The Lass Beguiled the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 3)

by Lisa Torquay

He breathed a disbelieving chuckle. “Liar.”

  Her expressive eyes blinked several times before going back to his. “I am not.”

  “Tell me,” he ordained.

  Delicate brows pleated. “No.”

  “Tell me, damn it!” The harsh command did not disguise his volcanic arousal.

  “You make me lie on my belly.” Her posture stiffened..

  “Clothed?” he taunted.

  “No, down to those two pieces.” Her satiny cheeks painted vermillion.

  He imagined her lying on the rumpled bedsheets, flimsy chemise covering her; she would look back at him, her reflection on the mirror sure to give him many angles to her pert buttocks.

  Why on Earth had he asked about her fantasies? He was not going to hold it! “Go on.” His voice could not be any hoarser than this.

  “You bunch my chemise.” The look she cast him dared him to withstand the ordeal. “Then lower my drawers.”

  In his mind’s eye he saw her uncovering the round nether cheeks and himself lying on her, cradling his near-bursting member on the crease and—

  Damnation!

  “I would have shredded the stupid thing in a million pieces,” he vented.

  The torment could not get any worse, or…

  “You dip your fingers on the oily salve.”

  Blasting hell!

  “And apply it to the bruise.” Her perfect face flushed, and he could see her breasts peaked under the fabric.

  “What else do I do with my oily fingers, Sassenach?” he drawled, going fairly mad with the images she evoked.

  “With your fingers, nothing, but—”

  How unlucky.

  “You kiss the bruise.”

  The quip came so unexpected that it threw him in an ocean of lava. “Have pity on me, woman!”

  And he let the reins loose. His palms covered the body part in question and pulled her to him, cradling his pulsing erection in the softness of her. She moaned before he pressed his mouth on hers in a desperate kiss. Her arms came around his bunched shoulders to glue them even more together.

  He did not plunder her mouth. No. That would be too simple an action where this fiery woman was concerned. They plundered each other’s mouth with such famish, disintegration was a very real threat. A veritable combat in search of pleasure, she gave as good as she got, without knowing he would most certainly shame himself in a question of seconds.

  Who cared?

  They kissed deeper, hungrier. More explicitly.

  Of course it was not enough. Would it ever be?

  His open mouth slid down her neck, savouring the delicate skin as her head fell back, allowing him more access.

  Impatient hands yanked down her sleeves, making her breasts spill out gloriously. “Beautiful,” he rasped as his mouth fell on one straining nipple, fingers teasing its twin.

  “Fingal,” she uttered as her hands held his head there. He filled his mouth with the sweet mound.

  His name on her lips got him just that bit more in danger.

  If anyone asked Catriona how she had ended up plastered against a tree trunk, with the giant pressed on her, she might try at varied answers, none correct.

  Why did she idealise that lost serenity when this unbridled passion felt so much more worth it? The surrounding reality vanished as he transformed her into a starved woman, shameless. Daring. The yearning had transformed into something raw, mindless. Instinctive.

  She forgot her name, her manners, an entire education devoted to suppressing anything remotely womanly, sensuous. Free. It flew out in the sultry air of this uncommon summer. Like the threadbare peel of an onion, it crackled away to uncover someone she would not have recognised even a week ago. This rearing passion smeared its inevitability in Catriona’s face, and she welcomed it with all the openness of a recruit to the ranks of pleasure.

  Those callused hands rucked up her skirts, throwing what had been left of her lucidity in the dirt. “I am going to show you what my fingers can do,” he growled.

  In a second, those fingers found the spot she had never taken notice of, but ached so much now she would sell her soul for the relief. As he touched the swollen, drenching centre of her, relief seemed the furthest, most unattainable redemption on the planet.

  “So wet!” he rumbled. “The oily salve would have been superfluous.”

  The experienced hand leafed through her, and the ache morphed into pure, hopeless agony.

  “Wrap one leg around me,” the dark voice commanded.

  As she did it, his tragic fingers got more room to take her to despair. “Fingal, I need…I need, please…!”

  “I know, I know. I’ll make it better.” The promise did ring untrue.

  But he teased, he circled, explored, insisted.

  When she thought she could not take it any longer, his mouth suckled on one breast.

  And the world exploded in billions of tiny shards as she screamed to the point of causing the birds to fly for their life. He never stopped, and she burned to ashes time and again. After the storm, she fell back against the tree, breathless and sated.

  A long time elapsed before her breath calmed down and she descended back to earth. Fingal held her against the tree trunk, stroking her with his hands and lips in a soothing way.

  But the hardness of him still imprinted on her.

  “I want to do it for you,” she stated, looking at him.

  He braced his hands on the sides of her head, intent glare on her. “Better leave it be.”

  Her hands were already sneaking under his tented tartan, though. A palm rested on a hair-roughened thigh and climbed tantalisingly up, revelling in the texture of his skin.

  His gaze went up to the blue sky in an attempt not to feel what he must be feeling. “Lass—” he warned.

  Catriona had no intention of heeding anyone’s warning in the hazy state she found herself at that moment. She continued the journey up the muscled limb.

  Fingal closed his eyes, head falling forward, almost meeting her forehead. “Don’t—” Her curious fingers reached the base of him. “You cannot—” and closed around the thick, hard base. “Bluidy hell!”

  Eager, she explored the new territory in a rather clumsy caress to the tip of him. “Goodness me! This is big,” she exclaimed in low tones.

  “And it can get messy, too.” Her caress ripped a grunt from him.

  The thumb strolled over the tip to encounter its slit flowing with moisture. “Wet, just like me.” Her thumb kept at it.

  His serrated breathing told her he might be enjoying it. “Damn it, Sassenach!” And he gave up, as one large hand covered hers to teach it what he liked.

  She followed like a good pupil, and in a minute, he let that hand fall limp by his side, his hips moving back and forth.

  His thick lashes lifted, orbs fixed on her still uncovered full breasts, bouncing with her strokes. Midnight hair fell down her back and over her shoulders, surrounding the mounds. The sight of her made him speed up his thrusts, both arms bracing her.

  “This enormous thing would never fit,” she said, admiring him with her hands.

  More grunts saw the light of day while she perfected her learning. “I wish I could surprise you.”

  “And I wish I could see it.” It seemed to have gone harder and even bigger.

  His arms trembled with the tension in his body, his breath coming in short puffs.

  “Faster!” He directed with urgency. She did it, never taking her gaze from his contorted features. “Don’t stop, don’t…ah-ah.” His head fell back with a raw grunt. And then he soaked her hand with something hot and sticky. He kept on thrusting in her fisted palm a few more times until he fell on her.

  Catriona retrieved her hand from under the wool to see it covered in that white liquid. She brought her hand to her nose to inhale a spicy scent. The tip of her tongue touched it.

  “Hell, Emily!” he said, looking at her. “Do you want me to go hard again?” He seemed enthralled with her tasting of his se
ed.

  A mischievous glint came over her face. “Practice makes perfect.”

  “Impossible lass!” His tall frame rolled to lean on the trunk, sated and vanquished.

  Catriona and Fingal returned to the manor in a calm canter. She had galloped with Debranua for a long time before choosing a spot for her luncheon. The stable hands had exercised the mare in the stockyard in the days she had not time to ride her, so she had missed the dear mare. The ride through woods and meadows dotted with lochs and brooks had been invigorating and soothed the longing for her land a little more.

  After a lengthy while under that tree, Catriona had sprung into activity, putting herself to rights, gathering her things to mount and return, mirrored by Fingal.

  She blushed anew at the memory of what had transpired on that hill. No sign of embarrassment or shame so far, and she wondered if they would ever make an appearance. They should, for her reputation and for the role Fingal would play in her future.

  There were too many complications in said future. Eventually, they would meet as clans, and no one could predict his reaction when he discovered who she was. Knowing him as she did now, not very smooth. They would have a story by then, a secret.

  Anna had not the remotest wish to marry a highlander. But their father had stipulated as much, and, despite her sister’s lack of enthusiasm, Catriona doubted she would go against their father’s edict. Too much was at stake in this. Added to that fact, Anna always gave utter importance to alliances, status, and position. This marriage agreement, though not to her satisfaction, meant she would have a place, and a high one, in the McKendrick clan.

  Guilt came to her at the thought, at last. The passion that mushroomed every time the blasted laird touched her had been stronger than any resistance. Catriona wondered if she should have tried harder to stop it. She was discovering in herself a woman she had never imagined she would ever be. She knew her desires to be wrong; she regretted them, but found it extremely hard to keep them at bay. How deflating to realise she possessed a passionate nature and that it would not be easily confined.

  Perhaps she would be lucky enough to marry Lord Tremaine before Anne’s betrothal and live in the Earl’s seat, avoiding meeting her brother-in-law to be.

  Not coward much. She reproached her gauche thought.

  What she really must do was to avoid any further…interaction with the McKendrick god, leave here as fast as she could. And resurface in London to attend to her obligations before things got to the point of no return. Of no forgiveness. Or of no forgetting.

  Should she manage not to allow the whole…debacle to go too far, she would be able to put everything down to some sort of summer madness and get along with her life.

  “What’s her name?” the god in question asked with his sinful rumble.

  Catriona rounded on his magnificent figure startled. Great! Now what must she answer? Her name is Debranua, you know, a Gaelic name. What a coincidence!

  Yes, right.

  Well, why not? The less she lied, the clearer would be her conscience. “I named her Debranua. I read she was the Celtic goddess of speed.”

  He directed an appraising look at her. “At least you are not one of those English misses who believes England is the centre of the universe.”

  A self-deriding half-smile drew her full lips, swollen by his kisses. “I would never think that.” If he only knew.

  “You surely seem to have no problem living away from London,” he commented. His countenance looked less rigid, less tense, his body with more relaxed muscles.

  “London bores me. I prefer the country.” They rode through a copse of trees where fresh air and the scent of grass invaded her nostrils. She wished she could stay in the Highlands for life.

  “You do surprise me.” His strong hands guided his horse around a big oak tree.

  “I’ve always thrived in my family’s country seat.” It seemed right to tell the truth. “My mother prefers London though, so I’m forced to live in the city most of the year.”

  He nodded in agreement. “You’re not happy with the arrangement.” She must give points to his perception.

  “No, not really.” Her attention flew to the distant green hills.

  “Consider yourself invited to visit whenever you want,” he said.

  She turned a wistful smile to him. “Thank you dearly, but I’m afraid it’s rather unfeasible.” Not only because of distance. It had to be the worst idea in all the geological eras. “I might be able to live in the country in the future.”

  In a blink, his chiselled features crumpled, like a sunny day snapping into a storm. “You mean by marrying.”

  “Who knows?” The vague answer intended to avoid the rough territory.

  Fortunately, they neared the stables, which put an end to the muddy conversation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “My lady.”

  Catriona turned to see her maid coming in her direction. She had just finished training Fiadaich and was about to go up to the manor for luncheon. Fingal had already dashed off to whatever duties he held around the estate.

  A tide of cold washed over her, with her heart scrambling to a race and nerves tensing. “Flora.” With difficulty, she made her hands hang by the side instead of letting them fidget in a show of extreme discomfort. All Flora had to do was tell the wrong people her real name. The information would rush throughout the Highlands like wildfire, simply razing her reputation to dust.

  “I heard of a lass taming a devil horse,” she explained, her fingers twisting the ends of her wrap. “Something told me it be ye.”

  Catriona forced a mild smile. “Yes, news spread of a temperamental horse, and I came to offer help.”

  The girl breathed a relieved smile. “For a moment I thought, I dunno, some aught be amiss.”

  “Nothing’s amiss, Flora.” Except for her own actions, that is. “You can rest assured of that.”

  “I should keep ye company, my lady.” Her plain features assumed a worried tinge. “Laird McTavish would kill me if aught happened to ye.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m simply helping the poor beast.” She hoped her voice and her stance did not contradict her. “You can continue spending time with your family.”

  Her unease did not fade. “Aye, my lady. If there’s aught ye need, send fer me.”

  “I will, Flora. Thanks for coming.” The girl curtsied and left.

  “Who was that?” Fingal asked a few yards away.

  Her head raised to him with a strange expression too close to apprehension.

  “A girl from the village, apparently.” Lashes lowered, she did not look at him.

  He had just ridden away when he thought he would invite her to luncheon and came back. “Looking for someone?” he probed.

  She hesitated, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes still away. “A footman, I reckon.”

  “I see,” he said distractedly.

  That day in the hill had left a mark on him, unwanted and indelible. That furnace she fuelled threatened to reignite every time he remembered her responsiveness and the way she fairly smelted in his arms.

  To make matters worse, she insisted on giving him so much pleasure it was a wonder he did not take her there and then. This desperate need to plunge in her and send everything to the devil assailed him as a physical agony. But then, she satisfied him so completely with that inexperience of hers that felt more like a potent aphrodisiac.

  In the quiet hours of the night, though, his conscience came to nag at him. He would have to be a selfish bastard to go on allowing these moments to see the light of day when he had nothing to offer. Nothing but that primitive, undiluted passion that exploded between them.

  There was something about her. Not her reluctance in talking about her life in England. Something that called to him, created cravings in him that only she would be capable of fulfilling. Cravings that seemed to go beyond the physical, though the physical manifested them. Put them into palpable terms. Connected the man in him to the w
oman in her.

  So he decided to stop tempting destiny and keep his distance. Walk the line, consider her future and his. Her time here would end, she must leave, and he must attend to his duties to the clan.

  She said she preferred the country and clearly she liked it here. For a miss used to the luxuries of the big city, it was unexpected, to say the least. It felt good, the way she fit into life at the manor. Early rising, riding, long walks, her love for horses. A soft heart where they were concerned. Her affection towards Fiadhaich was so moving he wanted to kiss her when he saw them together.

  Rumour had it that Anna McTavish held a certain fondness for London. He remembered her very little, a vague image of a blonde girl with blue eyes and no more. Drostan heard she became a beautiful woman. No man in his right mind refused a comely future bride. But after his eyes had clashed with his Sassenach, any other woman disappeared simply because she must be the most dazzling lass on the planet. The most passionate and the most maddening, by the way.

  Beauty notwithstanding, while alone in his chambers, he determined to keep his distance.

  Aye, right.

  Here he stood with the design of accompanying her to luncheon. Preferably up that damned hill.

  Talk about self-discipline.

  He had none where she was concerned, he should sadly admit. And he did not even know if he wanted to gain it.

  “Shall we go for luncheon?” he asked.

  Dark eyes snapped to him; that alone shook any resolve he had ever had in his life. But when her teeth worried her plump lower lip, the resolve morphed into rushing fire in his blood.

  “I—thank you.” That sweet tongue of hers darted to moisten her lips. The hunger to feel such tongue and those lips on him, on all of him, nearly undid his ragged control. “Mrs Thompson invited me so I wouldn’t eat alone.”

  It was an excuse, of course it was. One that said she had reached the same conclusion as he: to put this whole mess in perspective and do the right thing.

  “Fine,” he answered. What else should he say? She deserved applause for being stronger than he. “Enjoy your meal,” he wished and turned to the stables with a mind of finding icy water somewhere to abate this wretched starvation for her.