired fabric over her head. The feast still raged in the chapel grounds prone to last into the early hours. Discretely, she left while Lachlan sat and talked with the lads.
Lachlan’s siblings and spouses returned to the McKendrick manor and their children at sunset. Taran and Aileen would travel to their home next morning.
It had been a merry day despite the circumstances. A timely break from the chores, the ones she would resume tomorrow. Which should account for her sleeplessness, but somehow, she did not believe it to be the cause.
She awoke at sunrise a maiden and came back to her chambers a married woman. A married woman who hungered inconveniently for her husband. The one who had yet to return since no noise came from the other chamber. He would not spend his wedding night with another woman; or would he? With the low expectations she harboured about the man, she would consider it possible.
The mere possibility squeezed her insides to a chocking point. It would not do to live her life haunted by the ghosts of infidelity, she would go crazy. Sucking in a deep breath, she veered her mind to the tasks she must do at daybreak.
She was about to turn to the other side to get a modicum of rest when a noise at the door caught her attention. The only light in the room came from the fireplace as her gaze flew to the source of the noise. The McKendrick monument was in the act of clicking the wooden panel shut.
Hazel irises widened on him at the same time her heart gave a galloping start. “What are you doing here?” Instead of indignant, her voice came breathless, almost eager.
Those solid legs prowled to her. “A husband has the right to visit his wife’s chambers.” The low tones bathed her in warm Athol Brose.
A suspicious slackening of her muscles consumed her. “We won’t have this kind of marriage.”
“Says who?” At the foot of her bed, he braced his legs and crossed his arms.
The breeze had mussed his luxuriant hair, but his impeccable tartan and white shirt were still in place.
Memories of him interacting with the guests in the feast popped in her mind. He had smiled and listened to everyone with consideration and regard. His politeness had extended to young and old alike even if the lasses had stars in their eyes. Side by side, she was certain they would form the right team to take care of the clan.
“We never talked about…about any intimacy.” Not that she did not want, or rather crave it. The problem being she might become an addict, her focus addled by the husband she did not consider worth the position.
One masculine brow lifted. “No need, the marriage understanding implies this.”
She studied his magnificent frame as weakness undermined her. “Meaning your husbandly rights,” she interpreted.
His undivided attention fell on her face. “That, and a wedding requires consummation,”
The last word and what it entailed caused an overwhelming wave of heat to suffuse over her. She would not be able to resist any consummation, wedding or otherwise.
Throwing the bedclothes aside, she turned her cotton-clad silhouette to him. “Fine, be done with it.” She was supposed to say it as resistance, but it came as provocation.
A side-smirk stretched those sculpted lips while his eyes burned her. “By the time I am done with it, we'll both be sweaty and panting.” This seemed to come an octave lower.
The images that his answer produced in her overactive imagination spread a flush on her skin and a melting in her core.
Their clasped gazes shot lightning enough to flash the whole chamber. Why fight a lost battle against her own desires? She had wanted this man for over four years; she had tried not to for the same time. Good or not, they ended up tying the knot. The perks of it beckoned too tempting for refusal.
In a tone she did not recognise as hers, she moistened her lips. “Undress, McKendrick,” the command came silky.
One large hand lifted to the clasp holding his tartan over a broad shoulder. “Technically, you’re a McKendrick now,” the practical comment aired as a caress.
“I’ll always be a Darroch,” she replied. Only for the green, black and white wool falling past his shirt distract her.
This silenced her, in expectation to enjoy her dream come true, seeing this man naked before her.
The first button undone on his shirt revealed his thick throat and Adam’s apple. The second presented her with the top of his chest, the skin tanned with his open-air work. The third gave her the hint of hair peppered skin. The last, nearly made her pounce on him. But when he took it off through his head, she became speechless. Bunched arms, solid pectorals, flat abs and the hair leading under the belt to the place she had merely felt against her hips. Hazel eyes strolled up and down his Apollonian form avidly.
“Was this part of your fantasies?” he asked, hand on his belt, remembering her confession of days previously.
She thought none of her fantasies would have prepared her for the reality of watching him coming naked in her own chamber. “They were naïve,” she breathed mesmerised.
His strong fingers pulled the belt to unbuckle it. “I’ve been wondering what you hide under this shapeless cotton too,” he admitted, his eyes strolling up and down said fabric.
At this point, the belt fell to the carpet together with the rest of h
is tartan.
Her dry throat sucked in air.
He was even more glorious than any wild flight of her imagination might have conjured. The dark cluster of hair between his legs proved the perfect background for the thick, long shaft rising proud under her scrutiny. The urge to touch it, register its texture, girth dominated her.
She was too small for him.
And she could not care less. She would take everything greedily and revel in securing it firmly in her femininity.
He afforded her no time for more fantasies when he sat on the edge of the mattress, one palm on the top of her bare foot.
“I’ll kiss every inch of you from bottom to top and then all the way back until I have explored every secret you hide,” he forewarned. His sculpted lips lowered to her toes to start his endeavour followed by a capable hand. The other hand covered the other ankle smoothing it on its way up her limb.
The sight of that enormous man dedicating all his attention to her was simply aphrodisiac. Her nerves primed, heightening the sensations, creating heated anticipation. He reached her ankle, bunching the night rail up on his way past her shin, until he came to her knees. The other hand palmed behind one while he nuzzled behind its twin, causing shivers to ran through her. With his stubble, he grazed her, the abrasion reverberating on every cell as he bunched the fabric around the top of her thighs. Everything combined to lead her to combustion. The feel of his hands, the prickling of his stubble, the smoothness of his lips, the warm breath, and the whisper of the cotton. That banquet of a mouth landed open kisses over her thigh.
He uncovered the centre where the consequences of his caresses coalesced. Her core had, from the minute he came in, melted, heated, hungered; and now it fairly begged. Mussed head lifted to her, those dark eyes contained a wicked glint. Just to go down again and plant a kiss on her hips, an inch away from the patch of hair calling to him. Her breath hitched, but she preferred to send her soul to hell than to ask him to stay there.
