The Lass Defied the Laird (Explosive Highlanders Book 1)

by Lisa Torquay

  Long minutes passed before she could articulate clear thought again.

  He gave her no time though. Abandoning the bed—and her—he dressed a shirt hurriedly and picked up a coat.

  The woollen piece came from him so she would get something with which to cover herself to return to her chamber. He informed. “I will call the priest here tomorrow.” He handed her the garment. “And tell Seamus to hold his blabber until we are married.” With that, he gyrated and exited the chamber.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Taran marched like a bullet through the kitchens towards the loch. Again.

  For the same reason. Again.

  The headstrong witch turned his life upside down and did not even blush with guilt.

  Again.

  When he saw her by his side in his bed, something snapped in his guts. He did not understand what it might be. Not even the knowledge of her schemes erased it. He mused as he dived and swam vigorously, hoping to subside his rampant condition.

  That she thwarted his designs yet one more time made him mad. As usual. Nevertheless, marriage to her felt… right. It felt right and he could not fathom why. It was as though a burden lifted from his shoulders. Her in his chambers. She belonged there. With him. To give her pleasure, to take care of her, to live with her. It all felt right. Too much.

  Too damned much!

  To witness her gone to ashes because of him, the sounds she emitted, her hunger for him, mirrored by his for her, transformed him in a randy teenager. Alright, so the way he basically coerced her to accept his proposal—a command, more like it—not entirely honourable. It was either this or let her go. No way! Twenty-four hours were going to stretch like a year until they got married. Even if every time they confronted one another, sparks flew like in a blacksmith shop. Hot and smelting.

  This woman was a hurricane.

  The fact she could choose from several suitors caused him to see red. That she would sleep with someone else twisted his insides with a red-hot iron spear. Though this was exactly what he brought her here for, was it not. Had he succeeded, he might have gone deranged. He must admit it at least to himself. He had solely the buidseach to thank after all.

  Twenty-four hours would be eternity.

  Bluidy hell!

  ~.~.~

  Sam himself opened the door when Taran arrived at Seamus’ cottage later. Father eyed son with a stern look. Sam regaled him with a mischievous one. That woman had something to do with it. And who could blame her for putting a smile on his son’s usually grave round-glassed stance?

  Behind the boy stood Seamus, arms crossed, a reproving glance at his Laird. “If ye were not The McDougal, we would go out to the yard to straighten this.” The man he regarded as high as his father said.

  His sensuous lips pressed one another before he spoke. “No need.” He met the older man’s stony face in full. “I will marry her.”

  “Such a sacrifice!” Grace intervened with a grimace, inferring the bride-to-be’s beauty would offer no hardship there.

  “But father!” Sam approached them. “She does not want to marry a McDougal.”

  “She must, Sam. Or her reputation may be tainted.”

  A worried look came to his son.

  “By the way,” he continued to the older pair, “I would like to request you not to talk about this to anyone.”

  The couple nodded in agreement. “What about the boy?” Seamus challenged.

  Taran gazed at his son. “Care to explain?”

  The adolescent drafted a faint smile. “I am quite relieved I will not have to marry so soon.”

  Seamus barked a loud laugh. “No man does, son!” And to Taran. “The boy is rather smart, despite being yours.”

  The Laird grinned humourless. He saw food for thought here if his own son expressed such opinion. Did he really push the boy into unhappiness, just as his father did to him? Would he himself have chosen differently had he had the chance? But his marriage brought Sam whom he loved immensely. The marriage itself? Maybe not, despite everything. This copycat of that recipe for disaster he should not forget, he noted mentally. Though Aileen proved to be much more grounded than his late wife, it did not mean his son would be happy with her. Or she with him.

  How daft could he be?

  “He takes after his father, I must say.” He quipped to disguise the direction of his conjectures.

  “Here is breakfast.” Invited Gracie as everyone sat around the coarse table, the waft of fresh bannocks appetising.

  “May Sam stay here for a while after the wedding?” Taran inquired before drinking his ale.

  “Of course.” Gracie answered.

  “When is it, father?” His red brows pleated.

  “Tomorrow.” He already sent word to the priest.

  “In a hurry, are we?” Seamus interposed. “Is she with child?”

  A ruddy colour surfaced in Taran’s rugged features with the possibility of him making a wee bairn with her. Many bairns.

  “Too early to say, you dim-wit!” Gracie jabbed her husband.

  “I do not want this to come out and risk a skirmish with the McKendricks.” Not in a thousand years would he confess to a different reason.

  “Clever move.” Approved Seamus.

  Breakfast over, Taran looked at his son. “Time to go, Sam.”

  The boy followed him to the door.

  “I expect to see you in the church tomorrow.” Taran invited the couple.

  “We would not miss it even for the best whisky from your distillery!” Joked Seamus.

  ~.~.~

  Next morning came with rain pouring from the sky in sheets and cold temperature to match. Taran did not mind it. His blood ran heated. His best tartan lay on his bed, the one the buidseach would warm tonight. The one in which they would wake up in tomorrow.

  Bathed, clean shirt, neat cravat, coat, carefully pinned tartan over his shoulder, hose, sporran, polished shoes. It had been a long time he did not dress this formally. The village’s and his manor’s social gatherings did not demand such full attire.

  Head dress adjusted and sword on his waist, he headed for the manor’s chapel. And waited.

  The priest, Father Robert, stood there, too. The short, bald man in his sixties presided in the village for the best part of three decades.

  On the front pew, sat Seamus, Gracie and Sam, the only people in attendance. A quiet ceremony seemed the best choice.

  The door opened to reveal Aileen. The most beautiful bride in the Highlands. She dressed formally, as well, lace trimmed underdress, green and black plaid spencer, head dress over hair falling to her shoulders, round neckline, eyes sparkling on a solemn demeanour.

  Tonight, after the hastily assembled wedding feast, they would quench that thirst, he affirmed keenly, impatience thrumming every single muscle.

  Slowly, she glided through the aisle, no flowers in her hands or her head. When she approached, he offered his arm, which she touched lightly, and they came before the priest.

  Foreword spoken, Father Robert proceeded to the wedding vows. “Lady Aileen, do you take Taran McDougal as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to obey and to cherish until death do you part?"

  Aileen, turned to him and looking him hard and deep in his eyes, said, “No.”

  The whole universe seemed to go still. Nothing moved. Silence befell everyone in cavernous space. A bird chirped outside on a tree. Rain spattered the windows. Wind swished the trees. A candle flame quivered.

  The spell broke when Aileen fisted her hands on her slim waist. The world awoke anew.

  Father Robert showed a frump. Gracie gasped. Seamus silenced. Sam hid a knowing smile.

  And Taran scowled, his blood rushing in his veins boiling and fast.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” The priest started, diplomatic.

  “I said no.” She repeated firm and sure.

  The woman had the nerv
e!

  “What do you mean by no?” Taran asked low and menacing.

  Her chin raised and her eyes fried him. He did not need to get any hotter. Not now.

  “I was not even asked.” Clear cut-glass voice. “In fact I was— “ Furious crimson colour covered her flawless skin. “Coerced!”

  Unforgettable coercion, he completed inwardly. One he would make a point to repeat. When would it be? Never, probably. Damn her!

  Father Robert turned grim to Taran. “Is it true, Laird McDougal.”

  Guiltlessly, he faced the old man. “Not exactly, Father Robert.” He shrugged as if it had been the most usual proposal in the universe. “She said yes when I… proposed.”

  The wilful harridan fulminated him with her burning mahogany eyes, daring him to wallow further in his half-truths. Which she clearly conceived as half-lies. Entire falsehoods.

  To the priest. “I am sorry, father.” Her swivel to Taran sudden as she crossed her arms defiant, the stubborn witch. “I refuse to marry on these terms.”

  Which terms would she marry on, he questioned? Those where he would become her lap-dog? Hell would freeze over first. Did she not learn women were supposed to be pliable? Dependable? Biddable. Docile. Tame! Especially tame. Unquestionably tame!

  “The man found his match, finally.” Seamus hissed none too discreet to his wife.

  Which made Taran even madder. If she was his match, he was the King of England!

  “Excuse me.” She addressed the room in general. And strutted, straight spine, high chin, to the front door.

  Taran’s green fiery eyes followed her, still not believing she did it. Ditched him in front of his own son and his most important kin. He possessed this pulsating need to go after her and twist her delectable neck. And then kiss those disastrously delicious lips. Because she infuriated him and aroused him in the same breath.

  The same blasting, blistering breath.

  ~.~.~

  Aileen fumed along the way to her chamber. As she had been fuming for nearly twenty-four hours. When she left his chamber, and trudged to hers, her body cooled down and crystalline reflection resurfaced. In a long bath, she pondered at what had transpired. Anger replaced the languidness he cast over her like a curse. And what he did to usher, herd her into marriage—yet again—started looking very coercive indeed. That she would not accept.

  She stood up to her three brothers and resisted determined their pressure to choose a suitor. They emphasised she went past the age of marriage, she would not receive so many offers in the future. They needed the alliances. Fine, but she would take her time.

  Then the implacable giant crossed her way to do the same, first with his son, then with her. No, oh, no!

  The man was the devil incarnate. What he did to her in his bed surpassed the wildest dreams of delectation. Barely remembering of it got her so candent, she must sit on her bed. When would she have thought that a man would literally rip out clear thought from her brain to replace it with pure lust? Explosive lust. One fuelled by his naked broad torso her eyes feasted on shamelessly.

  She craved it again.

  Craved everything.

  That must be the most stupid idea that ever saw the light of day!

  The ‘no’ word became her specialty, with three healthy brothers extremely sure they could bend her to their designs and a father to match. She experienced a very thorough training in making her will prevail. And she was not about to acquiesce meekly to the troglodyte who abducted her on top of it all.

  The morning’s events must have exhausted her, for she lay on her bed and fell asleep instantly.

  By the time she woke up, darkness had descended again. Confused, she sat up and the memories came rushing. That morning, as the bagpiper played his soothing song, she had awoken and bathed, eaten, dressed. And, oh…

  She survived a called-off wedding.

  The fire burned in the hearth. She lit a candle and left in search of Sam.

  Sam nowhere to be seen. In truth, a quietude filled the manor. No servants, no kin, no bustling, no noise.

  The place lay deserted as if everyone had migrated to another land.

  Her feet roamed the halls, the rooms, her steps echoed around her. In the kitchen, she picked on food displayed on the table. Food that the absent servants would serve in the feast. But she found not a soul to ask what happened.

  At a loss what to make of it, she walked back up to her chambers.

  The only sign of life showed light under his door.

  Who else?

  She knocked.

  CHAPTER TEN

  And lost her voice somewhere down her throat. Dry throat. When, in a decisive movement, the door opened.

  Taran stood in the door frame, shirt, tartan. And nothing else. Tall, tousled coal hair, broad shoulders.

  Behind him, in his chambers, on an escritoire, open ledgers, a candle; fire in the hearth cast a tepid light in the room.

  Their eyes clasped together, and she forgot how to utter words completely. She should not have come. Should have waited until morning. Should have waited forever.

  Those green beacons bored down in her, fixed, silent. Insistent.

  Long minutes passed before she could gather wisps of wits.

  “W-where is everybody?” She stammered, wide gaze still on him.

  “It was going to be our wedding night, so I gave everyone the day off work.” His attention continued to ensnare her, bind her. Blind her to anything beyond him.

  Her mouth formed an ‘oh’, her fingers twisted in front of her and she realised she possessed no ability to stop fidgeting. Though her gaze exhibited the perfect ability to remain fast up on him. And his on hers.

  These feet must move, she ordered them. They rebelled. Her person planted as a tree in front of his chamber. Glare devouring him.

  At last her feet unglued from the planks. But to move in the wrong direction. Towards his blasted door.

  As if on cue, he gave way. It was like a magnetic field had engulfed them.

  This heart of hers sprang on an unending race.

  Her other foot stepped forward too, even if her eyes continued gripped up on him as if in a trance.

  Another step and she came past the threshold.

  Her insides washed in heat.

  One more step. What was she doing, for pity’s sake?

  This door closed with a flick of his long strong fingers.

  The same which covered her nape and pulled her to him in a scorching kiss.

  A sound trapped on her throat with the onslaught of sensation the simple gesture unleashed in her.

  Then all burst into movement.

  Her arms circled his thick neck, his other one laced her waist, and in seconds they locked in a searing embrace.

  Their tongues pursued one another, met, tangled, untangled, re-entangled in a dance of a time past the druids.

  Her body flush on him, she rose on tiptoes to reach for more. Hunger ruled unconstrained. And demanded release.

  Suddenly, her back met the wall by the door. His muscled frame pressing on her, his both hands bracing the stones beside her head as he curved down on her, kissing her further. Her head lifted upper to him, the need in her rising ungovernable.

  His bristle square jaw came up, both panting, their breaths mixing in the darkened room, where only the fire burned in the fireplace.

  “You cast a spell on me, witch!” He rasped, eyes merged down on hers. “I cannot even eat for the want of you.”

  “It was you, you troglodyte.” She murmured.

  After a faint smirk, his impossibly sensuous mouth came down on hers anew and they grubbed on each other as if this might be the last night of the world.

  He lifted her by her narrow waist and, instinctively, her legs surrounded him, her dress bunching around the top of her thighs. His turn to grunt as his tumescent erection met her eager centre through an unnecessary tartan.

  Transported to the bed, he placed one knee on it and they lay clutched on the fluffy
mattress, her hair spreading on the pillow.

  Her hands sneaked under his shirt to find hot muscles flexing with his movements. He smelled of earth and man and desire. She wanted his skin on hers, touching everywhere. Her hands managed to unwrap part of the red and black plaid, availing more of his hair peppered frame to her.

  Conspicuous lips ceased the kiss as he came up and his deft hands started undressing her as she took the opportunity to do the same.

  Magnificent, all of him. Perfect. A powerful warrior from the night of times.

  When she came naked, spread on his bed, Taran lost any sense of where he was or when. Anything that might remotely relate to clear thought disappeared.

  The most beautiful woman lay on his mattress. His eyes roamed her chestnut strands, translucent skin, round breasts, tiny waist and hips flaring to drive him crazy.

  He dived to ravine her mounds as she cradled him between her legs. And he came home.

  They spun out of control too fast. Her curious hands did not make it any easier, caressing, exploring, discovering. And elevating his temperature to breaking point.

  As she found his erection, a jolt of electricity took him to hell with a tint of heaven.

  “No, Aileen!” He pinned her hands over her head. “You are going to finish me in seconds.” Hoarse, on the last of his forces.

  “Damn you, Taran!” She protested before he covered her mouth with a carnal kiss that made nothing better.

  Her legs tightened around him, her spine arched into him as she begged for satisfaction. The woman did not relent.

  Leaving her lips, ragged breath, boiling blood, insane starvation, he filled his mouth with one round breast and his hand with the other, never getting enough of her. Her moan threw him in a pit fire. He descended and reached the femininity, hot, moist. Ready.

  Buidy hell!

  And tasted paradise. Again.

  At last.

  By then, he trembled with the effort of restraining himself as he tongued her with gusto. She was so on the edge, she screamed his name in a matter of seconds. She quivered, and he wore her out until she fell on the mattress dazed.