by Lisa Torquay
Her eyes returned to the road and her mind forced to return to practical thoughts though the sensations were difficult to ignore.
Unnecessary to ask what this abduction meant. Most probably, The McDougal wanted to bargain her for some coveted asset: cattle, land or whisky trade. A woman was not worth much more than that in these remote confines. She did not fear for her life, for she proved to be more valuable alive than dead. The question being when she would be able to go back to her home. The sole thing to do now might be to find patience for it to run its course.
A big loch came into view after a road bend, placid, mirroring the cloudy skies, green surrounding it, the smell of grass in the air. So resplendent she had to stifle a gasp of appreciation. By the loch, lay a huge stone construction with countless roofs, chimneys and windows. Not a castle exactly, as it had no walls surrounding it, but it certainly had been built hundreds of years back. This building matched the landscape in such a pattern the combination took her breath away.
Hoofs clapped at the entrance of what could be an inner patio where bustling activity of servants, workmen and craftsmen took place.
The McDougal pulled the reins, and the horse stalled. Without wasting any time, she jumped from it before he got a chance to help by touching her. Their incessant physical contact unbalanced her to a point she was wired and flushed all over her person. Never turning to him, for fear of giving it away, she stood and waited.
In Gaelic, his dictatorial direction put her in the housekeeper’s hand with orders for a room, bath and food.
CHAPTER TWO
Taran stormed his studio, the memory of this afternoon dumping on him like a huge land slide rushing down a mountain. To think the whole thing got nearly lost because of one hell of a woman. He did not like the effect she provoked on him. One. Single. Bit. The ride had him steeling his body against those slight physical contacts. Small and treacherous. Too small. Too treacherous. Her plump breasts. Silky skin. Glossy hair. And her perfume. Something exotic and sweet. Like aniseed, for example. An ugly word saw the light of day through his throat. Repeated before he pressed his lips, tense.
When his mount faltered and he held her tiny waist to clasp her against him, doom menaced him, together with the feel of her curvy length on his. As her enormous eyes alit on him, blasting heat deflagrated in his guts. For no apparent reason. Not one he would heed, no.
A very defined purpose made him bring her here. Nothing would change it.
He threw his tall body on an armchair, fingers raking his ebony, sleek hair, mussing it. There should be no cause for this. He had spent last night with Shannon in the village. It was not like he went without a woman for long. Shannon understood the casual nature of their encounters and did not demand more. A way that proved to be convenient as he had been practising it for several years.
No time for these useless notions. A plan designed to see through here. Let’s go do it, he dictated to himself.
~.~.~
Shortly after she ate, a footman came to escort her to the laird. They walked vast corridors with decoration dating from various historical periods and several family paintings portraying coal black hair and green eyes of generations past hanging on stone walls.
A massive wooden door signalled their destination. Upon its opening, the footman allowed her in it. An essentially masculine study revealed before her. Dark, sturdy wooden desk and chairs. Shelves with ledgers and other material pertaining land administration, maps, papers, interrupted by a considerable gothic-like window with a view to the loch.
The man behind the desk lifted his head, his moss-green eyes landing on her like two Pharos. A shock of sensations whirled in her stomach, air nowhere to be got.
He stood his impressive height well above six feet four inches and her stomach fluttered some more. A strong effort to tamp it down demanded her full concentration.
“Lady Aileen, have a seat.” The sound neared the guttural, so deep it vibrated. He spoke perfect English, witness of a polished education, despite his clan’s attachment to tradition.
Thanks murmured in between a short breath and another, she sat. Her gaze lowered as she avoided further eye contact.
“What is it you want to bargain me for, Laird McDougal?” She started, right away.
A hint of amusement passed by his very manly features. “You are not here for a bargain.” The enigmatic answer did not calm her.
Mahogany irises snapped on him. “Then what?” There were few other reasons she could list.
The moment their stares clasped, countless shivers shocked with her. Her heart skipped a beat to start thrashing in an ungainly way. The effort to keep her breathing even a thankless task, for her lungs craved more oxygen.
“It’s time our clans make an alliance.” He paused, intertwining his fingers before him. “The rivalry has lasted too long.”
His green attention held hers firmly only to intensify her undesired reaction to him. Several seconds and the elevation of her inner temperature demanded she disentangle hers from his. Free from her defiance, his scrutiny sauntered over her as if they became torches burning each and every spot they infested with their touch.
Her brows creased. For a woman, clan alliance meant only one thing. Fury brewed in her insides. “You cannot be suggesting…?”
“Marriage, naturally.” His stance dead serious.
Her breath quickened at the possibility of marrying this giant… giant… man! “Not to you, I hope.” Marriage would be with whom and when she wanted. No one. No. One. Would force her.
But the idea he could be the groom unleashed a dark series of images in her head, all inappropriate and definitely unladylike.
A low chuckle of understanding reverberated the stone walls. The aversion mutual, clearly. “No. I am a widower and have no intention of re-marrying.”
He meant some kin, surely. She silenced, the puzzle of who in the air.
“My son.” He delivered casually.
Such an idea designed a veritable scowl on her feminine face. “Your son?” The question shot high pitched between them. This troglodyte did not appear too gone in years, a son of his would be young.
Too strained to remain seated, she sprung from the chair.
“My clan needs an heir.” He said unmovable.
Rage. Immense, uncontrollable, explosive rose from the depths of her. “I will not marry into your filthy people!” She fired away.
“Be careful, Lady Aileen.” He answered low, silky. “I may take offence on behalf of the McDougals.” The danger lurked in his cold tone and on a face that could be likened to a wolf’s
A swivel to him, eyes burning the hell out of her. “Be offended and send me away.” She had to practically tie up her emotions not to yell.
“If I take offence, I will do much worse.” His flashing eyes left no doubt about it.
On that mouth, it sounded so much more than a threat. A promise. Heated. Molten. Forbidden. She gyrated from him to hide this misplaced response
The laird stood from his chair ringing a bell.
Her incompliant reaction was burning out his short temper. To ashes. Being a McKendrick did not afford her the right to act so arrogant.
His stony features turned full on her and she took him on fearless. The feel of blood rushing in his veins, hotter by the second, froze him to the spot.
The tragic fact was blood rushed to parts of him that should not be demanding attention at that precise moment. In search of regaining control, he dodged his head somewhere away from the disquieting woman.
The door opened again. Sam stood at the threshold. A willowy boy nearly as tall as him, bright orange hair, round spectacles. “Sam, come in.”
The boy appeared shy and awkward, but Taran felt sure maturity would develop him.
When the door closed, he spoke again. “Come meet your bride, Lady Aileen McKendrick.”
The woman in question goggled axes at him and at the young man alternately. Ludicrous written all over her goddess-like fa
ce. “How old is he? Sixteen?”
The glasses made his son look more childish to other people. “Eighteen.”
“L-lady Aileen.” An insecure Sam started. “I am pleased to make your-your acquaintance.” A slight bow came with it.
She curtsied, too. “So am I, Sam” Totally in the name of politeness, he understood.
She turned her fury to him. “I will not marry a boy!”
“He is not a boy; he is of age!” A volcano built in his guts.
Sam looked at them, probably sensing his father was losing it. “M-my father says many princesses married younger kings for the sake of political gain.” The boy interposed, trying to contemporise.
Her fiery expression subsided a notch when she looked at him. “I know, Sam. But this is not a country and I am not a princess.” She paced his carpet as if she wanted to make a hole in it.
A shy smile came to his boyish face. “You look like one.”
His son may be a tad awkward yet, but learned gallantry fast, Taran concluded proud.
And the diminutive woman did not look like a princess. Not at all. She evoked more the image of a tigress, brave, firm and regal. Everything accompanied by a beauty that hurt to stare at too long.
She stalled in front of the youngster, her tense face melting into a smile. It was like a meteorite impacted Taran directly on his chest. Her smile transformed her face from tempting to blinding dazzle in a matter of seconds. Trouble. This woman spelt trouble. For any man who lay eyes on her curvaceous frame.
“Oh, Sam, thank you.” Her head tilted sideways, gracious. “I am sorry, but I don’t believe this match is a good idea.”
To him, bullet-darting eyes. “Please, have my carriage readied, I will continue my trip.” She crossed her arms facing him fully. “Now.”
Her chest tensed and elevated her breasts. The sight of them bunching robbed his concentration for precious seconds as images of how he would… treat that particular part of her drifted to his undisciplined thoughts.
Without externalising his temper, he told his son, “Sam, I am sure your books await you.”
“Yes, father. I will go to the library.” He agreed and left seemingly happy to quit this mine field.
The click of the closing door gave Taran the cue to speak. “You will leave here married to the honey moon cottage.” He expelled fire enough to match hers.
A humourless snort came out of her terribly tempting lips. “And you imagine you can bend me to your will.”
Coming to stand right in front of her, legs apart, muscled arms crossed, his temper rose unbidden. Her use of the word bend evoking thoroughly inappropriate ideas. “Meaning you will not.”
Completely unaware of how much she pushed him to an edge he never learned he had, she mimicked him, bracing her legs and re-crossing her arms. “What do you think?”
This fearless woman proved to be cut from a cloth he had no familiarity with so far. “That you are going to do as you are told.” His glacial tone bellied the heat rising in him.
Hands flying to her slim waist. “You are a criminal!”
“I do not care about your opinion of me.” His jaw ticked with the need of a physical outlet. “After you come to know Sam, you both will get along well.”
“And you can say whatever you want, but I will not do it.” To defy The McDougal took guts, he would give her that.
“We will see.” He devolved in equal tones. At the door, he pulled it, dismissing her ostentatiously.
Air passed through her nostrils with a determined noise as she cast him a murderous glare and walked out of the study.
At her disappearance, came his turn to exhale forcefully. He expected a meek pliable lass and now he got faced with this dragon of a woman! Did her clan not educate the little witch? They should have, for she proved to be completely unprepared to enter a peaceful marriage. Meaning, one where the husband ordered, and the wife consented. Preferably in silence. And at once.
~.~.~
In the room assigned to her, Aileen fought not to give in to despair. To think she decided to visit her aunt as a retreat strategy with the aim of relieving the pressure on her to choose a husband. To end up trapped here with a man bent on a crazy plan.
An ineluctable impulse to thrash the troglodyte had almost overcome her in the study. Did he believe he was so powerful as to have the prerogative to manipulate everyone and everything to his designs? Whatever happened, she would not be everyone. She would stand up to him and exert her rights no matter what the laird dictated.
The housekeeper informed her of the dinner time and she refreshed herself for her next battle. Servants had brought her trunk up, but she had no idea of Mairi, Greg and Brody’s whereabouts.
At least, her chambers presented a quite pleasant air. Tapestries of rather ancient times lined the stone walls, preserved and clean. They depicted scenes of war and bucolic revelries. A big fireplace dominated one side and kept the autumn chill out of it. The large canopied bed lay next to it dressed in fashionable, fluffy style. Drapes on the large gothic-like window offered a cosy air to the decoration.
This room left no doubt as to the McDougal’s wealth, neither the other parts of the manor, as far as she saw. It just confirmed what she learned about them. They had lands, sheep, tenants and a highly-rated distillery which supplied exclusive quality whisky to England and the Continent.
Not that the McKendricks lay below them. Her clan also owned lands and riches matching the earldom they received from the English. An alliance would transform both clans in the most powerful in Scotland. But she would not marry into a family where madness ran wild. The Laird’s raving mad ideas a proof of it.
~.~.~
Various tangled corridors lay between her chambers and the dining room. She walked them without certain aim, asking here and there for the right direction. A brightly illuminated spot guided her in the final yards. Fine taste and traditional furniture offered the enormous place a mixture of quiet elegance and comfort.
Inside, father and son talked on one corner, the laird’s large back to her. Sam exhibited the same green eyes of his father without the dictatorial expression. And displayed a contemplative disposition highlighted by his circular glasses, too big for his young face. That the ignominious laird would force such a sweet boy into marriage with a woman seven years his elder caused her loath.
Sam’s attention found her and an adolescent enthusiasm lit him. “Lady Aileen.” Not even excusing himself—something she would have to point out later—he approached her.
Point out later? She did not come to this madhouse to be the boy’s governess. By the way, she wanted out of here as soon as she could find a way.
The father gyrated to witness his son offering one arm to her as he must have been taught by a tutor. Thick brows creased in a faintly irritated expression.
The sight of the mad giant made her insides coil tight, followed by an inconvenient flush of her skin and a galloping heart for absurdly unfathomable reasons. It must be that he infuriated her to the point of physical manifestations.
“Mr McDougal.” She replied in kind, with a polite smile, as her hand rested on the boy’s thin arm. The youngster was obviously trying hard to meet his father’s expectations.
“Your presence makes all the light in this precinct unnecessary.” A practise of his gallantry on her, for sure.
The creases on the father’s brow deepened.
“Why, thank you.” He guided her to her chair on the left of the head one, belonging to that man.
CHAPTER THREE
Taran should be happy that his son made an effort to be pleasant to the little dragon. It showed his compliance with the clan’s needs. Why this irritation at the boy’s attempt at—bad—poetry he did not understand. Worse still. Said irritation sky-rocketed at her lady-like pleasant response. This near maddening impulse to punch the sturdy dining table to release some of this pent-up energy invaded him. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would throw himself in hard physical exerti
on to wear out these nameless… occurrences.
And would visit Shannon in the village. It would put everything in perspective.
The thought of the visit disgusted him.
Bluidy hell!
Sam helped Aileen to her chair. She dressed her female version of her clan’s plaid. A white underdress with a spencer of green and black plaid. The demure round neckline framed by lace hugged round breasts, flaring from a tiny waist to shapely hips which hinted on even more shapely legs. A flash in his mind, unbidden and uncalled for of how these legs might lace him and—
Damnation! Stop it!
He sat quickly, for his tartan would denounce him all too promptly.
Which put his eyes on level with her fairy face. When those big luminous eyes fell on him, a blazing canon-ball punched him directly on his guts. And deflagrated raving damage.
Ifrinn! Hell!
The servants brought the hearty fare of roast meat and potatoes and retired.
“We will set the date to Friday.” He dropped as a means of much-needed distraction.
“Friday?” Sam and Aileen in unison.
It was to the later he directed his wolfish green gaze, and got dished with an avalanche of loath, anger. And a look that told him he was out of his mind.
Possibly.
The pair exchanged a glance of mute communication. This sign of complicity put him in an even fowler mood.
“Father, I believe we would have a couple of weeks to be better acquainted with each other.”
In those weeks, he would be in rags. Ravening. Deranged. Because of her.
His son had eighteen years of experience with dealing with his father’s short temper and emitted this with a reasonable tone.