The Lass Defied the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 1)

by Lisa Torquay

  Needless to say, he had spent another atrocious night, even if in the comfort of the Laird’s chambers or bed. The later the worst. Wintry after the night they spent in the woods and the manner in which they awoke. The best night of his life. Even if turbulent, frustrating, overflowing with outlawed fantasies and desires.

  He seldom insisted Sam take part in the manor’s activities though he taught the boy everything about it. And expected him to stand up to it when the time came. Possibly when he had married. The thought caused a contrary reaction twisting his guts. Intense and unpleasant. He forced himself to leave it.

  His massive frame approached the group, he saw Shannon stood among them. She had been coming to help in these last couple of months, maybe because, being a childless widow, she wanted to be among people.

  Aileen shuffled through the field to start cutting another section. The morning proved to be productive, the work invigorated her. It prevented her from having negative thoughts and cheered her up despite doing it in his fields.

  Her spine straightened again, and she dried her sweat brow with her sleeve. The workers started to drop the tools, luncheon upon them.

  At that moment, she spotted The McDougal among probable tenants yards away. They talked to him in a relaxed way and she concluded his people might like him well. His work alongside them certainly made him popular.

  A beautiful blonde woman in her thirties joined the group right beside him. She had a plate wrapped in a kitchen cloth. Her hand touched his arm as she lifted a familiar smile to him. He turned to hear what she was saying and smiled even white teeth at her. If those lips constituted excruciation when serious, smiling they were deadly. It provoked a ripple in her insides.

  After speaking to him, the blonde adjusted his red and black tartan with unmistakable intimacy. It downed as a flash she was his paramour.

  In a swift move, she pivoted her back to him while blood drained from the surface of her body in a dizzying rush. And her stomach heaved so dreadfully, she thought she would shame herself on the spot. She swallowed repeatedly, sitting on her hunches, pretending to work. Bile, undiluted, bitter and unfathomable rose to her throat. A reaction whose reason she had no clue to ascertain. It took several deep breaths for her to go back to some semblance of balance.

  “Lass, are you alright?” a friendly voice sounded from above her head.

  Eyes darting up, she saw a matronly woman, with greying brown hair and pleasant face, staring down at her.

  With an iron effort, she produced a wan smile and stood up on strangely wobbly legs. “Yes, sure.” An even bigger effort to utter these weak words. “I was just taking a rest.”

  A frank grin stretched her round red cheeks when she introduced herself. “Gracie at your service, madam.” She made a small curtsy.

  Her easy ways coaxed her to relax a bit, and grin back. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gracie. I am Aileen.”

  “So, Aileen, shall we have a much-deserved luncheon?”

  Anything to distract her from alien reactions. “Certainly, Gracie.” And started walking.

  The jolly woman guided her to a long table set in the middle of the field. She should have brought something to share. In a hurry to flee the manor, she had not thought of food. She doubted she would be able to eat anything right at that minute.

  “A pity I did not bring anything to eat.” Aileen commented. She would keep the woman company drinking a cup of water. The will to eat nowhere to be got.

  Gracie turned her round face to her. “Do you not worry about that. I brought enough for a battalion.”

  Trouble being the Laird sat at the head of the table with the blonde glued to his side. Her stomach threatened to start over anew.

  “Oh, here is a good spot.” She said with fake enthusiasm, pointing to chairs on the opposite side. With all these people in between, she would not need to look at the devil.

  “A relief to sit a little.” Gracie said as she took the seat next to her.

  She would have to turn to the opposite of the head of the table if she wanted to talk to her new friend.

  She preferred to die than to let him perceive her unsettled mood.

  His buidseach sat far from him. Too far for his taste, Taran observed from his spot. And what did he mean by his, anyway? Notwithstanding, he wanted to check her every action, wanted to see that smile on her luminous mahogany eyes and hear what she said and to whom.

  The stubborn woman did not turn to him once. Not even a slide of eyes. Her head kept to the other side, listening to Seamus’ wife. A mighty interesting tale the middle-aged woman must be telling, by the looks of it.

  He, on the other side found it cycloptic difficult to divert from her figure. Another of Shannon’s proprietary touches forced him to though. The widow’s behaviour was annoying him. Thinking of it, she had been too clingy of late. He did not like it, even less done so publicly.

  Luncheon over, Aileen disappeared from his sight. Time and again, he would spot her in the very reverse direction of his. Avoidance, he realised. A wise attitude if it did not anger him to blazing levels.

  This awareness of her did not bode well. In the least. His every sense attuned to her disturbing person. An obsession he could do without for sure. When his son married, he would send them to one of his farthest farms, he promised himself. A damning danger to his tranquillity that was what she represented.

  Taran made it a point to take Shannon home under her ceaseless public display. As he stopped in front of her cottage, he left no doubt that they were severing their connection. The blonde looked none too pleased about it, but had to accept his decision.

  The sight of the devil and the blonde on the wagon together provoked an intense reaction in Aileen. She seethed with a sulphurous feeling roiling in her for no reason she could recognise and would not acknowledge for the life of her. As soon as the wagon disappeared in the country lane, she headed for the manor. A bath should wash off this day.

  One good news being that the troglodyte might spend the night elsewhere, like her brothers were wont to do. And why the idea sank her in an even fowler mood she did not understand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Taran entered the manor, he heard sounds in the drawing room. His legs took him there without a conscious decision. It was her voice in his ears, like a mermaid’s chant.

  He stopped short at the open door to see Aileen and Sam sitting close by her. His hand in hers, her thumb distractedly grazing his palm, the movement reflecting directly in his lower abdomen. Rage surged so hot and powerful, his rational mind simply shut down at once.

  The woman touched his son as if he was a fully-grown man! The perception blinded him to anything else. And blinded him to the real reasons for his rage.

  His infuriated person stormed the room as a barbarian invader. Two heads turned to him bewildered.

  “Aileen.” Her mahogany gaze flashed on him. He lost the rest of it. “In my studio.” He paused in vain attempt to catch himself. “Now.” No success there, so he stormed out, expecting her to follow.

  Aileen looked at the devil and could not decide if the tremor that coursed her came from the disappointment of seeing him so early back or exactly the opposite of it. If the latter, she must be out of her mind.

  The giant gave no respite!

  A communication passed between her and Sam, as if saying, here he goes again. At the Laird’s peremptory bidding, she had no choice.

  He stood by the study door, which he closed as she stepped in it. For good measure, she reached the other side.

  “What do you think you are doing?” An angry scowl smothered his rugged features.

  Brows pleated quizzical. “What do you mean?”

  She had been sitting with Sam in the drawing room waiting for dinner. He showed her the cut he got on his hand for tending to his plants in the hothouse. At the gnash, she tried to convince the boy for them to bandage it.

  “You were obviously trying to seduce him.” He spat as if she must be the
lowest of creatures.

  The accusation so absurd she nearly laughed. But his tone only ignited her temper. “Seducing? Is it not the purpose of ‘getting to know him better’?” Why should she gift him with the true story when he could be so bent on accusation?

  “Know him better does not mean corrupting the boy.” Emphatic, the growl wormed its way into her ears with warm honey to her senses and fuel to her fast shortening patience.

  “Since when holding one’s hand means corruption?” Something dark and acid entered her.

  “Since when I define it.” He stood in the middle of the room, mussed sable hair, dark stubble, sweat shirt, tartan in disarray.

  A warrior demanding his loot.

  “You, hypocritical villain!” She breathed hotly. He dallied with widows at his leisure, but she and Sam must be chaste? To hell with him!

  He pretended she did not say it though his too handsome face went even more furious. “My son is too young to be the victim of your vile.”

  She sucked air into her lungs to avoid losing her cool. “What do you mean by that?” The air brought the scent of earthen man, clean sweat and harvest.

  “He understands little of what goes on between a man and a woman.” Legs braced, arms crossed, his green eyes bombarded her with vexation.

  The day’s sulphur erupted to the surface, and she did not care what she said anymore. “In which case, I will teach him whatever he needs to learn.”

  A demon awoke in her and she wanted to see him lose it and taste the same acid she did during luncheon. She did not understand why. And she did not care.

  It produced the expected result. “What does he need to learn, Aileen?” The guttural delivery came low and dangerous.

  A small derogatory smile came to her lips. “Things you would not believe.” She stabbed further. If he wanted to… test how much she understood of the matter, she could deliver a treaty.

  At this, he prowled in her direction. “Try me.” One more of those growls and she would throttle him or—heaven forbid—grab him.

  No! It would not do. “You want me to marry him!” And just like that, she lost hold on her already threadbare control.

  A humourless chuckle aired out of his impossibly sensuous mouth. “You start to catch the big picture, I see.”

  “Yes. We are going to sleep together!” She must make an extreme effort to keep her voice level.

  No sound came from him, but he blanched visibly.

  “Do you realise it?” She asked, hands flying to her waist.

  His stare continued trained on her as if disbelieving what he listened to here. No, he did not think it through, did he?

  She kept her ground, chin notching up, boring her glare in his, unyielding, defiant. Fuming! Because he advanced on her, nostrils flaring, square jaw ticking.

  She did not stop. “You abducted me to bear your grand-children!” She forced it out as the biggest nonsense of the universe.

  By his sides, his fists clenched; his lips pressed together.

  “Have you thought of it?” She threw once more. “You and your— “ Gaze descending along his length, his tartan tented.

  Her stare snapped back to him and he was already upon her. A cold and hard surface met her back as he cornered her against the stone wall.

  “Stop it, Aileen.” He muttered the command with a trace of urgency, lacing her waist with one muscled arm. “Stop it before I go crazy imagining it!” Their bodies clashed.

  Then she had to as his mouth came down to plunder hers in an assault of her senses. A blunt tongue pillaged her, entering full, merciless. The avalanche of sensations left her no choice but to hold on to him. Her arms seized his thick neck as she arched into him and lifted her head to meet is height.

  His other hand tore out her pins making her glossy chestnut hair fall around her shoulders. His palm rolled her hair around it, dominating her while his tongue plunged deeper.

  A moan originated in her throat, a veritable conflagration taking over every single corner of her skin. Her fingers sank in his sable hair, pulling him flush to her, their frames touching everywhere. His impressive erection imprinted on her belly and the fire melted her centre, transforming it in scorching liquid.

  He turned his head to the other side, pulled her tighter, invaded her deeper, hotter, harder. She followed, her decaying person giving in to everything he demanded, wanting to fall lower, wanting him to appease the ache. Wanting relief for this desperate crave.

  Hell broke loose. There existed no more limits. They went far, beyond any sensible boundary. They unleashed the demons and let them raze the little that stood yet.

  Still not enough.

  In whimpers, she demanded total perdition, and he responded pressing her harder against the wall, his manhood a cement sculpture against her softness. A mirage of quench and an agony of hollowness rolled into one.

  He came up for air, their eyes meshing, foggy, full of insane passion. Ragged breaths mingled, he dropped her hair, his mouth falling open on her silky neck where the pulse throbbed. A fuel they did not need, but hungered for anyhow. Gasps escaped her. Then this same hand grabbed her sleeve and yanked it down her shoulder to bare one full breast. He clutched his sinful stubble mouth to the mound as if his life depended on it. Her head fell backwards, the heat so overwhelming she thought he would morph her into ashes. He did not. He just made famine acquire an unsupportable new meaning.

  His calamitous lips suckled firm, she pressed his head to it on the verge of imploring him to do something, anything. Everything.

  But no. It all worsened when he nibbled the poor dusky nipple only to fill his mouth again and drench her even further with torment.

  “You two in there.” Sam’s voice behind the door. “Have you killed each other yet?”

  As if lightning struck him, Taran pulled from her lunging to the centre of the study, his back to her, hand raking his tousled hair, jagged breath.

  “Not so far, Sam.” Raspy, he called to his son. “We will come to dinner shortly.”

  Aileen slumped against the wall, head falling on it, short breaths, unable to produce the slightest movement.

  “Alright, father.” His steps retreated.

  He pivoted to her anew, his green attention taking in her flushed skin, fallen hair, her misplaced dress, the wet, pebbled mound on show, then clasped on hers. Dark, unsatisfied. Guilty.

  “I will go wash for dinner.” And left swiftly, closing the door.

  It took minutes for her to be able to react. When she did, practical hands re-did her hair and her dress. But nothing on this world would make her forget that typhoon.

  ~.~.~

  ‘Wash for dinner’ would not put him to rights, Taran concluded as he tramped to the loch. Only diving in icy liquid would bring him back to a semblance of sanity. A secluded place came into view, he shed his clothes and gave himself to the placid water, swimming in energetic strokes in the hopes of cleansing the memory of her. The aniseed scent, the intolerably smooth skin, the torturously delicious breast, the flaming passion matching his. Sudden amnesia would be unachievable. Their encounter kept replaying as his head plunged down the water and when it surfaced. When his arm pulled him forward or when his legs stayed him.

  His attention had been divided between what she threw at him and her. Her hair piled in a practical bun. Her flashing eyes heating him, her curvy body alluring him, her illegal-thought-inducing lips turning him inside out. There had been no disguising her effect on him after that.

  Their illicit tryst in the study had branded him. He found no escape. Even the guilt did not compel repentance. It reinforced the thirst for more. For total release. Multiple releases. Until they were so exhausted, there would not be guilt left. Nothing left. Only the torpor and the satiety. The sweat bodies and the sleep.

  He could stay no longer in the loch or he would catch his death. Emerging, he dried taut large frame with his tartan, wrapped it around him and rushed to his chamber for fresh clothes.

  Dinne
r promised to be a dragging event.

  ~.~.~

  It was not a dragging event. The tension perforated the air so thick it might be called a fourth person at the table.

  Taran observed Sam and Aileen trying at carefree conversation while he avoided looking at her as one avoided a forest of thorns. To no avail because her simple presence pierced him like the worst mediaeval instrument of torture. A torture he craved with so much desert-like thirst he was on the verge of exploding.

  Sam took his knife to cut the meat and only now did he see a provisory cloth wrapped around his palm.

  “What happened to your hand?” He found a hoarse tone to his son.

  Sam looked at his hand. “I cut it when I took care of my plants. Aileen wrapped it and she will bandage it better after dinner.”

  So, that had been the reason she took his son’s hand in hers in the drawing room. He concluded not the least proud of the way he reacted at the sight of it. And not the least repentant of what unfolded in his study. If he was the bomb, she was the gunpowder trail. That blistering kiss put fire to it and it stood on the verge of bursting in a million shards if he did nothing about it.

  “I hope it does not hurt too much.” The platitude failed to cover his wrenchingly frustrated state.

  “Just a little, father. But she knows of herbs which will relieve the pain.” Sam answered with an admiring streak to his voice.

  He wished she produced any herb to relieve his pain as well.

  How contrary his son should admire the diminutive witch. He seemed to have welcomed her feminine presence in his life. The whole manor seemed to have done it, to his annoyance. After such a long feminine absence. His bringing her here proved to have unforeseen consequences, one he was not prepared to take on, much less put up with now.

  “Come, Sam.” Her voice uttered for the first time in the present meal. “Let us treat this cut.”

  The sound punctured his ears and arrowed to places he did not want to remember right then. Neither did he want to remember what sounds that voice made not an hour ago, in his arms.