The Lass Abducted the Laird: Explosive Highlanders 4

by Lisa Torquay

“You’re sharing mine,” he commanded. “This one can be your dressing room, if you prefer.” The notion of not spending the night with her strained him. Nights were the only time they could be together by themselves.

  Her spine went even straighter. “No, I don’t prefer it,” she answered. “In fact, we’re not sharing anything anymore.”

  He glared at her with a confused scowl. “What’s the meaning of this?” He advanced inside and closed the connecting door.

  That delicate chin raised a notch. “It’s better for us to lead separate lives.”

  Halting right before the escritoire, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Better for whom?”

  Hazel gaze travelled from his abs up his chest, his stubble to clasp on his, heating him. “Both,” she retorted.

  “You’ve decided what’s better for me as well,” he challenged.

  At that, she seemed a tad embarrassed. “You’ll come to the same conclusion, I’m sure.”

  Her frame too tense as she sat on her chair, her breathing hardly there, that delicate face stone-set. “What’s bothering you, Moira?” he shot close range.

  Her irises widened as if that came unexpectedly. Restlessly, she sprang from the chair to pace to the window. Several seconds passed before she deigned to turn to him, her expression even more reserved.

  “I saw you this morning with Emily,” she said as tonelessly as if she recited the numbers on the ledger.

  Lachlan remembered the chit who would not stop talking so he could go on his way. She had found a way to kiss him of the cheek, which had annoyed him. He labelled such an invasion as repugnant, to be sure.

  “I could not leave the daughter of the most important chieftain in the clan speaking to the birds and walk away, could I?” Lachlan did not understand her reaction to the episode. He barely had the patience for the girl’s chit-chat.

  “I don’t think so,” she agreed. “But this will be the first of many.”

  “Your point?” he asked progressively more confounded with this conversation.

  “You’ll stray eventually,” she threw.

  The remark angered him for the lack of trust it bared. “How do you know that, pray tell?” he growled.

  “When it comes to women, your attention span has always been short,” her chin notched higher, her eyes defying him to deny it.

  “Have I strayed since our betrothal?”

  The tilt of her head made strands of her glorious hair fall over one shoulder, and he longed to bury his face in it. “No, but we had a ruse to put forth.”

  “And you think it’s the only reason?” Did she not see he had no will to pay attention to other women?

  “Of course, what else?”

  “How about loyalty to you and your clan?”

  “I’m grateful for that, yet it doesn’t play a role since you’ve become The Darroch,” she debated.

  “By marrying you” Harris would not have posed the abdication solution were it not for their alliance.

  “A marriage you never planned for your life,” she reiterated.

  “No, but here we are in any case.” His tolerance by a thread, his fists went to his hips.

  “Still…” she trailed off, the word pregnant with underlying arguments.

  “Ask me why I wrote marriage off my life,” he demanded.

  Her hazel globes glared at him in a clear question.

  “Because, if I was to marry, I’d follow the rules.” His coffee eyes clasped firmly on hers. “Fidelity is one, I believe.”

  “And you did not want to follow the rules, I gather.”

  “As a bachelor, no I didn’t,” he confirmed. “But I’m not that anymore.”

  “You were forced to marry me because of the rumours,” her insistence was getting to him.

  “I proposed, remember?” One octave louder, his voice came obdurate.

  “No, you didn’t. You presented it as a practical solution,” she rebutted.

  “I wouldn’t have if I didn’t intend to walk the line.” His hand raked his hair, his self-control wavering.

  Her arms crossed over her tartan as she inhaled deeply. “Look,” she said appearing to muster endurance. “You won’t walk the line, there are too many women swarming around you. One day you’ll fall for one.”

  A humourless laugh breathed out of him. “Your high regard for me is uplifting,” he taunted.

  “Men are bound to be unfaithful,” she replied.

  Air expelled from him. “If you think like that, there’s nothing else to say.”

  Her riotous hair fell on her face when she shook her head. “Except separate lives are better for both.”

  A dry nod preceded his answer. “Fine.” And he turned on his heels to go back to the master chamber.

  Moira watched the empty space in front of her. Her breath caught in her throat; it burned to release a scream. Hurt spread through every inch of her heart. She felt she was splitting in two, her head to one side, her heart to the other. Her mind told her it was more advisable to put distance between them now than having to deal with the pain added to the estrangement when he fatally took mistresses. But inwardly, she bled with it anyway. Her emotions could not seem to accept the pragmatic solution beforehand. Even at that minute, she had the urge to run to his chamber and say it had been a mistake, that she did not wish them apart ever. She would even beg if need be.

  Her head won, and she forced her legs to stay where they were, barely supporting her miserable state. She fought the threatening tears that nearly chocked her. Crying would take her nowhere.

  For a few minutes she indulged in this hollow moment. When she felt more in control, she raised her chin resolutely and headed to the study where she had piles of work to do.

  Lachlan, on the other hand, paced his chamber like a caged animal, about to wear a hole in the threadbare carpet. He seethed. How dare that infernal wife of his presume to predict his actions? Presume to judge and condemn him without a crime committed. An impulse to punch the wall, the chest of drawers, the window came so pressing he nearly thrashed this whole chamber. Only a thin thread of clear mind prevented him from doing it.

  Not that he did not make mistakes, not that he had not had trysts. He did, quite freely, if he must be frank. A reputation built on it. Nothing to do about the fact, news travelled fast in the Highlands. But he became a married man, and he had no intention, or the will, to go astray. He did not think his previous explorations would be an issue with Moira. Though she indicated that it did not present him as an eligible match. Everything he told her was true. Since fidelity had not been in his list of chores, he relegated tying the knot for far, very far into the future. Not because he possessed a problem with the institution, but because he did not feel ready for it.

  He had been more than ready to tie the knot with her though. So much so he did not see himself with any other woman in his life. Which was certainly strange when he had declared to be an almost permanent bachelor. Not only that, he had never wanted a woman the way he wanted his wife, damn her! The mere notion of taking a mistress churned his innards. And now the infernal woman pushed him into isolation.

  She could push him as much as she wanted. Whether he would comply with it or not, was a different question, he decided. He knew one thing for sure, pushing or no pushing, his wife also wanted him. And her place was in his bed. He was not ashamed to admit he would use her desire in his favour. They said all was fair in love and war. Well, this war was about to acquire a wholly new spicy twist.

  His blood heated at the idea, his features took on a wicked hue.

  In the morning, after a badly slept night, Moira came into the study, planning to do a bit of work before breakfast.

  And stopped short at the view of her husband sitting behind the desk, calmly reading a report from the steward, she recognised the seal.

  The McKendrick monument—should she call him the Darroch monument?—looked terribly tantalising in a hurriedly wrapped
tartan, crumpled shirt and stubble-darkened jaw. A memory of what that stubble did to her…well…her core, caused blood to rush to her skin and moist rush there.

  Lazily, his eyes lifted from his reading. “Good morning,” he said in that voice she hoped not to hear so soon. The one that bathed her in everything gooey and forbidden.

  What the blazes was he doing here? Clearly, she could not ask this of Laird Darroch now, could she? “Good morning,” she answered, trying to quell the frustration. She considered the study her domain, but The Darroch took precedence, naturally.

  Clicking the door shut, she advanced cautiously. Should he wish to stay here, she would take her work to do in her chamber. After tossing and turning all night in her frigid bed, the last place she intended to stay was in her chamber. It seemed there was no other option though.

  The ledgers she needed lay on the shelf behind him. The problem was that the distance between chair and shelf was less than two feet. She would have to squeeze herself to enter there, and his head would be level with her back.

  “Would you excuse me to pick up a few ledgers on the shelf behind you?” she hoped her voice came out neutral, not giving him any hint that he stirred her.

  Her dearest husband eyed her in the most innocent fashion. “Sure. Be my guest.” A large hand motioned her to it. But he did not move from the seat.

  Her feet gave two steps and stopped. The idea of coming that close to him made thrills run over her body. Not the frightened kind. The heated kind, mind you.

  “Can’t you be a gentleman and stand up for a minute?” Merely looking at him did strange things to her, like a flip of her stomach.

  Those horribly sinful lips stretched in a half-smile. “I’m not a gentleman.” He shook the letter in his hand. “And I’m reading, as you can see.”

  The insufferable scoundrel! Her legs jerked to life as she walked to the shelf. Tremendously carefully, she paced behind him sideways. There was just enough room for her frame. The ledgers sat on the shelf on level with her navel. Not for all the money in the world would she bend to find them. Stretching her hand down, she lifted them to see the dates on the spine.

  Her husband yawned. And he must have tilted his head back in the act for she felt a faint waving of his luxuriant hair on the middle of her back.

  She froze.

  With a quarter-turn, she looked at him. His head was bent to the letter, and he read it so innocently.

  Her attention went back to the shelf. She needed two specific ledgers to input the latest information on them. She reprimanded herself for leaving them there instead of putting them away in their right place. Her torso bent slightly to find what she was looking for there.

  Her husband yawned again. But this time his whole head rubbed on her, his hair whispering her skin. Heat suffused all over her. A jerk up and she swivelled to him.

  “Lachlan!” The blackguard pretended to read.

  “Hmm,” he grunted as if very immersed in that really short letter.

  “Stop it!” she demanded.

  Only then did he deign to turn to her. “Stop what?” he asked as if she was speaking Greek.

  But now he faced her, his mouth stood close to her breasts. “Nothing,” she dismissed. If that mouth touched her anywhere, she would be a lost cause. “Go back to your engrossing reading.”

  “Right.” So obedient! The day her husband became obedient pigs would fly.

  As he did it with a detached shrug, she extended her arm and took any two of the ledgers, without checking which. Irritably, she pulled them out and stepped out of the narrow space before he gave another ‘yawn’.

  She was passing by his damned chair when he lifted his head to her. “Would you like to sit?”

  Her eyes looked down at him, and in the periphery of her vision, she saw a tented tartan.

  Blasted, blasted hell!

  “No, thank you,” she said in a hard voice.

  “Are you sure?” he taunted with an unholy smile. “You could sit on your…” he looked down at his erection and back at her, “…favourite chair,” he said suggestively.

  Her brows pleated as she tried hard not to melt all over him. “Damn you, McKendrick!” And pounded her feet to the door.

  “I’m a Darroch now, Darroch,” jest perforated his tone.

  No answer came from her as she exited and banged the wood back shut.

  Lachlan’s pretend light mood vanished the minute she disappeared. He heard her restlessness on the other room the whole night. Because he did not find his sleep, obviously. His bed had felt empty without her and his body craved filling hers like they had been doing since they got married.

  Awake and alert, he heard when she moved around, presumably dressing. He had grabbed his tartan and shirt and hurried to the study where she certainly would seek refuge. He occupied the chair one second before she came in, his hand groping for something for him to do and found the blasted letter.

  Ask him if he regretted doing the yawning prank. Of course not! He enjoyed ruffling her feathers all too much. She walked past him and he registered her familiar scent, her familiar warmth, his flesh reacting instantly to her. The priggish woman tempted him the moment she posted herself behind the seat. Too close not to tease. Problem was that the teasing turned on the teaser and he had not been able to disguise his rampant condition. And who needed to disguise it anyway? She was more than used to his anatomy. Better, she used his anatomy for her pleasure without complaint. He was not complaining either, on the contrary, he was seeking the resuming of their intimacy.

  Perhaps he should use the lake in the fields for a cold bath. She accused him of short attention span and he wondered if he would ever tire of his wife. There was no sign of it happening any time soon. The more distance she put between them the more raggedly he wanted her.

  Standing up, he headed to the morning room. Breakfast and a busy day awaited.

  That evening, Moira sat in the drawing room with her work. She chose it to avoid bumping into her husband in the study. The whole day, she toiled around the manor tirelessly, but the moments from that morning did not leave her head. Her weakness for him angered her; though she felt sorely tempted to throw it all to the wind and give in to the delights he promised.

  It had been a ragged struggle not to accept his taunt and take him on his blunt invitation. She succeeded in resisting, but the frustration followed her wherever she went. If she intended to guard herself from the hurt that would surely come, she needed to be strong even if it tore her insides into tiny pieces of burning desire.

  A noise made her lift her head. Lachlan stood at the closed door, her heart skipping a beat to then nearly race out of her chest at the view of him.

  The cursed giant was not about to give her any reprieve!

  A glass of whisky in one hand, closed letters on the other, he sat right in front of her. He placed the glass and the letters on a side table.

  “I thought you wanted the study for yourself,” she said, taking in his wind-ruffled hair, his tanned skin and the way his knees showed as the tartan fell to the sides of his thighs.

  His coffee eyes clasped on her like a torch that caused her skin to scorch. “The fire isn’t lit there,” he supplied, looking meaningfully to the blazing fireplace.

  His presence would not let her concentrate, she predicted, the fact beginning to annoy her. Why did not the man respect her privacy?

  No answer came from her as she returned her attention to what she had been doing, trying to shut him out. But whatever it was, her mind had scattered all over the place now, his mere presence a reminder of what she could not have.

  “Duncan’s cottage is nearly finished,” he started.

  With no other choice, she must look at him. “I heard,” she answered, her eyes focusing on the far wall. “They’ll be happy to move back to their home.”

  The conversation stalled. The view of him was creating a strained tension in her. When she referred to the dist
ance between them, she possessed a very clear idea of what she wanted, or else should want. No contact, no relaxing in the evenings, their marriage for appearances and for the alliance it brought. She would not be able to keep him at arm’s length in any other way. Retreat was the only expedient she could use.

  Standing up, she excused herself in a murmur and headed to the door.

  “Until when do you intend to run, Moira?” the low question made her freeze on her tracks, not only because of its content, but also for the effect it had on her body.

  “I’m not running,” she denied the undeniable, her back stubbornly turned to him.

  “Not physically, no,” he challenged. She thought of doing exactly that, run as fast as she could to the confines of the manor. To some place where her memories of their life together did not bully her.

  The single option was to face him. “What part of separate lives did you not understand?” her voice hard with vexation.

  He sat back on the threadbare settee he dwarfed with his magnificent form. “The part where I did not agree with any of it.”

  Her brows pleated. “You did not say it.”

  “I’m saying it now,” he challenged.

  “Don’t you want to return to your freedom, your bachelor lifestyle?” Of course, he did, he would be happier, and she…protected from hurt.

  At that, he unfolded from the settee and posted himself before her. “No,” it came with finality. “What I want is you back in my bed.”

  The mention of bed and what they did in it caused boiling heat to invade her, cheeks flaming. Her lungs forgot to take air and her head lacked rational processing. Their eyes clasped on each other, an intense current running between them. Her body did not obey the need to move, to leave, to save herself from suffering.

  Quick as wind, he closed the distance to her. How such a big man moved with that agility she would never understand. But reality vanished when his large hands lined her face. The gasp in her throat did not materialise because his mouth dived to hers raw and hungry. The incendiary lightning that thrummed through her consumed any clear thought.