by Dayna Quince
His hands tightened on the reins. “I wouldna expect you to understand the difficulty in finding work, or having to abandon your home when you can’t afford the rent anymore.”
She twisted to face him. “You think I’ve never known hardship?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding.
“You know nothing about me.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And you know nothing of the hardships these people—my clansmen—have faced losing their homes, their very way of life, to greedy lords who care nothing for the people, and place money above all else.”
“My brother-in-law is not like that,” she said, defensively.
“No, he isn’t, and that’s why we built the dairy, to bring people back to the village. He has more heart than any nobleman I’ve ever met.”
“At last we agree on something,” she murmured.
Lachy chuckled, the tension in him easing as they moved farther from the castle and into the rolling pastures and hills. The rain had stopped earlier, and the sun was breaking through the clouds in warm shafts of light. His constant awareness of her did not lessen, but for the moment, he could appreciate the silence that fell between them.
A rainbow appeared far ahead, illusive and unattainable, which made him think of her again. She was like that rainbow, beautiful and unreachable.
“Oh look!” she said, her voice lit with joy as she pointed it out.
“Aye, I’ve not seen one so bright in some time.”
“There is nothing more beautiful than a rainbow,” she said with a dreamy sigh.
Lachy turned his head just enough to see her but not to stare directly at her. She was gazing dreamily at the sky. She was more beautiful than any rainbow, however. Anything nature could create in its infinite artistic wisdom would never compare to the woman beside him.
Bloody hell.
He slowed the cart and suddenly yanked the reins to turn around. This was a mistake. Being near her was a mistake. There was no way he could sit beside her for the whole the trip to Aberdeen and back and not touch her, however much he wanted to resist. He was only human, a man born of animal, carnal needs, and the woman beside him stirred those base, instinctual urges more than any other had.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You’re not going with me, and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”
“Why not? We’ve already established nothing untoward could happen here on this road.”
“Really, now?”
His skin broke out in gooseflesh at the mere hint of challenge, his pride and anger swirling into a dangerous concoction of bravado and arrogance.
He yanked on the reins again, driving his poor mule sharply to the side of the rode, and then jumped down from his seat, his leg screaming as he hit the ground, his knee almost buckling. But he still held one hand to the cart, and somehow managed to stay upright. Steady once again, he ignored the pain in his left knee and sauntered to her side of the cart.
“What are you doing?” she asked with alarm, her breathing quickening.
“You’re a fair, bonny lass, Miss Prim, but you’re daft to think you and I are capable of keeping apart, when you insist on putting yourself in me way. I’m a man, and you’re a woman who’s been hurt badly, searching for something to ease the ache you feel. Call it naiveté, innocence, whatever you wish, but none of those things will stop you from wanting me, or me from wanting you.”
Cherry-red color flagged her cheeks as a startled laugh erupted from her. “That’s absurd. You’re implying I can’t resist you?”
“Aye.”
She tossed her head, shielding her face with the wide rim of her bonnet like armor, while her hands fluttered nervously in her lap.
“I can prove it.”
She folded her arms and fixed a glare on him. “How?”
He stripped off his jacket, tossing it to the cart. Next, he began to untie his tartan neckerchief, the only bit of his clan’s red, gray, and black tartan he ever wore. He tossed it toward the cart, too. Then he yanked off his suspenders, grinning at her as she stared at him in wide-eyed shock.
“Stop!” she cried.
His grin widened as he slowed his movements, dragging his shirt from his trousers in slow, tantalizing, pulls.
Her gaze tracked his every movement, her breathing as rapid as a cornered rabbit. Her tongue darted out and skimmed her bottom lip, and he knew that she was not wrestling with fear, but her own desires.
He drew his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, brushing one hand deliberately down the trail of fur from his chest to his navel, his hand resting on the buttons of his trousers.
Her eyes had tracked every motion, and now rested there, too.
He slipped one button free.
“Stop!” she shouted, scrambling from her perch on the cart and leaping down.
Lachy chuckled as she hastily gathered up his clothing and shoved it at his chest. Then he grabbed her wrist, not willing to let this little lesson end too soon.
Her eyes caught his and stared at him in shock and wonder.
The clothing fell to a pile between them and Lachy kicked it aside, using his free hand to pinch the tip of her gloved middle finger and slide her glove off.
She didn’t protest. Her only reaction to this undressing of her hand was another lick of her lips, and an increase of her short, swift breaths.
He pressed her hand to his chest, over where his heart beat like a drum, the steady march of a soldier headed for the front line.
He held her gaze captive, taking in every twinge of her lashes, the widening of her pupils, the softness of her parted lips as her short breaths burst from her.
“The first time we met, you only looked, and now you’ve touched,” he said, his voice deep and suggestive.
Visions of her on her knees, taking him into her mouth, hungrily and lovingly, flipped through his mind like the pages of a book left near an open window.
He wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close against him so she could feel what she did to him and know that she was not alone in her desire.
Whatever this was between them, it held both of them captive.
She gasped, and Lachy resisted taking her mouth. He wanted her to make the choice, to leap into the fire, if only to bask in its sultry warmth.
“In life, we choose to surrender, or we choose to fight, but we canna do both,” he said.
Her focus intensified on him, her pale blue eyes throwing sparks of bright white in their depths. Then she glided her hand to the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and gripped him tightly.
The air rushed out from Lachy’s lungs, as if he were about to receive a killing blow. She levered up to her toes, her breasts pressing against him. His heart skidded to a halt as her lips touched his, feather soft, light and hot, like licks of fire.
He wrapped both arms tightly around her, one hand holding the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss, urging her mouth open and swooping inside to claim it.
Urgency and lust thrashed his senses, driving him wild with need. He would have fought it harder, afraid of frightening her, if only she wasn’t clinging to him just as tightly as he held her. Her body sensuously undulated against him, driven by the fervor that seized them both. He doubted she knew what she was doing, how she was actively feeding the fire of this madness. But he didn’t have the will to stop her—not yet, anyhow. It was only a kiss, an explosive, brilliant, soul-searing kiss, but Lachy knew that such a kiss could lead to so much more.
Then the chilly afternoon breeze struck his back, and a sudden burst of cold broke through the spell of their shared body heat enough to penetrate his lust-crazed head.
He tore his mouth away, her bonnet falling back and tumbling away with the wind. She opened her eyes, focused on him, and a faint line creased the creamy skin between her eyebrows.
Lachy could sense her urge to step back before she moved. He released her, searching for some glib remark to break the tension, but nothing came to min
d. He waited for reason to return, for perhaps a bit of fear or wariness to show in her expression. Those were the exact emotions that tumbled through his stomach as the fire of lust faded, whisked away by the cool breeze.
He was not a cad, nor was he sophisticatedly calculated enough to conduct some scheming seduction for no other purpose then his own satisfaction.
She was dangerous, however—and this smoldering attraction was alarming, like a stallion you couldn’t turn your back on without risk of being bitten, or worse, clubbed by a rogue hoof.
“Well?” he asked, desperate to hear what she had to say about their kiss.
He expected anything, from heated accusations and cold insults, to passionate attacks on his honor and outright hysterics.
Her hands went to her head. “I’ve lost my bonnet.”
Lachy scowled. “To hell with your bonnet.”
“It’s my favorite!”
She twisted away from him, searching the ground for her errant hat. Lachy could see it trapped against the wheel under the cart. He strode to it and bent to retrieve it, and then handed it to her. Next, he began to dress, her silence on the matter of their kiss churning up his insides.
“Get in the cart, and I’ll take you home.”
“But what about Aberdeen?”
Lachy shook his head at her as he shoved fistfuls of his shirt into his trousers, his groin aching. The wind had turned frigid, and he fought a shiver as he looped his suspenders over his shoulders and shrugged on his coat. He combed the ground for his neckerchief, but it was nowhere to be seen. It may have blown away at some point. He cursed his luck and approached her side of the cart, where she stood, crumpled bonnet in her hand.
“There’s another storm blowing in from the ocean,” he grumbled. “I’m taking you home.”
She nodded and accepted his hand up into the cart.
He climbed up his side and flicked the reins, his mule jerking into motion with a disgruntled whine.
Lachy glowered at the road, irritated by the stoic woman beside him. He’d question her if he thought he could speak without growling at her.
Prim held her bonnet over her lap with one hand, the wind whipping at her loosely coiled hair at her nape. By the time they reached the castle, she’d look utterly ravished, which was exactly how she felt. That kiss… Well, she might as well call it her first. No other kiss she’d had before could ever come close to that scorching, soul-stealing kiss.
In her other hand, she held tightly to the tartan neckerchief she’d picked up off the ground when his back had been turned. Her head buzzed pleasantly, as if she’d drunk too much wine, and her heart soared, like the wings of a bird riding the crisp high wind, climbing high, and then coasting among the clouds.
She knew she’d never be the same again after that kiss.
“In life, we choose to surrender, or we choose to fight, but we canna do both.”
I surrender, she thought to herself.
Nothing had ever felt so easy or right. Being jilted, the constraints of her life with her family—it all paled in comparison to the bright, startling realization that kiss had given her.
That kiss was freedom, the chains falling from her wrists.
Prim could tell Lachy didn’t agree. His disgruntled anger came off him in waves of heat. He’d expected a different reaction from her than what he’d gotten. She wanted to laugh, but instead she turned her head away from him and grinned at the rolling hills.
How can I make him understand how easy it had been for me to surrender? Another kiss, perhaps?
She fervently hoped so.
Her hair had slipped free of her pins, one sliding down the back of her dress, and the others disappearing altogether. Prim didn’t mind. She’d never felt happier than she did right now, and her hair, blowing wildly behind her, seemed fitting for this new transformation.
She peeked at his mutinous profile, wanting to reach for his hand and share with him all the brilliant and elated emotions inside her, but though she had surrendered to this madness, it was obvious that he had not. He was choosing to fight. She would have to show him how lovely surrendering could be.
He remained silent as they arrived back at the dairy, stopping the cart beside the stable door, exactly where she had found him before.
“You will have to walk back to the castle by yourself. Hurry along now.”
“Are you still going to Aberdeen today?”
His lips pressed into a hard line, his expression stony. “Don’t you worry about what I do, Miss Prim. Go on, now.”
She folded her arms. “I’m not a child.”
“Aye, I’m well aware of that fact. But you and I are more different than a Goshawk and a Turtle Dove. One’s soft and sweet, and the other eats the doves.”
Prim grinned. “Am I right to assume I’m the hawk?”
His lips twitched, but he fought his amusement. Then he flicked the reins, and the mule jerked forward. Prim watched him as he circled the cart around her and left her there. He did not glance back, even once. She commended him for his restraint, but she did not doubt he wanted to, because she now knew he wanted her.
That kiss had shown her exactly how much, and Prim wanted more.
Chapter 7
Lachy woke and dressed, his leg stiff, his cock even stiffer, after a night of tossing and turning, wanting a woman who’d taken his insides and twisted them into knots even a seasoned sailor couldn’t untie.
He ventured to the laird’s cottage in the village, where his uncle resided, to collect some more clothes. When he entered the kitchen, Lottie was humming as she prepared coffee and breakfast for his uncle.
“Morning, Lottie. You’re here early today.”
She tucked a stringy lock of brown hair behind her ear. “Your uncle asked me to.”
Lachy caught her eye, worried his relative harboured less than gentlemanly thoughts for Shamus’s great-granddaughter, and one of the few young women left in the village. “I hope he’s not giving you too much trouble.”
“Tis no trouble. I’m an early riser, and he promised I’d get to leave an hour earlier in the evening.”
“Aye, that’s fair.”
Lachy accepted a cup of coffee and plain toast. “Take care of yourself, Lottie,” he said as he stepped out the back door and into the morning mist.
A lumbering shape suddenly took form in front of him, growing in solidarity as it came toward him, and then the mist finally parted to reveal his uncle coming from the direction of the commode.
“Morning.”
Bruce stopped before him and smiled. “And a bonny morning to you, lad.”
Lachy warily regarded the other man’s cheerfulness. “Well… I’m off to the dairy.”
“So soon?” Bruce replied, standing directly in his nephew’s path. “I heard some grand news at the tavern last night. Life changing, it was.”
Lachy sighed and wondered if his uncle was still a bit drunk. “Aye, and what news was that?”
His elder was grinning with far too much glee.
Lachy’s stomach tightened in warning.
“The duke’s sister-in-law, the youngest one, she was jilted.”
He said the word jilted with such relish, as if Prim had deserved it, of all things.
Lachy ground his teeth together. “Is that so?”
“Oh, you hadn’t yet heard?”
“I’d heard.”
“Then why didna you tell me, lad? ‘Tis the news of the century—and an answer to our prayers.”
Lachy simply shrugged.
His uncle clapped a hand on his shoulder, his gin-soaked breath buffeting his nephew in the face.
Still drunk.
Lachy sighed and shook out of his uncle’s hold. “If that is all the news you have, I’ll be off.”
“Don’t you see? She’s ruined. Her family will welcome any offer of marriage now, even from a gimp soldier with modest wealth. You can propose, and demand the castle as dowry. They won’t be able to refuse.”
“Lachy, this is our chance! Wed her, bed her, and by God, get our castle back!”
“He’s a duke, for Christ’s sake, and she’s his sister, no matter ‘tis only by marriage, and not by blood. Don’t you understand? They are a real family, complete with love and respect, and all that nonsense. They’d never let her marry a commoner like me.”
Lachy dodged past his uncle and eagerly continued into the cold damp embrace of the fog.
“But she’s ruined!” His uncle shouted behind him again, his voice carrying eerily through the fog.
“Not as badly as I am,” Lachy muttered.
His heart was pounding as he reached the mews where he kept his mule and cart.
Propose to Prim?
Sure, right after he rode a horse again, and maybe England would crown him as king, too.
He stroked the nose of his mule, Bethany, and she nuzzled his hand, just as his old cavalry horse, Falcon, used to do every morning. His throat tightened, remembering Falcon and the streak of white on his steel-gray forehead. He hadn’t really been mine, Lachy reminded himself. He had belonged to England as a trained cavalry horse.
“But he felt like mine,” Lachy whispered to Bethany. “He was fast, faster than any horse I’d ever ridden.”
Lachy pressed his eyes closed, panic and despair washing over him. He could almost hear Falcon’s soft whinny, but the good memories never lasted. The bad ones easily overpowered them, bringing with them the phantom sounds and scents.
He pressed his forehead to Bethany’s, but in his head, it was Falcon before him, and there was gun fire, and then a cannonball blast showered them both with a spray of dirt.
Lachy couldn’t feel the huff of air through Falcons nostrils anymore, but still he prayed that the animal would live, and that maybe it was his own hands that had gone numb. Bloody hands that had left prints all over Falcon’s beautiful gray muzzle.
Lachy snapped his eyes open from the reverie, and Bethany stared back at him. He could almost believe she knew his thoughts, and somehow understood his terror and grief.