by Lisa Torquay
“Raise yer hands who do,” Caitlin proposed.
Even the children followed their parents’ lead and raised their hands. The clan went massively with the idea.
“What say you, Laird Lachlan?” Harris turned to him.
Lachlan was torn between surprise and thrill. Which third son ever dreamed of being a clan Laird? It happened if tragedy struck, and he preferred to die than to see any of his brothers harmed. He surveyed every single face waiting expectant at him. They conveyed they regarded him as the right person to help them.
“If it’s everyone’s wish, I’ll be happy to accept it,” he said looking at his wife.
A broad smile came from her and he concluded he said the right thing. Harris turned from one to the other satisfied with what he saw.
“In that case, I’ll call the solicitors here,” Harris added.
“Long live Laird Darroch!” Everyone cheered.
As they reached the manor, the Murrays, who had been to the gathering, had already returned. Mrs. Murray rushed to Moira. “Oh, Lady Moira, we’re so happy for you and the Laird!” And held the lady’s hands.
“I believe he’s Laird Darroch now,” Harris, entering the hall, contributed.
“It’ll take getting used to,” Lachlan commented, patting Murray’s back.
The three of them headed to the study. Inside, Lachlan served three glasses of whisky. They drank it and remained silent for a while.
“You knew of Moira’s predicament here and did nothing?” he threw at Harris.
Her cousin eyed him directly. “Not exactly,” he took a drink. “Apparently everything went as normal,” he defended. “I was sure she would carry on as usual. Moira’s always showed her care for the Darrochs.”
Moira’s brow pleated. “But you said your sources…” she trailed off, not needing to say any more.
“Yes,” Harris answered. “When Laird McKendrick joined you here, I thought it a bit precipitated, so I looked better into it.”
“And still you did nothing.” Lachlan repeated.
The other man shrugged. “By then, you were already here looking after her.”
The men’s rant infuriated her. “I need no one to look after me! I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself!” She cast a hard stare at both. “And the Darrochs pulled through the difficulties, thank you very much!”
The men exchanged an accomplice glance. “I agree and admire you for that,” Harris reiterated. “But as a woman, you have legal limitations, as you well know,”
Those limitations had been a hassle when it concerned managing the estate. Many times, she had had to enlist the solicitor’s good will. As her husband, Lachlan had the right to step in, but not fully. The newlyweds nodded in understanding.
“To the new Laird Darroch,” Harris toasted.
In a hurry to resume his life in Glasgow, Harris departed early next morning, promising to be back for the official transferring of leadership.
That afternoon, Moira entered the master chamber and froze. Lachlan climbed on a ladder seemingly repairing the tired drape. His new status meant that he could use this chamber that had belonged to her father and brother. As the lady of the clan, she could use the lady’s chamber connected with this one.
He lifted his head to her questioning glance. “This won’t close,” he explained. “We’ll renovate the whole manor as soon as it can be done,” he decreed and returned his attention to the task.
She closed the door and neared the ladder, with Lachlan’s hips on level with her head. The scene reminded her of the first day he came to stay after she had abducted him and they settled on a betrothal. As she had opened the front door to start her day, she had found him up a ladder fixing a hinge. The scalding feeling she had had then duplicated now.
Both the Laird and Lady’s chambers had been readied for their use after Harris left. Her head lifted to him competently rearranging the drape.
“That would be nice, provided we can afford it.” She posted under the ladder to hold it and keep him safe from falling.
“I can afford it,” he stated firmly, eyes on the task.
“I have no doubt, but it’s the Darroch manor and renovation will use Darroch resources,” her tone brokered no questioning.
“Stubborn lass!” he exclaimed under his tone. “All I have to do is transfer my resources to the Darroch. Easy.” He looked down with a naughty glint in his coffee eyes.
Lachlan had trouble concentrating on the task. He could not explain this veritable compulsion that invaded him every time she came close. The need for physical contact, any contact, dominated him. Since the wedding, he had not been able to keep his hands off her. It was as if no other woman existed in the entire world.
As he worked around the land, lasses tried to approach and he harboured only coldness towards them. He treated them cordially, for sure, but they meant nothing, he did not even pay attention to their appearance anymore. They lost in comparison with his wife, whom he kept track of the whole day, impatient for the evening, the night, when he would have her completely for himself.
The infernal waif, though, did not seem to take notice of it, her clan her single concern. She accepted his attentions, more than accepted, he was sure she relished them. But she never sought him out, never directed besotted gazes at him, or behaved clingy, like so many he had met. He stood in disadvantage here for the first time. Yet another first.
Like now. He just wanted to grab her, throw the both on the bed and take her, then take her again, and some more, until they had no breath left in them.
Damn it!
“Are you sure you’re all right with being Laird Darroch,” she interrupted his musings.
His eyes snapped to her. The title still felt strange to him. During the day, people had addressed him by his new name. He nodded in acknowledgement after nearly looking around for someone else to respond.
“I’m getting used to it,” he answered truthfully.
“Unsurprisingly,” she commented.
“Even if the clan didn’t appoint me as the Laird, working with your clan has given me a sense of purpose.”
“Is that so?” A hint of astonishment came to her tone.
“As the third spare, there was no pressure over me.” He tugged on the drape to test it. “Freedom was my name, which proved fine for a while.” The fabric was stuck.
An expression passed over her delicate face and he could not decipher it. “Won’t you miss it?”
“Unlikely. Everybody needs a purpose in life.” He pulled the curtain back to redo it.
“And you found yours,” she added.
“Definitely.” He spotted what was wrong and rearranged it.
“Good to know,” she said.
He nodded at her comment and tested the drape again. It slid smoothly, and he drew them close.
“I’ll give you Malcom’s Laird’s attire,” she complemented.
Their eyes meshed. “It’ll be an honour,” he replied.
“You’ll look good in Darroch’s plaid,” she admitted.
“You don’t like mine?” he jested.
“Oh, I do all right.” Her callused hands rested on his bare knees.
His guts reacted instantly. And heated as her hands climbed up his thighs.
“Darroch—” it came hoarse as he trailed off, forgetting what he meant to say.
“You’ve just become a Darroch too,” she said, her hands going under the green, black and white plaid.
“True,” he rumbled as blood travelled to the right place at the wrong time.
Her palms reached his already erect member. “What are you doing,” he rasped.
Full of wicked intentions, her hazel eyes alighted on his. “Checking the new Darroch’s…jewels.”
One feminine hand curled around the base of him while the other cupped his eager balls. The first pumped, the second caressed him deeply.
“Bluidy hell!” he cursed as he went
rock-hard.
Transfixed, he watched her working under the tartan. He had taught her how to… Goddammit! He swore under his breath as her thumb spread his pre-cum over the bulbous head of him.
“Do you like it?” she asked unnecessarily.
“You’ll drive me insane, that’s what!” he threw back at her as he sagged against the rungs shedding all resistance.
“Poor husband,” she mock-lamented.
But the infernal waif had other things in mind. One hand lifted his tartan, putting his erection in the right direction of her delectable mouth. The view of his moist glans pointing at her pouty lips almost had him on his knees. Worse, he nearly came undone.
Her mouth opened and the tip of him received a hot breath through the rungs. Those lips closed around him and hot became a furnace. His large hands whitened on the side rails.
He swore grotesquely.
She sucked him to her throat, bobbed back and attacked him again. And repeated the process. His balls tightened.
When he thought he was about to shame himself, she took him out of her mouth and darted her tongue out to lick his slit. He saw stars.
The feminine head lifted to him as her hand never stopped the threatening pumping.
“You never told me when is your birthday.”
Curse the lass!
Pump, flick of a tongue, and the poor member was out in the open anew. “You don’t know?” she insisted.
“Put me back in.” Was all he had condition of saying.
Her fingers loosened and the tips barely whispered over the hardness. Still, he leaked.
“August, if memory serves,” she taunted.
Her nails grazed lightly over his length. “Yes, whatever,” he see-sawed.
“Perhaps it’s September,” the digits went back to whispering.
“August,” he growled. “Get on with it!” One masculine hand took her nape and tried to bring her head to his…
“I don’t remember the day,” she procrastinated.
“Moira, please!” he begged.
And his member went back inside, her head bobbing with renewed energy. His hand on it guided her.
A savage grunt escaped him, his head falling back with relief.
That wicked mouth sucked him more, driving him to serious danger as her tongue teased him further.
“I want to be inside you,” he said, pulling out and climbing down to the carpet. “Come here,” he commanded.
He made her glue to the ladder, face to the rungs, urgency all over him. Hurried hands rucked her skirts up as he lifted one of her knees to rest on the upper rung, opening her to him. He positioned his bulbous tip at her scorching entrance and fairly swam inside with her wetness.
She moaned, he moaned. He thanked the ladder’s sturdy wood for supporting them. One bunched arm locked around her slim waist; the other hand cupped a breast after jerking the underdress down her shoulder. His thumb teased the nipple to extract a sound of approval from her.
He reared and lunged in as she held the side rails for dear life. Another thrust, and she arched to take more of him.
“I want to see you touching yourself,” he prompted.
No hesitation as her fingers trailed down her rucked skirts for him to register her pleasuring herself as he moved ever deeper. He went frantic with her gasps of pleasure.
“Come for me, wife. I won’t last much longer,” he grunted on her ear before his mouth closed on the pulse on her neck and his fingers squeezed her dusky nipple. With a moan, her head fell on his shoulder.
He plunged deeper. Seconds later her repeated squeezing of his member happened with her screams. His lunges accelerated, half in, half out, mindlessly. He felt his doom approaching the point of no return and he let go, pouring what seemed a deluge in the very core of her.
She held the ladder, he sagged on her, both breathless.
Only when his breathing became normal could he manage some speech. “As a welcome-to-the-clan gift, this was an…interesting one,” he said as he nibbled the shell of her ear.
“As a thank-you-for-the-gift, this was…huge!” she answered in kind.
Both chuckled at their private joke.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Moira had been to the orchard to check on the health of the trees. If the flowers growing on them were anything to go by, they would collect a good amount of fruit for compotes and jams for winter. Not to mention the apples for cider.
Since the wedding, her uncle did not show up or inflict any of his treachery on them. Moira hoped that with her marriage and the recent development of Lachlan’s choice as The Darroch, Hamish gave up his unrealistic ambitions.
The thought of her marriage brought a smile to her delicate face. So far, they tackled married life quite well, she would say. Having him at her side showed her they worked harmoniously together. They usually talked about the manor’s problems and agreed on the possible solutions. Without even trying, they were united in managing the land. Her clan respected him before Harris’ visit. As their new Laird Darroch, the people expressed a newfound confidence, a renewed faith in the future she had not seen in a long time. She was very grateful for her husband to have undertaken the responsibility for the duties and accepted the leadership with quiet competence.
As for them as a couple, yes, she held no complaints either. Their nights were filled with passion—furious blush surfaced on her cheeks at the memory of the previous afternoon—and their days with companionship. It contained more than she envisioned, a solid basis for a marriage, she reckoned.
Yet, she abstained from looking into her feelings for Lachlan too deeply. Before she decided on the extreme measure of bringing him here and proposing to a man who had no intention of shedding his bachelor status, she fancied herself in love with him. Naturally, now she understood it to be a girly fantasy. She kept a distance from him for fear of falling for his manly charms even if she had fallen for them at first sight. Unwilling to give in to them, remoteness had been her strategy. The consequence was that she did not come to know him effectively. Rumours of his prowess with the lasses abounded, praise for his hard-working at his clan too. Apart from those, little did she glean about the man. After this time spent with him, she realised he was supportive and committed, also commanding and stubborn. There was no denying his attuning with what she held dear. He understood her grief when her strays died. The logical conclusion being that he was a good man, despite his overbearing disposition. It might not have been a bad match now, might it? She wondered optimistically.
The cluster of trees left behind, she obtained a broad view of the land ahead snaked by a cart track. On it, two people talked. From this distance, she discerned her husband, still wearing the McKendrick’s tartan. And standing close, too close, to him, Emily, the daughter of one of the most important chieftains in the Darroch. He towered over the girl who must be nineteen or twenty at most. She looked up at him in a clearly besotted way, a dazzling smile and stars in her eyes. No news there, of course, their wedding day had been crowded with lasses in the same condition.
But then, Emily stepped even closer and rested a hand on one of his biceps, covered with his shirt, yes, still… Lachlan held his attention on her as his smile broadened and he seemed to loom over her as if to listen better.
The view of them shot pure, acid venom in her veins, threatening to burn her insides to ashes. Her first impulse was to go there and thrash the both of them, scream, swear, go berserker. The reaction scared her, the depth and intensity of the feeling so foreign she did not know what to do with it.
As Lachlan and Emily continued to talk, her smile became even more dazzling while she went up on her toes and placed a kiss on his cheek.
The gesture erupted a whole volcano of bile in Moira. Enough to choke her for the rest of her life. Her lungs burned, her stomach churned, nausea a second away from becoming a retch.
So much for believing she and Lachlan had a good marri
age.
They had not seen her yet, fortunately. Her back turned on them, and she retreated to the cluster of trees, taking the opposite direction. Walking relieved the pressure inside though not the feelings.
It would always be like this, she concluded disgruntled, it came with the territory. As the wife of a too handsome husband, she would perpetually witness women trying their luck with him. As they aged, he would have access to younger lasses. He would age marvellously, no doubt. No man resisted younger women why would Lachlan? Now he held the Laird’s position, one more allure to his already potent appeal. The fact disheartened her, making her think she must protect herself from this before it was too late. She had a fair idea she would not be immune to him, ever. But she could put distance between them and try to neutralise how he made her feel; how the sight of him with other women made her feel.
With that purpose in mind, she returned to the manor.
The day’s toil had been intense. Upon entering the manor late afternoon, Lachlan requested a bath and headed to the master chamber. The one he would make clear to the servants he would share with his wife. They were sleeping in the same bed since the wedding, there was no reason to change it with the moving of chambers.
Two footmen cleared the bath when Lachlan heard movement in the adjoining chamber. Striding to the connecting door, he pulled it. And found his wife sitting at the escritoire he saw in her previous chamber bent over a ledger. She did not acknowledge his presence.
“What are you doing there?” he asked, intrigued by her constricted posture.
She took a moment to move from her reading position. He waited. After what seemed long minutes, she lifted her head to him. What he saw in her features froze him to the spot. Unsmilingly, she looked at him with cold eyes, her spine so rigid it might snap at any second.
“This is the lady’s chamber.” Her matter-of-fact tone did something to his guts. She stated the obvious though the remoteness of her gave it a completely different meaning.
