by Lisa Torquay
“I’d have to be witless to find myself alone with a womaniser like you.” The attack was a smoke screen to disguise the insidious heat pulling her to him.
His brows crumpled in transparent disagreement. “I’m not a womaniser.” The rumble came steely. “I only take what’s on offer.”
Of course, he did. What man would not?
Even steely, his tone called to her, promising delights. It coaxed the woman in her to yield to the man in him merely because it was what nature required of them.
Before she could surrender and live to regret it, the music ended. With it, reality intruded. And intruded hard as the crowd dispersed to reveal her uncle.
CHAPTER THREE
Dancing with her fogged Lachlan’s mind, a new first. It seemed this woman would give him a cart load of unprecedented experiences. Her dainty figure so close to him, her womanly scent of lavender drew his appetites. Shamelessly, he must admit to trying to drag her closer. And if he was honest, drag her somewhere not crowded. She was messing with his guts. And he held no sympathy for the fact. Every time they were around each other he found himself in a struggle to keep his wits about him. Who would have imagined that a simple dance would inflict this effect on him? Together with the woman. He noticed her before, even thought of approaching her, but not to be bulldozed by her mere presence.
At last, the reason she despised him came to light. She judged him unworthy because of his lifestyle. But he told her the truth. He was no womaniser as she accused. He did not go about seducing women. It was the other way around most of the times. His looks afforded him a wide choice, his position in the Highlands enhanced it. Nobody could blame him for making the most of his, say, assets, could they? And he refused to feel guilty just because a petite lass looked at him as if he did not deserve consideration.
Lachlan sensed something wrong the second her hand squeezed his arm. He trailed the direction of her attention to find a middle-aged man, short and skinny with pale blue-eyes fixed on her. The Pitcairn undoubtedly.
He realised Moira’s hand went dead cold and, as he lowered his regard to her, he registered her face leeched of all colour. He placed his hand on hers on his arm with a light press. That seemed to take her out of her shock.
With a ghost smile, she reacted. “Uncle, it’s good to see you here.” Her hazel eyes darted to him and back to her relative. “Let me present Lachlan McKendrick. Lachlan, this is my uncle Hamish Pitcairn.” Although she said McKendrick’s given name for the first time, the delight of it he would keep for later.
The man gushed such hatred at her, Lachlan marvelled she did not become ash on the spot. By the looks of it, The Pitcairn never imagined his niece would pull such a trick on him. Men were used to the women acquiescing to their wishes and demands. The Darroch lass was not about to allow the villain to walk all over her.
“A pleasure, McKendrick,” Hamish said stonily. “I hope you know what you’re doing by saddling yourself to a Darroch.”
Lachlan bowed despite feeling anything but civilized. “The Darrochs are one of the oldest and most prominent clans in the Highlands,” he answered.
McKendrick could see the crease in her uncle’s forehead. Hamish was not happy at the way his niece outmanoeuvred him, not in the least. Her uncle would no doubt strike back. In what manner Lachlan had no clue.
But the man’s lips stretched in a humourless grin. “You’ll see the Pitcairns are on their way up.” By becoming usurpers, of course.
Lachlan did not stoop low enough to answer. “Moira, darling,” her name came silky and thoughtful, and he realized he quite liked saying it. “We must invite your uncle for dinner one of these days.”
Smiling up at him, she continued the farce. “What a capital idea, Lachlan dear,” she sang.
“If you’ll excuse us,” her ‘betrothed’ said politely. “There are guests requiring out attention. Enjoy the feast.” With a slight bow he guided the lass away from that snake.
Her dainty hand shook on his sleeve. As quick as possible, he guided her to a corner. Her features were still waxen. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Her tiny frame sagged against the tree by which they halted. Eyes closed, she nodded. “I did not invite him,” she started, lifting her lashes. “But I knew word would reach him and he would not leave it be.” The weariness in her tone almost propelled him to go back and thrash The Pitcairn to a pulp.
“We must hire people to watch you,” Lachlan said. Upon seeing her uncle, the reality of her plight hit him like a hammer.
Her spine straightened away from the tree. “No.” Her voice firm despite the ordeal. “He wants the clan leadership not me.”
“True, but with an alliance with the McKendrick, you made it much more difficult for him.”
“Precisely,” she agreed. “I expect him to back down now.”
“I’ve just formed a slightly different impression on the matter,” the laird replied.
“Look,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I’ve been dealing with him for more than a year. He may be greedy, but he’s a coward. He’ll not face up to the whole Highlands with the McKendrick network of alliances.”
In exasperation, Lachlan raked a hand through his luxuriant hair. “I hope you’re right,” he compromised. Because, if she was not, danger for her had increased tenfold.
“We should go back and make sure everyone buys into this charade,” she said.
He marvelled at her steel resolve. With a nod, he offered his arm.
“What a pleasant evening,” The Lady McKendrick said as she sat on a threadbare settee, her utter beauty in stark contrast with the decay surrounding her.
The gathering finished on an optimistic note, everyone showing more confidence in the future.
And now, Moira felt embarrassed with the hospitality, or lack thereof, she could offer the McKendrick ladies. “I’m sorry for the uncomfortable furniture,” she said after asking her new maid for a tray of tea.
The men took over her study to drink what remained of the whisky. The children fell asleep in their baskets or in their mother’s arms, in the case of the oldest, Ewan.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Catriona soothed Moira. “Much more agreeable than mounting a rebel horse, I assure you.” Her cut-glass London accent told of an upbringing south of the Hadrian wall.
Under an alias, she answered an advert to come to the Highlands and tame a problematic horse Fingal had bought. She also ended up taming the horse owner in the process.
“Or travelling all day under wheat flour sacks,” added Aileen, remembering when she had tried to elude the overbearing McDougal.
“Not to mention a derelict cottage, I’d reckon,” Lady McKendrick replied.
Stories circulated of how, in order to save her husband from a death threat, she hid in the remotest part of their lands.
Moira realised these women were warriors in their own way and in the name of the love for their husbands, had endured a great deal. Admiration and pride for her sister highlanders flourished.
“You are all such great women!” she blurted with little finesse.
“Oh, Moira,” Lady Aileen exclaimed. “You also are a very strong woman for what you’re doing here.”
A shy smile stretched her lips. They knew next to nothing of her clan’s struggles, but seemed to see through the appearances. The arrival of tea cut out any answer she might have given.
A long while passed in friendly conversation when the men entered, their eyes immediately in search of their wives. Wallace took Ewan from Freya and sat next to her.
The last to come was Lachlan, her avid glare going to him as his found hers, a scalding flush erupted throughout her body. Hazel eyes darted downwards to hide the devastating effect he always unleashed on her.
“I thought I’d not live to see the day the last McKendrick fell.” This from the imposing McDougal.
“They all do eventually,” Catriona taunted, sending a suggestive
look at her husband who responded in kind. Fingal seemed utterly besotted with his stunning brunette of a wife.
Lachlan and Moira exchanged a tense glance. They were basically misleading the whole of the Highlands with this ruse. When it was over, the scandal would be of gargantuan proportions. And Moira would lose any prospect of a match. Not that she felt too sad about it, but still…
“I can attest to that,” Aileen said. As a widower, The McDougal had scratched marriage from his life. Until he met the defiant McKendrick lass.
“Everybody has their own timing,” Lady McKendrick contributed. “Still, we wish you all the happiness.” Drostan kissed her temple.
“Same here,” Wallace said from his settee, his legs not so firm as they used to be. The elderly McKendrick had passed on the leadership of his clan to his eldest, and presently, he took part in the lighter duties.
“Thank you,” Moira’s thin voice did not convey certainty.
Claiming the children needed rest, her guests took their leave.
Mighty poundings on the front door startled Moira awake. Her dormant frame sprang upright at the same time a rasp came on her own door.
Quickly, she wrapped her tartan over her night rail and opened it. The newly assigned butler, Murray, stood there.
“My lady, there seems to be a fire.”
From a neighbouring chamber came Lachlan’s thunder. “I said to let her sleep, bluidy hell!”
“I know, my laird, but—” he stopped at the commotion in the yard.
Moira already secured the tartan and pulled on her boots.
In the hallway, the McKendrick giant flew past her and she followed, almost running to keep up with him.
“You meant for me not to help?” she charged at him.
“I’m here, I can do the helping,” he bit out and threw the front door with such force it banged against the wall.
“Like the devil you can,” she spat, then froze as a group of men stood at the entrance.
“Sorry fer waking ye up, my lady, but Duncan’s cottage caught fire.” One of them said looking at the newly betrothed couple.
“Duncan?” A fizz of horror cut through her. “Is everyone all right?”
“Canna tell, Lady Moira,” another man said.
Caitlin counted three children, another on the way. Lachlan and she exchanged a worried look. She only hoped no one got hurt.
She rolled one end of her plaid around her chest for modesty and hurried with the others to Caitlin’s cottage. From this far, they could see the red glow in the distance and foreboding smoke towering into the night sky. It did not look good.
As they neared, a veritable furnace assailed her, the blinding fire roaring with a thirst for destruction.
Caitlin spied her and came running. “Oh, my lady!” And threw herself at Moira. They held each other for moments.
Moira had to take this in hand. “Let’s make a line of water buckets,” she shouted above the noise of fire and people. People were bringing buckets full but it was not enough. “Is everyone safe?” she asked the other woman.
“Bonnie and Kin are outside, but a beam fell by Mabel’s cot and Duncan ran back inside after sending us out.” Her distress surfaced. “He’s still there.”
The information had Moira running to the entrance. Fire licked from the destroyed windows while everyone tried to give a hand. About to go into the inferno, someone caught her arm firmly.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Fury emanated from Lachlan’s eyes. His hair was dishevelled and stubble darkened his jaw.
“Duncan and the baby are inside,” she said in distress as she tried to shake her arm free.
“Stay here. I’ll go,” he commanded.
“No!” she countered. “You stay here.” But he was not listening.
“You,” he called to a man nearby. “Hold her,” he ordered. “If she moves, chain her!”
“Aye, my laird.” Of course, the man would first listen to another man, a laird no less. Two hands covered in ashes held her as the man obeyed the McKendrick giant.
And then the scoundrel ran into the very mouth of hell.
Even if the commanding man had not ordered her to be still, she would have frozen on the spot. The sight of Lachlan using his tartan as a shield before plunging right in the fire frightened her.
In a trance, her stare fixed where he had disappeared, as though she could see through the flames and smoke that had swallowed him. Her heart was on the verge of falling to pieces at the possibility of him being hurt, or worse.
But their union would be a betrothal in appearances only. Strictly speaking, he had no obligations towards her clan. She had involved him in this mess when she had no right to do so. Should something happen to him, she would never forgive herself. The screaming, the splashes of water, the insurmountable heat, the flames rising to the sky, all disappeared in the sick worry that shredded her insides. It made normal breathing impossible, her entire body convulsing in fear for his safety.
She could not stand here doing nothing. Breaking free from her assigned care-taker, she entered the line of buckets right in front of the cottage’s now torn down entrance. Yelling orders, organising the people, she also threw water on the fire as if she alone would be able to extinguish it. Never did she tear her gaze from what once had been a home to a family.
Her anxiety mounted unbearably, so much so that the weight of countless buckets of water did not register. She poured them as if they were filled with feathers.
An eternity seemed to pass when she discerned movement in the ocean of flames threatening to make the structure crumble down at any minute.
The giant emerged carrying a motionless body on his arms and a bundle tied in his tartan on his chest. Several onlookers ran to help him with his burden.
Something splashed over her feet. Her unresponsive hands had dropped the bucket, her eyes glued on the man ahead. The worker beside her nudged her with a new one, making Moira startle from dizziness. She excused herself before striding to where the mad McKendrick stood.
There were a million things she wanted to do. Yell at his brashness until she lost her voice. Shake him until her arms fell. Fall in gratitude to her knees until they bled. But most of all, she wanted to kiss him until her lungs burned. Clutch herself to his tall frame until there was no space left between them. And then pound her fists on the edifice of muscle on his chest until she inculcated some sense in his stubborn head.
Damn him!
But when she reached him, her feet only planted to the ground while her wide perusal assessed his condition. The perfect, Apollonian face was smeared with ashes. His tartan showed singeing on several spots. The ex-pristine shirt displayed tears and had darkened to a dirty shade of grey. His legs were bruised where the cloth did not cover them for protection.
He looked…glorious!
And in one piece.
Caitlin ran in his direction and cut through the crowd surrounding him. The movement rent Moira out of her petrified state.
That was when his dark head lifted and he held her gaze. All the muddy feelings that had swamped her, feelings she kept at bay, bubbled, swashed, almost overflowed, and dragged her to the point of explosion.
Caitlin took the baby from him, marvelling at the fact that the little one escaped unharmed.
“Duncan has a few burns.” Lachlan informed, eyes still fixed on Moira. “We’ll call the doctor.”
Moira turned and walked away. It was that or go berserk on his heroic stupidity.
Everyone, including Moira and Lachlan, worked on extinguishing the fire with renewed intent. They managed to control it as the foggy morning manifested in the horizon.
An elderly couple offered shelter to the family while the cottage was being rebuilt. Their children married and gone, they had room to spare.
As the danger faded, Moira headed home and took refuge in her study. Though fatigue flayed every fibre of her, sleep would be an unattain
able illusion.
Lachlan barged into the study without even knocking, certain he would find the lass. Spot on guess. The woman seemed never to tire. He found her striding from the unlit fireplace to the shelf of ledgers and back, one arm folded, a hand holding her temple. The latch clicked closed and her head snapped up.
She was a vision. Her dishevelled chestnut hair, smudged face, messed tartan wrapped around a soiled night rail. No doubt she must be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
Her hazel eyes shot daggers at him. She had behaved strangely from the moment he had emerged from that cottage. Their gazes had crossed in the distance and his guts had clenched with fear for her safety.
“Doctor Mitchell is tending to Duncan,” he started.
Her arms lowered to her sides as she trudged closer.
“What were you thinking to do that stunt back there?” The words seemed to fly beyond her control.
His forehead crumpled quizzically. “Are you mad at me for saving two lives?”
She halted right in front of him, casting a scathing glare. “I’m mad at you for risking yours!”
“You would have dived into the flames were I not there,” he accused. That she would put her life in danger, he would not accept.
“Exactly, because of my duty as a Darroch,” she emphasised hotly.
“And it’s my duty to protect you,” he threw back, convinced he was not wrong in that.
Her delicate hand rubbed her brow as she expelled a tense breath. “Look, you have nothing to do with this clan. You don’t need to undertake any responsibilities.”
“As your betrothed, I do.” For appearances’ sake, but this had been an emergency.
“That is the point,” she hurled at him. “We are not betrothed for real.”
“In the eyes of everyone, we are. And I will proceed accordingly,” he maintained.
Hazel orbs widened in vexation. “You are a McKendrick.” A forefinger stabbed his chest over his dirty tartan. “When this whole thing is over, I must return you to your clan, preferably in one piece.”