by Lauren Smith
Moira appeared surprised. “William? He hasn’t told you?”
Daphne shook her head.
Moira’s pale blue eyes filled with tears and sorrow tempered her smile.
“William was my firstborn. You never forget your first bairn. I thought my body would break apart when he came into this world. He was such a quiet, wee lad. He was smart and kind, but there was a sadness to him as well. Do you know what I mean?”
Daphne’s throat tightened. “Yes, I do.” She’d had a friend once, a lovely girl from a good family, but no matter how warm the sunshine or how lovely the day, the girl was always…perhaps sad was the wrong word. Maybe, unaffected by the world, for good or ill.
“And Lachlan? What was he like as a boy?”
“Lachlan was my little warrior, fit for the clans of old. There were always biscuits to steal, trees to climb. He was fearless. But I grow concerned that something changed with William’s passing.” Moira blushed. “I cannot explain it, but the light in his eyes seems dimmer.” She reached out and touched Daphne’s cheek in a motherly caress. “Except now, for just a moment, when he watched you laugh, I saw a glint of the old spirit in his eyes. Mayhaps this marriage will be a good thing for you both.”
Daphne’s heart raced at the thought of her laugher having that effect on Lachlan. For two months she had felt so helpless, so useless, but now she had a chance to help someone.
“I know he doesn’t seem to care about your trousseau, but I was thinking you might fit into my wedding gown. It’s a bit old in style, but I believe I was about your size when I wore it. We can have the modiste make the necessary alterations, of course.”
Her heart swelled and she had to resist the urge to hug Lachlan’s mother. “Thank you, I would be honored.”
“I think, my dear, it is time I retire for the evening. I’m not so young as I once was.” She smiled again. “You know the way back to your room?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.”
She and Moira rose from the table and parted ways. For a long moment, Daphne stood in the dim corridor, thinking of Lachlan and his brother. When she began walking again, she sought out the main stairs, but paused at the sight of a portrait she’d missed earlier that day. The morning sunlight had favored the stairs, leaving the walls in shadow and she hadn’t looked closely. Yet now, moonlight basked the portraits on the wall with a milky light. The face staring back at her was unmistakable.
It had to be William. The clothing was modern, and his features were so much like Lachlan’s. Yet she saw an eternal melancholy in his eyes, just as Moira had described.
“He was a good man, my brother.” Lachlan’s slightly slurred voice came from the shadows by the entryway straight ahead of her. Daphne bit her lip to keep from gasping and her stomach churned with a deep uneasiness. Lachlan had an obvious talent for sneaking up on her when she least expected him.
“Your mother told me a little about him,” Daphne admitted.
Lachlan emerged from the shadows, his tall body imposing in the darkness. She had the sudden image of him overpowering her, catching hold of her body and kissing her, uncaring of whether she wished him to or not. His waistcoat was gone and he held a bottle of Scotch in one hand. His cravat was missing and his hair was tousled, as though he had run his hand through it repeatedly.
“And did she tell you how he died?” His voice was soft, but Daphne sensed danger in the question. He turned away from her and she thought for a moment he’d forgotten her, lost in memories.
“Er…no, she didn’t.”
He spun to face her and stepped closer, the contents of his bottle swishing in the silence of the house.
“He took his own life.” Lachlan stood only a few feet away now. She inhaled the heavy perfume of Scotch as it rolled off him. He’d been drinking too much. She shouldn’t stay alone with him, not when he was in such a condition.
“My lord, perhaps I should fetch someone to—”
He caught her arm, firmly but gently, and kept her close to him, caged by his body.
“No need to get anyone. I’ve been deeper in my cups than this.” He chuckled. “Do I frighten you?”
She gazed into his eyes, searching for any aggression or brutality. She saw only sorrow and curiosity.
“Frighten me? No,” she finally replied.
“Good.” He set the bottle down on the foot of the stairs and placed one hand on the banister, trapping her against it. She leaned back, the wood railing pressing into her spine until she could not retreat any farther. He reached for her hip, his fingers curling into the loose fabric of her gown, as he secured a firm hold.
“And now?”
Daphne’s blood pounded in her head and she felt suddenly dizzy. “Only a little.”
She raised her chin as he tilted his head slightly. His lips, so often curved in a frown, twitched as though tempted to smile.
“I’d never hurt you, lass.” He lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to resist, to push him away, but she didn’t want to. Their mouths met in a slow kiss that burned like a warm fire. She tasted the Scotch on his lips and was lost in the headiness it created within her. She had forgotten what it felt like to be warm, to feel a fire obliterate the cold inside of her.
She curled her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing more of his touch, and his heat. When he kissed her, she felt like she was falling, breathless and free, into a world where the past no longer mattered. Only this moment existed, the brush of soft lips and sweet sighs...
“What are you doing to me?” he demanded in a panting whisper between kisses.
I’m loving you. The thought rose unbidden to answer him and it startled her. She barely knew Lachlan, but it was true, she wanted to love him, was even at this moment falling in love with him.
He reached up and cupped her face, their eyes meeting briefly before he deepened the kiss once more, and plundered her mouth in the most sinful way. Daphne moaned as ripples of fire stirred throughout her body. She couldn’t resist threading her fingers through his dark hair, tugging on the silken strands. He growled against her lips and used one hand to drag her skirts up to her waist.
He gripped the back of her left thigh and lifted her leg up to crawl around his hip. Daphne didn’t fully understand what he wanted her to do, but her primal instincts took over and she rocked against him. To her delight, she found the hard press of his muscled thigh against the apex of hers, intense and overpowering. Sensations shot through her from the simple but intense friction. Lachlan leaned against the banister, his thigh rubbing harder against her sensitive mound through the thin layers of her underclothes.
“Ride me,” he murmured, showing her the natural rhythm of their bodies moving together.
Once she matched it, it was too much to bear. His tongue played with hers and her breasts ached against her stays as he assaulted her every sense. His taste, the hint of Scotch, the smell of leather and man mixed with his rough caress and the sting of his hand fisting in her hair as he began to kiss her ruthlessly. He was conquering her with every weapon at his disposal and she was more than ready to surrender. If he had wanted to take her there on the stairs, she would have let him.
The building pressure and the dark need for some kind of release became unbearable. She whimpered as he rubbed his thigh over and over against her mound. Then he suddenly changed direction, rolling his hips in a slightly different direction, and the explosive release of a frightening pleasure was unbearable. Daphne cried out against his lips and he pulled away from her with a curse. The abrupt separation made her stumble on the steps. She barely caught herself against the banister before she fell.
Without a word, much less an explanation, Lachlan started up the stairs, leaving her alone, legs shaking and body aching with a loss she didn’t understand. How could he have touched her so intimately, so… She blinked back tears. He’d roused deep feelings within her, not simply passion, and then he’d left her alone, cold and confused. The evening sunset had faded an hour ago, l
eaving soft purple beams of moonlight painting the walls with a melancholy splash of color.
Daphne stared up at the portrait of Lachlan’s brother and shivered. His pained eyes seem to gaze right through her.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked him in a barely audible whisper.
The handsome, tragic man in the portrait offered no reply, leaving Daphne feeling more alone than she’d ever felt before.
***
“You’re getting married?” Cameron McLeod burst out laughing.
“It’s not amusing,” Lachlan barked. He glared at his best friend. Cameron couldn’t seem to stop grinning and was barely restraining himself. Laughs still escaped as snorts and hisses, which made him sound one gasp away from giggling like a girl.
“For heaven’s sake,” Lachlan punched his shoulder in only a partially playful manner, but Cameron’s good-natured grin didn’t fade. His eyes were alight with mischief.
“Well, don’t go silent on me, Lachlan. Describe this paragon of a girl who has captured your heart.”
“She hasn’t,” he replied. She’d captured his interest, his arousal, but not his heart.
At this, Cameron sobered immediately. “You...you don’t love this lass you’re planning to marry? But you always swore you wouldn’t marry, not unless you fell madly in love.”
Cameron frowned as he and Lachlan strode toward the small stone church. The Kirk of Huntley was a quaint Gothic structure that had been around for hundreds of years and would likely be there long after he was dust. He paused as he reached a heavy oak door and grasped the handle, unable to look his friend in the eye.
“That was before I became an earl. I have a duty to marry and provide for an heir.” The words tasted like poison. Marrying out of duty was bad enough, but marrying for revenge was worse, yet here he was intending to do just that.
Cameron placed his hand on the church door, preventing Lachlan from opening it. “Do you even like your future bride?”
“I like her well enough. She’s fetching and sweet.”
Cameron rolled his eyes, but his gaze was serious when he finally lifted his hand from the door.
“’Marrying for anything other than love is damned foolish.’ Those are your words, Lachlan.”
Lachlan exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Losing William has made me stop thinking like a foolish and unrealistic child. It’s time I settled down with one woman and made the best of it. If you do not approve, you don’t have to witness tomorrow’s wedding.”
“Not come? I wouldn’t miss it. I only want you happy.” Cameron followed him into the church, their voices lowered out of respect as they walked down the aisle. The echo of their boots on the stone floor summoned the vicar, John McKenzie. Lachlan greeted the middle-aged vicar and shook his hand.
“My lord, what service can I do for you?” The vicar’s bright blue eyes appeared amplified behind the spectacles perched on his nose.
“A wedding. I need a wedding tomorrow.”
“Oh? And who’s the lucky man?” John glanced at Cameron and chuckled. “I seem to recall marrying you only last month.”
Cameron laughed and pointed a thumb in Lachlan’s direction. “It’s him, if you can believe it.”
McKenzie blinked in surprise. “You, my Lord?”
“Why is everyone so shocked that I am to be married?”
John smiled. “Hardly a year ago, you said you would never marry, not unless someone made you.” The humor faded from his eyes. “There isn’t a…reason that a ceremony is required in such short time, is there? You know how I—”
“No,” Lachlan couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “The lass still clings to her precious maidenhead. I simply want the wedding to be done quickly.” Lachlan didn’t care for their assumptions, and had grown tired of everyone questioning his motives. That the truth was far worse, didn’t help matters.
The minister pursed his lips and, after exchanging a glance with Cameron, shrugged.
“And what’s the lucky lass’s name? Is she from this area?”
“No. She’s English.”
Both Cameron and McKenzie stared at him.
“You’re bringing a Sassenach to live here? With you?” Cameron started laughing again.
“There’s a bit of a problem with her residency,” McKenzie replied more seriously, “and the banns…”
“Aye, I figured as much.” Lachlan glanced around the church, noting some of the wooden rafters were a bit fractured. “And what of your church? Perhaps a bit of timber could find its way here?”
McKenzie glanced up at the same rotted timbers. “I suppose the banns can be read today three times and…well, we could have the church ready for a ceremony tomorrow at nine in the morning. Does that suit you, my lord?”
“Aye, that does.” Lachlan glanced once more at the stained-glass windows and the kaleidoscope of pale colors cast over the wooden pews.
“And this is to be a private affair?” John asked.
Lachlan finally faced the minister again, expecting more questions. “Yes. Cameron and Eliza will witness.”
“Very well. Is that all you need, my lord?”
“Yes, that is all.” He and Cameron bid the minister farewell and then they exited the church.
“Cameron, why don’t you bring Eliza up to Huntley Castle for a few days? Mother thinks it would cheer Daphne.” He wasn’t too keen on doing anything that would cheer his future wife, but it would cheer him, which was something he desperately needed. The anger he’d clung to for so long was waning and he was filled with an empty loneliness that he couldn’t seem to escape. Having Cameron around for a few days would remind him of the happy man he’d once been, before Willian’s death. He wanted Daphne to see him as he used to be, the man who might have fallen in love with her under different circumstances.
“I’m sure Eliza would be thrilled, and it will give me a chance to meet this woman and see if I can figure out why she has you twisted up in knots.”
“I’m not twisted up in knots.”
“So you say. But never in my life have I seen you so boorish. Growling like a wounded bear one minute and snapping your jaws like a wolf the next.”
“McLeod…” he warned, and inwardly cursed at how the name escaped his lips in a clear growl.
“Ack, now I’ve done it. You’re calling me McLeod.” Cameron feigned distress as they reached their mounts, tied up outside the church yard.
“Be there tonight for dinner,” Lachlan said as he and Cameron climbed into their saddles. His horse shifted and snorted. With a light smack on the gelding’s neck, Lachlan gripped his reins and readied to leave.
“Tonight, it is.” Cameron nodded to him and rode off, his home being only a few miles away.
Lachlan began the quick journey back home, wishing the distance was greater. He wasn’t yet ready to face Daphne. Not after last night. He had groped her like a randy lad and she had purred like a cat in response, something he hadn’t expected. The startled look of pleasure in her eyes told him she had never climaxed before. She wasn’t simply a virgin, she was completely uneducated in the ways of pleasure. He tried to bury the heavy guilt he felt, knowing he would enjoy giving those lessons.
I shouldn’t enjoy her, not anything about her, yet I do. It felt like a betrayal of William’s memory.
For the next half hour, he was lost in thoughts of Daphne as he rode home.
As he approached the castle’s entrance, he spotted a feminine figure kneeling among the rose bushes. There were no buds to admire, though, only frost on the remaining greenery. Intrigued, he rode closer, wondering if one of the maids was out…but then he recognized Daphne.
He took a moment to admire her. She worked a small pair of clippers in her gloved hands to cut a bit of a rosebush, then lifted the stem close to examine it.
“What are you doing?”
“My lord!” She gasped in shock and leapt to her feet before she spun around, her cheeks flushing. “I was retr
ieving a stem of this rose. I thought I might grow it inside the hothouse I discovered behind the castle.”
“The hothouse? That place hasn’t been tended to in years.” He slid off his horse and patted its flank as he waited for Daphne to join him. She wasn’t wearing a cloak, only a thin shawl, yet she seemed unbothered by the chill.
“Where’s your cloak?” he asked sharply.
Daphne’s face was still red. “I don’t have one.”
“But the modiste came today to bring you clothes.” He had seen to that personally before he’d ridden off to seek out Cameron.
“She gave me plenty of ready-made dresses and other necessary things, but she did not have a completed cloak.”
“Oh…” He felt like a horse’s arse for snapping at her. Lachlan stripped off his great cloak and hung it over her shoulders, noting that it pooled on the ground like a black train. He wanted her unhappy. He didn’t want her catching cold and becoming ill.
“Really, my lord…”
“Lachlan. Please call me Lachlan. As your future husband, I must see to your care. That includes giving you a cloak when you are cold.” He took his time, making sure it fastened securely beneath her chin. She trembled at his touch and clutched the frozen branch to her chest like a talisman.
“I thought you said you did not fear me,” he whispered, stepping forward until their bodies pressed. He couldn’t resist her, not when he thought of last night--the way she felt so perfect in his arms, and the way she reacted to him. The tension between them built as she raised her eyes to his.
“I don’t fear you…” Her admission only deepened the blush staining her cheeks.
He brushed his gloved hands down the pale column of her throat. “Then what do you fear?”
“I fear how you make me feel.” Her brown eyes, the color of a doe’s and just as frightened, glanced away from him.
“You should never be afraid of passion. Sometimes, when all else has been stripped away, it’s the only thing you have left in life,” he murmured, and the truth of the words hit him deep. Passion was all he had left. Love and trust, faith, hope...all of these had perished when William died.