British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set

by Marissa Farrar

  He flung a split piece of log but instead of picking up another straight away, he turned and caught her staring once more.

  “Like what you see eh, lassie?”

  Harriet rolled her eyes, more at being caught than his egotistical response.

  “Actually I do.” She didn’t know where her bravado was coming from but she knew for sure that she wanted him. She wanted to feel that ass for real. She wanted to open her legs wide for him, right here in this forest and let him feel how wet she was for him.

  “Aye, yer all the same,” he said, and Harriet gasped as he seemed to cast a sorrowful glance before turning back to his chopping.

  What the fuck had just happened? Her lust for him disappeared and she suddenly felt ashamed and angry at his response. She pulled the last of the bits of leaves and twigs from her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair trying to detangle it. Testing her foot by putting her weight on it, she winced as she realised there was no way she was going to make it back down to the hotel without help, or at the very least, a long stick to lean on.

  What had she been accused of? So he was fed up of being a sex symbol, was that it? This was interesting. Something she could definitely write about.

  “What do you mean? We’re all the same?” she asked, grimacing as she limped towards him.

  He never broke rhythm. She twisted and hopped awkwardly until she was close enough to smell him. Arousal swelled in the pit of her belly once more as his musky pheromones took hold. Flexing muscles and glinting axe blade had her hypnotised and she had to blink herself back to the present. “Archie MacDonald, what do you mean?”

  He stopped mid swing. “Ah so you do know my name. You were stalking me.”

  Harriet was taken aback. “No I was not stalking you, don’t be ridiculous!” She was appalled at the accusation.

  “Aye? So how do you explain knowing my name for one thing? Or maybe falling through a bush you’d been hiding in to watch me? Or how about following me all the way up here to get a look, eh? If that’s no stalking, hen, I don’t know what is.” He glared, the hard edge to his cold blue eyes froze the atmosphere between them.

  Harriet’s mind worked quickly, trying to formulate her defence. “Don’t be absurd, I didn’t follow you. I was taking a morning walk.”

  “Aye, right,” he said and went back to his work, grasping an entire log with one huge hand and placing it on the block.

  As he took up the axe, Harriet had to reluctantly agree that looking at things from his point of view, she could indeed have been stalking him, or at the very least, out looking for him.

  A shudder sprained though her veins, what about all the photos on her laptop? God almighty. She wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if he ever put in an official complaint and got hold of those. Wow. How was she going to convince him otherwise? Perhaps she should come out and tell him she was a reporter.

  “Archie, listen,” she said to his back as he continued to chop, “you’re right, it does look suspect, but I’m telling the truth, honest. It’s pure coincidence that I’m here, I know it doesn’t look that way, but it’s the truth. I did come for a walk. But I heard the crack of the axe and got curious and followed it. I had no idea you were up here.”

  “Aye alright but what about knowing my name. How do you explain that, cos I dinnae think you’re an avid follower of the Games.”

  “No, you’d be right in that assumption. But it’s not what you think…” Now what? Admitting she was a journalist had only ever led to mistrust and conflict in situations like this. The conversation—one sided though it was—he’d had with Megan at breakfast suddenly popped into Harriet’s head.

  “Megan who works at the hotel told me.”

  “Megan? What’s she blabbing about me for?”

  “Well,” a blush rose up Harriet’s chest and throat, “She told me that, ahem, you’d told her to ‘give me the good stuff’,” she watched as he cocked his eyebrow and she added, “breakfast wise…”

  For a moment, it was Archie who looked a little embarrassed then his face softened and crinkled up into a gorgeous throaty laugh. “Give you the good stuff eh?” His eyes twinkled. “You’re the one from the bar last night, right enough. I thought so.” For the first time since she’d fallen through the bush, Harriet’s confidence returned. She quickly thought about the words she’d uttered and realised the tables had turned.

  “And I might be the one to ask exactly what you meant by, ‘giving me the good stuff’, and why you would say such a thing.” She could imagine the leering crass conversation that had taken place after she’d skulked out of the bar and into hiding. They’d probably ridiculed her in their burly misogynistic group, patting each other’s backs as they mocked her. It made her skin crawl but also, thrilled her a tiny bit.

  The laughing stopped and he took a step towards.

  She was set off balance and started to fall backwards, gasping at the thought of landing awkwardly on her bad ankle.

  Archie reached out and grabbed her forearm, drawing her back to standing and pulled her to him, staring all the while into her eyes with his hard look. “What do you want it to mean?” His expression was dark and serious and Harriet trembled.

  Her mouth was dry, but every other part of her was liquefying. She held his gaze as heat and electricity raged between them. She was aware of her chest rising and falling heavily.

  He glanced down at her breasts.

  She took her chance and leaned in, reaching up while his head was bowed enough for her to almost catch his mouth with hers. For the briefest of moments, their lips touched and static jumped between them.

  Rising higher on her tip-toes sent a bolt of pain through Harriet’s ankle making her crumple, and again he took her weight.

  “I see,” he said, dipping his knees and catching her under her backside with his forearm, “if it’s the good stuff you want…” He hoisted her up into his arms as if she were nothing at all.

  Harriet’s heart was racing. His body was hard and toned as she bumped against it, held in close to his chest, her cheek resting against his bicep. She’d never experienced such instantaneous lust for another person before. It was heady and thrilling but also dark and dangerous. This was the bad boy of the Highlands. Who knew what he was capable of? One thing was for sure, Harriet was about to find out.

  Chapter Three

  “Where are you taking me?” Harriet was expecting to be thrown to the spongy ground and roughly disrobed and taken hard in the dirt. She imagined him flipping her over and lifting her ass high while pushing her face down, she could almost taste the earthy scent on her tongue and she was almost whimpering with need. Dampness and yearning burned between her thighs. But he just held her tight and kept striding out of the clearing, past the trees she’d fallen through and back onto the path.

  By the time she realised there was to be no animal fucking in the forest, they were half way down the rocky path and the pain in her ankle was getting worse. With every sway and step he took, she was racked with pain.

  “Archie, Archie, stop, it’s too sore.”

  He paid her no heed and kept walking.

  Nausea gripped her and she tried to cradle her ankle with her other foot to give it some relief from Archie’s jolting gait.

  How disappointing there was to be no sex. Adrenalin and arousal began to fade leaving the now familiar hollow embarrassment in its wake. So it seemed Archie Macdonald was the king of power play. He liked to be in control of the situation. Typical bad boy. How awful that someone she’d only met a few minutes ago could possibly have such a hold over her already. He was dangerous and magnetic. So far, for now, she hadn’t been in physical danger, but she knew for sure that she certainly was emotionally. He’d got her on a rollercoaster of control and it seemed like there was nothing she could do. He’d cast a spell on her—but it appeared to be a spell that he actually had no interest in casting. A shiver scurried down her spine when she remembered a story she’d done on masochists. People who went o
ut of their way to put themselves in horrible emotional or physical predicaments. She’d never ever thought she’d be into anything like that, but here she was, already addicted to the attentions of a man who seemed to regard her with disdain.

  Harriet was now breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, counting each in and out breath to keep her mind focussed and off her ankle. Or was it to keep it off Archie?

  She tried to let herself be lulled into a beautiful place where she was held and protected. Who knew what was going to happen next but if she lived in the moment, she could enjoy that at least.

  Lost in a fog of pain and counting, Harriet was shocked when she was casually deposited at the door of a dark stoned house. Archie shoved it open and dragged her through to a very old fashioned waiting room.

  “Oi, Doc, need you for something.”

  The place was empty and Archie went to the door marked Surgery and rattled his knuckles hard, opening it without waiting for a reply.

  Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and winced at the invasion of privacy, anyone could be getting examined in there, but Archie didn’t seem to care a jot.

  “Doc, I’ve got a lassie here, busted up leg. Nothing serious. Just a sprain but take care of her eh? She’s up at the hotel. I’ll get Tam to come pick her up when you’re done. She’s in a lot of pain so ‘give her the good stuff’, Aye?”

  And with that, he strode out of the surgery and past Harriet and out without even a backwards glance. Humiliation spread though her once more as a weasly tweed-wearing chap came through the door pushing spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

  “Ah, yes, hello, do come this way,” he said, sweeping his hand towards his office as if a man charging in and demanding his attention was the most natural thing in the world.

  Harriet used the various bits of bobbled nylon-covered seating as aids to help her cross the waiting room and was surprised when the doctor met her half way, offering his arm and helping her into the surgery. Doctors in London would never do that. You’d be lucky if your name was called out correctly after an hour of waiting, usually the door would be opened enough to give you a shout, then left to shut just as you got to it.

  This was strange indeed.

  The doctor rolled out some oversized kitchen roll onto the examination bed and bid her to lie on it.

  “Out frolicking with Archie Macdonald, eh?” The doctor never once made eye contact as he flitted around the room, picking at equipment and moving the curtain. “It’s a common cause for injury, you know,” he said, snorting a strange giggle and adjusting his spectacles again. Harriet thought it wholly inappropriate and was about to say so when he put his cold hands onto her ankle, making her cry out.

  “Oh dear, yes that is a painful one. Take off your boot, please.” He pushed his glasses up his nose in a way that was so utterly clichéd, Harriet wondered if she was actually dreaming this whole episode.

  The boot was fairly easy once loosened, it was the sock which seemed to cause the most discomfort. When the tight elasticated band was removed, blood rushed into the already swollen area causing it to throb in a gnawingly gross ache.

  Harriet thought she might faint when the doctor started to poke and prod at it.

  “Hmm, yes, probably only a wee twist but I’ll pop a bandage on it anyway and you can borrow some crutches.”

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t go for an X-ray? It’s really painful.”

  “No, no, waste of time and besides, the hospital only does X-rays on a Monday and Friday. Wait and see and if a wee dram in the pub tonight doesn’t sort it out. If it doesn’t, come back in and I’ll put you on the list.” He went to a creaky cupboard and pulled out a dusty box of Tubigrip. “I don’t have the metal cage thing to pull it on so we’ll have to do our best.”

  Harriet held out her hand, she had absolutely no faith in this man’s ability not to hurt her further. “Pass it here, I’ll do it myself.”

  The doctor seemed relieved. He went to his desk and pulled out his prescription pad.

  Harriet was looking forward to some nice co-codamol or even a dreamy spot of simple codeine. “You don’t have anything here I can take, do you? You know, to take the edge off.”

  The doctor looked delighted.

  “Indeed I do!” He said with a gleeful expression and opened the drawer at his knee.

  Harriet refocussed on her foot and stretched out the elasticated bandage as wide as it would go. She pushed her toe into the opening and pulled gently. Sucking air through her teeth, she persevered all the way up her foot to her now grotesquely swollen ankle. She could hear the doctor rooting around in his drawer and wished he’d hurry up with the medication.

  “Ah you’re doing a grand job there,” he said holding out a small shot glass full of yellow liquid. Harriet rolled her eyes as she noted he had one in each hand.

  ***

  So, getting pissed with the doctor had indeed ‘done the trick’ to perhaps not completely dull the pain, but at least be more able to laugh about it. They’d polished off a half bottle together and Harriet was now staggering up the hill towards the hotel. What the hell even time was it? She wondered, trying not to get tangled in her crutches on the uneven cobbles and flagstones.

  By the time she’d made it up to her room feeling a bit ashamed that it was barely one O’clock, she was exhausted and fell face first onto her bed and into an alcohol and pain induced sleep.

  When she woke, she was hungover and ravenous. She hoped they were serving food down at the bar – it was that ‘in between’ lunch and dinner time.

  ***

  “Hair o the dug?”

  “What?” Harriet was startled to see Archie sitting as if waiting for her. She shuffled awkwardly into the bar and unlocked the crutches from under her arms and reached out to a stool for support. She was feeling quite rough and a headache was gnawing into the backs of her eyes.

  “Well, not many folk get out of Doctor Scott’s surgery without, at the very least, a wobbly step on the way home, by the time he spent with you I reckon you were half cut before lunch time.”

  Harriet bristled with defensiveness. But what else could she do but admit the truth. She had got bloody plastered at the doctor’s and spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping it off.

  She forced a shrug and smile. “Purely medicinal, Archie,” she said, turning her attention to the tender and taking a menu.

  “Dinnae bother with that,” said Archie, grabbing the laminated booklet and easing her away from the bar. “I ken exactly what’s needed in a situation like this.”

  To her own annoyance, Harriet hopped to the nearest table and sat down while Archie loudly put an order in.

  “Haggis for the Sassenach and a rusty nail, Megan, the lass spent the afternoon wi Doctor Scott.”

  Harriet wanted to slither down her chair and disappear as practically everyone in the pub turned to her with knowing glances.

  When Archie came over with two glasses of bright orange liquid, it was as if all the hostility from earlier had never existed.

  Once again, Harriet was caught off guard.

  “I’m only teasing you,” he said, treating her to a glimpse of his perfect white teeth as he smiled broadly. “We’ve all been through it, Doctor Scott would have been over the moon for some fresh meat.” He looked her up and down and Harriet flushed, a prickle of heat rising through her décolleté. “Seriously though, ye’r alright are ye?”

  Harriet was surprised to see real concern in his eyes. It was only a flicker though.

  “Actually, yes, despite the headache, my ankle doesn’t feel nearly as bad.” She tentatively rolled her foot around and was pleased that it was far less painful than only a few hours before.

  “See, there is method in the old man’s madness. You just needed to rest it properly for a coupla hours.” He lifted the glasses and passed her one. “Here, this’ll sort oot yer heid.” He knocked his glass with hers and downed the whole thing.

  What the hell, Harriet tipped the
liquid back over her throat. It was the oddest flavour, almost like alcohol infused vomit and she spluttered in disgust at the thought.

  “What is this?”

  Archie treated her again to his dazzling smile. “It’s nectar fi the gods—Whisky and Irn Bru. Cures anything. C’mon, finish it.”

  Harriet held her breath and drank the rest. As the strange bubbles cascaded down her throat, she actually felt her cells being replenished. Maybe Archie was right.

  Archie wandered off and left her to her thoughts as a big plateful of haggis, neeps and tatties arrived. She hadn’t had it very often and was delighted when it did turn out to be exactly what she wanted to be eating.

  The bar was noisy and full, tourists and visitors must be starting to arrive for the Games on Saturday. She was three rusty nails in and a shiver of excitement ran through her chest as she thought of attending an actual real live sporting event where muscular highland men in kilts tested their might. That warmth welled in the pit of her stomach and wound its way down to her knickers. Was it the heat of the whisky that making her cheeks redden? She could feel them glowing, or was it the memory of Archie lifting her like she was nothing and carrying her down the hill with her cheek resting on his bicep? The dinner filled her belly but she was far from satisfied. A new kind of hunger poked at her—well, perhaps not new, certainly familiar, but a hunger she hadn’t felt for a long time now. Not since a short stint on a dating website where a few sexy encounters had brought her much needed fun, but nothing that lasted. No, it was nice to feel lust rising again.