The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

  The large hands splayed over her waist, pressing his lips on their way up her side, ignoring her breasts that clamoured for him. But he seemed to prefer her shoulder, breastbone, dragging over her neck while she helped him get rid of her nightgown.

  Strong arms braced his body over hers as his stare took in the whole of her.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he rasped as if transfixed.

  “And you’re Apollo Belvedere come to life,” she gave back, not minding if she sounded utterly besotted.

  An amused spark came to his eyes. “Good, because you’ll see I’m no cold marble,” he rumbled.

  And then he glued all that virile frame to her, wedging between her thighs, pressing his sex to hers, and she felt his entire steaming body on hers. A sigh escaped her a second before his mouth captured hers.

  The world disappeared.

  She opened for him, clutching herself to him, spine arching for more contact. Their mouths fused carnal and unbridled, tongues danced, chased, entwined. The kiss escalated, becoming savage and thirsty.

  They caught fire, kissing until there was no breath left. Her fingers dived in his hair as his mouth lowered to her throat and chest. It latched on one breast, his palm on its twin, and he suckled avidly as if his life depended on it. He alternated dusky nipples, and she cradled his hips between her flexed knees.

  She would surely combust with this torrent of sensuality. He, on the other hand, did not relent. He went lower, sawing breath steaming on her skin. Lower still, his mouth latched to her core making her fear she would pass out with so much delectation. His tongue dived in her wetness extracting a moan from her. His fists grabbed her thigh for purchase, her palms pulling him even closer. He licked, he suckled, he grazed as if she offered a feast for his rapacity. His thumbs opened her to him to intensify the agony until that wet hot tongue had tortured the poor button to breaking point. She splintered with an unrepressed scream while he rode her to the end of her forces.

  Not giving her any time to clear her head, he climbed up, lacing her waist with a bunched arm. “I’m making you my wife now,” he said eyes merged on hers. “You’ll be mine, only mine.”

  She felt his erection at her entrance as their gazes were still locked. He pushed. Deep.

  A sound of extreme delight escaped her at this first intimate contact with the man she had dreamed of for so long. The stinging sensation when he broke her hymen was inevitable.

  He froze as her breath accelerated in a quest to stop the discomfort.

  His head nose-dived for another scorching kiss that had her forgetting everything but him.

  By the time he lifted his head, there was no trace of discomfort, just greed, voracity. “Move, Lachlan, before I die!” she pleaded.

  His hips backed off in between heavy breaths, and he lunged in, devastating her with pleasure.

  “Bluidy hell, Moira, you’re delicious,” the growl vibrated on her.

  He repeated the move, then once more, and took her to madness. Her hips moved with him, craving, seeking. She held him, arms and legs, like a vice, their sweat favouring the sliding of their skin. It seemed he ploughed deeper and deeper.

  Her core reacted to his penetration a thousand times more. She opened the widest to take all he gave, she moved in search of more. And went mindless at the disintegration he caused in her for the second time. But this one came a hundred notches more intense making her feel she had transformed in a puddle of heat.

  He started thrusting vigorously, serrated breathing and grunts coming from him. Speeding, he reached the depth of her, features contorting harshly. Until he pounded the deepest. She felt the rush of his delivery, his spine arched, his long growl loud. He sagged on her breathless and she held him, never wanting to let go.

  When their breathless state had gone back to normal, Lachlan lifted his head from the curve of her neck and directed his dark gaze at her.

  “Are you all right?” he rasped, still lodged in her.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “This was…this was…” she would say addictive, but did not want to give him even more fodder for his natural arrogance. “…good.” She settled for after a few seconds.

  “Only good?” his quizzical question amused her. “Darroch, you’ve just wrenched the hell out of me!” Literally and figuratively, by the looks of it.

  “Nice for starters, then, McKendrick,” she compromised playfully.

  “Stubborn lass,” he muttered under his breath as he detached himself from her and went to the basin. He brought a washing cloth back and started taking care of her.

  Apt hands washed the vestiges of her former maiden state, causing her to suck in air at the sensation. If she was sore, she did not feel it.

  After cleaning himself, he put the cloth back and lay beside her, enfolding her in his arms. Despite her bragging, she fell asleep at once.

  Lachlan watched Moira’s slumber against his chest still amazed at what just took place in this bed. Never did he feel this sated in his entire life. Not since he turned sixteen, at least. And a twenty-something lass at Beltane pulled him to a secluded place to show him what he could do with his…

  And yet, he never felt like this in his life. When she talked about a separate-lives marriage, he had nearly doubled over himself with the prospect of not taking her to bed. Yes, well, she was already in bed. He had come up with that nonsense of husbandly rights. But the lass saved him in the last hour by acquiescing to his request. And, damn, he must confess that as soon as his body came in contact with hers, he was a lost man. His arousal had been so absolute, he had feared he would not last. The effort had him literally sweating for it.

  He saw she caught fire at his first touch. To tell the truth, as she commanded him to undress, he had been doomed. Knowing she fantasised with him, that she desired him, proved to be a potent aphrodisiac. His intention was to go slow, guarantee that she enjoyed every minute. The success rate lay in the middle as he managed to keep his control until he kissed her. After that, he was a goner at risk of shaming himself with a mere kiss. The way she held him tight, her utter pleasure at his caresses, her uninhibited response, even the sounds she made pushed him to the edge. As he finally, finally let himself go, he came completely undone, no finesse, nothing left.

  At that moment, he lay there awake, cradling the infernal waif in her sleep. A new first to add to the others the lass threw at him. The impetus to wake her up and start all over again thrashing in him to the point he must lock his muscles to keep still.

  Determined to let her have her rest, he closed his eyes and invoked his sleep.

  He awoke with feather lips trailing down his neck as he grunted in appreciation. His eyes opened to register the first grey light of morning and his wife taking the bedclothes out of the way to explore his nakedness. Fingers lightly scratched his dark nipple while her treacherous mouth covered the other. Where did she learn this, for pity’s sake? He saw stars.

  “Moira,” he groaned. “What are you about?” The lass had not the slightest idea of what she was doing to him.

  That mass of riotous curls lifted, hazel eyes focusing on him. “Lachlan, more,” she breathed and went back to her task on his nipples.

  Her words and deeds set a furnace to burn in him. Worsened by her mouth trailing down his abs, perilously close to…

  “Darroch, if you want more, you cannot go there,” he alerted her.

  Again, her gaze reached him. “Oh,” she lamented. “But it’s so big!”

  Her comment had him flipping her on her back to show his new wife how big he could get.

  Days later, Moira overlooked the herding of the cattle to the summer pasture as her husband—it still thrilled her the novelty of his role in her life—and the other men drove the animals ahead. The grass grew enough to feed them, which made it safe to guide them out of the barns. The sheep would follow shortly.

  She could not even complain of feeling drowsy despite the few hours
she had been sleeping these nights. The mere memory caused her to blush furiously as hot waves moved to her middle. Passionate nights they had been, full of carnal delights she would never have dreamed. Even if she consulted the books in her library, which she was sure would inform her extensively.

  She was seriously becoming addicted. To his taste, to his scent, to his caresses and to that part of him that made her so…sated. The danger he put her in could be daunting. Determined not to be controlled by it, she took what he was willing to give. Since they had this going, she might as well enjoy it while it lasted. Besides, who knew she would not conceive, a child should help her keep her head in its place as he inevitably strayed. She and her husband certainly worked hard on it. Her mind drifted away imagining what a child of his would look like, a boy with his luxuriant hair and coffee eyes…

  “Moira,” the giant called behind her, startling her out of her reveries. Her head swivelled to him.

  “We’re almost finished here. If you want, you can go home,” his eyes lowered to hers, the mere gesture heating her insides.

  The man insisted in commanding her before their marriage, now he would make her schedule, if she let him.

  “Let’s get it done and go together,” she countered.

  “Aren’t you…tired?” he asked suggestively.

  “Are you?” she threw back as a brow quirked up her delicate brow.

  “Not even close,” he answered with a wicked glint in those compelling eyes that promised another bout of delights for later.

  As they reached the manor, talking about the day’s tasks and what awaited them tomorrow, Murray stood at the entrance. “You have a visitor, my laird, my lady,” he announced. With no more, he guided them to the drawing room.

  In it, sat a man in his mid-thirties clad in city finery.

  “Harris!” exclaimed Moira.

  The man stood up and bowed to her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I came as soon as I heard of your marriage, cousin,” he said, his brogue washed down by city life.

  Here stood the official heir to the Darrochs. Were it not for the English laws of succession, he would never have become the heir. Even if several clans had their own rules for succession, including the Darrochs, her clan had to rely on the law as her brother died so suddenly. Although Glasgow lay quite far, the rumours of Harris’ dissolute life reached the Highlands. The owner of a shipping company, he possessed enough money to afford his lifestyle. Shipping proved to be in high demand as the British Empire moved products and people through continents.

  She drew a mild smile. “I hope you haven’t travelled all the way just to wish me happiness.” Her dig in for the reason for his visit was not so subtle, she chided herself. “Please meet my husband, Laird Lachlan McKendrick.” Turning to the monument of a man, she said, “Lachlan, my cousin Harris Darroch, the heir to our clan.”

  Both men nodded reservedly at each other before her cousin answered. “It would be enough of a reason.” Intelligent eyes roved over the couple. “But I must admit that I have ignored my role as heir for far too long. It’s time I took action.”

  “Which action, exactly?” Lachlan asked with a hint of suspicion in his tone.

  “First of all, I need us to gather the clan so I can address them.” It did not escape Moira that he avoided a direct answer to McKendrick’s question. Whatever he had to say, he was in his right as Laird Darroch.

  Unwilling to press her cousin on the matter, she rang for Murray, “Please, prepare the Laird’s chamber for Harris,” she requested when the butler entered. “And set a place for him at the head of the dinner table.”

  In no way would she obstruct his rights. Whatever he had in mind, she could not avoid a certain sense of relief he had travelled here to show an ounce of acknowledgement for his inheritance. If he decided to occupy his due place in the Darrochs, she would support him fully.

  Dinner served, the three of them kept to amenities.

  “What do you think he intends to do?” Lachlan asked as he entered her chamber.

  After dinner she had worked in the study before coming here and bathing. Now she sat at her escritoire, in her night rail, finishing with a ledger she had brought with her. A candle on the surface and the fire in the fireplace illuminated the chamber.

  Her head lifted from her task. “I could not tell,” she started. “But at least he’s here.”

  Tartan around his waist, he started undoing his shirt. Apparently, he had bathed before dinner as he showed in the dining room with damp hair. He had sat across from her at the table, endorsing her as she told Harris about her accomplishments in the last year.

  “A little late, don’t you think? You carried the whole burden so far.” He fisted his tapered waist.

  The agape shirt displayed a wide V of his hair peppered strong chest. Her mouth watered at her desire to trail her lips down its length and lower still. She could not avoid the blush that accompanied the thought. In response, his eyes heated.

  “I know,” she agreed. “But if he takes his place here, it would help things.” For one, it would rip her uncle out of the way.

  Her husband chose that moment to rid himself of his shirt. Did he not realise the view of his…assets blurred her mind?

  “As I understood, he has a life in Glasgow,” he said.

  “A wealthy and…colourful one,” she complemented.

  “What, he’s a libertine?” A large hand headed to one end of the plaid.

  “Something like that.” Her attention clasped avidly to those long fingers. “A harmless one, by the looks of it.”

  The tartan end fell from his waist. “Do you think he’d adapt to country life?”

  A shrug jerked her shoulder as she followed the wool trail its way to the carpet. “Born and bred here, he left when he turned twenty.”

  “He’s familiar with clan leading, I reckon.” Stark naked, he prowled to her as she widened her hungry stare.

  “I’d say so,” her head lifted to his approach, then lowered to his very rampant manhood.

  And returned to him when he took her hand and pulled her up from the chair, and she followed, not even noticing it. “In any case, we’ll have to wait until the clan gathers tomorrow.” He sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “Yes,” it came breathy as his palms smoothed her night rail up her legs.

  “Hm,” he grunted, and pulled her to straddle him.

  “W-what are you doing?” Heat and utter arousal made her compliant.

  Deft fingers unbuttoned the top of her gown. “Enjoying my wife,” he growled before latching that mouth to one breast. Her head fell back with a moan, her fingers diving in his hair.

  As an answer, she lifted her hips to enjoy her husband.

  One of the vacated barns, now clean, served as the place to gather the clan next day. Benches scattered around the space as people joined in small groups.

  Lachlan, sitting beside Moira on the first row, observed the questioning glances everyone cast at them, and scowled inwardly. This new development seemed more like a disturbance of the busy working day. He did not believe for a single minute that this reprobate would do any good for the Darrochs, or even his wife. No idea why, but he had become extremely protective of her. If what the man had to say indicated any negative consequences to her, he would have no qualms in putting him out of here with punches if need be. She had enough on her plate as it was.

  Harris entered the barn dressed in Darroch colours. Tall and dark, Lachlan suspected the women he…interacted with in the city favoured him.

  Instead of standing in the front as expected, Laird Darroch sat on the bench as if willing to talk on an equal basis with everyone. After the required introduction, he explained his arrival.

  “As soon as I heard of the excellent match Lady Moira made, I travelled here convinced the solution I bring is more than adequate for the Darrochs,” he said simply.

  Little by little the men, women and
children taking part in the gathering sat in a circle for better hearing. Lachlan and Moira followed suit despite the strangeness of it.

  “An idea occurred to me and I’d like to ask your opinion on it.” He made eye contact with everyone. “As you know, I have my own business in Glasgow, which leaves me neither time nor wish to lead a clan miles away from it,” he paused as if gauging the mood.

  Lachlan had no clue if the man had any knowledge of the plight his clan had been facing since Malcom’s passing. He should have asked Moira. If Harris did not, what he was about to say might have no use for anyone.

  “The clan will be better off if I abdicate in favour of Laird Lachlan,” the blackguard dropped it as a cannon ball in the middle of a flock of pigeons. Lachlan could even hear their wings swooshing in hastened flight.

  Moira’s eyes snapped to Lachlan with a thousand feelings shifting in them, expectation, apprehension. But what he saw most was excitement, a touch of giddiness.

  Stunned silence fell in the barn broken only by the breeze shaking the trees around the barn. Those present looked from one to another without uttering a word. As Laird Darroch, Harris could abdicate, not necessarily in favour of the next heir, but to his own chosen leader, as clan rules allowed.

  “Well…” Harris prompted.

  “You should have talked to us first,” Lachlan said. Not that he felt unhappy with this, but it took time to decide if it was the best route.

  “My sources say you and Lady Darroch are leading the clan superbly,” he answered.

  Sources? So, he had been keeping track of everything here. Of course, he had. As a businessman he would be prone to watch over his possessions.

  “Wee better than ye,” a woman in a coarse dress and a Darroch plaid shawl ventured.

  “Aye,” a man opposite her said.

  “Laird Lachlan isna afraid of work,” another woman supplied.

  Harris’ nod showed he understood. “Naturally, we would need to draw a legal document to make it official.”

  “We will do it only if all the clan agree with this.” Moira manifested herself for the first time.