The Lass Defied the Laird

by Lisa Torquay

  That mouth which did the most wicked things to her curved in a smirk. “You think so?”

  “We received no written proposal, as is usual.” Drostan finally interposed.

  Those eyes came at her anew. “Did you tell them you never made it to your aunt?” He asked with such familiarity, as if they lived under the same roof for decades.

  Four pairs of varying shades of brown alit on her. “No.” Her chin lifted on him. “I was not about to start a war.”

  Drostan advanced on Taran. “What did you just say, dirty McDougal?”

  The giant did not back away. “I abducted her.” Their heights matched. “She stayed in my manor all this time.”

  Drostan’s fists tightened by his side. He would use them in a question of seconds, certainly.

  As the tableau got serious, Aileen stepped between her brother and that man.

  “Stop it, you brutes!” Emphatic, she separated them, one hand on each solid chest. The one on his reacted despairingly.

  Taran lowered his gaze to her fingers and returned to her so suggestive, she flushed in crimson shade; a hot, molten flash arrowing to her middle. Her hands flew back to her sides immediately.

  “Everyone to the study.” She directed firmly. “Robert, bring whisky, please.” She oriented the tardy footman watching the scene agape.

  The man must be out of his mind if he came alone to confront four robust McKendricks.

  Taran followed the wee hurricane, wishing he could touch her swaying hips. Since he left too late the day before, he needed to overnight in an inn and depart this morning after a bath and breakfast. None of those eased his temper. To spend the night in an arctic bed did not help it a bit. Especially because the arctic piece of furniture meant her absence.

  Whisky served, the footman rushed out and closed the door.

  He observed her brothers as they stood each in one corner eyeing him suspiciously. Not about to be intimidated, he eyed them back.

  Her father did not appear less combative, despite his grey hair, wrinkled face and less muscular frame. An opponent to count with, evidently.

  In a swig, Taran finished his dose. Brows arched, he looked at the glass feigning surprise. “This is a good one.” He commented.

  “The best.” Wallace corrected.

  “South of the Highlands, perhaps. To the north is mine.” The mutual boast seemed to lighten the mood.

  “You were saying…“ Drostan brought back the focus.

  “I intercepted her carriage as it crossed my lands.” He informed matter-of-factly.

  “How did you learn she would be there?” Lachlan asked surgically.

  “A stable-hand from one of the inns came to tell me in exchange for cheap coins.” The knowledge set the engines in his brain in motion. “I planned an alliance for both our clans.”

  “He intended me to marry his son.” Aileen’s voice did more to his rushing blood than its ring of absurdity.

  “The lad cannot be more than— “ Fingal calculated quizzical.

  “Eighteen.” She completed.

  “We always knew the McDougals are… screwballs.” Wallace provoked.

  Taran decided to let this go over his head. “She would have none of it.”

  “Thwarted you, did she?” Lachlan jabbed.

  “You could say that.” He answered.

  “Why are we not surprised?” Fingal had a knowing look about him.

  Her brothers possessed no illusions about their sister. “But things became a tad— “ McDougal sought Aileen’s mahogany eyes. “Foggy.”

  “How foggy?” Drostan crossed his considerable arms and cast a hard stare to the outsider.

  “I… compromised her.” He threw without preamble. “Thoroughly.”

  Lachlan, the youngest and with the shortest temper, came on to Taran and grabbed his shirt collar. “You stained her with your filthy McDougal paws?” He shook the giant.

  McDougal did not move as his gaze took the other man fully. Neither would back down from a fight.

  “Ease.” Drostan intervened.

  Both men did not move for several seconds until Lachlan decided to listen to his elder brother, released the fabric, concrete face, and paced back to his corner.

  “You ravished her?” Wallace, until then calm, acquired a livid posture.

  He was unable to undo the sardonic expression covering his face, despite the tension in the room. “I would object as to who ravished who, Laird McKendrick.” He said cautiously. “Though I prefer to keep my silence.”

  A glance at Aileen showed her face bright red with a thunderous goggle at him.

  “Aileen?” Came Lachlan.

  She turned serious to her brother. “Nobody forced me to do anything, if that is what you are asking.” Taran admired her directness and honesty, even in dire circumstances.

  “We went before the priest.” Taran made a point to say quickly. “She said no.”

  “Excuse me?” Drostan frowned at Aileen.

  She shrugged dismissive. “The priest wanted me to promise to obey him!”

  The four McKendrick men sprouted a mocking stance.

  “Weird idea.” Fingal, eyes low mimicking comprehension.

  “What a calamity.” Lachlan shook his head feigning inconformity.

  “Unthinkable.” Scorned Drostan.

  Taran eyed each brother together with the hidden smile on her father’s mouth. And thought he and his future in-laws would get along nicely.

  Like a house on fire.

  “That bad, is it?” McDougal completed.

  “You have no idea.” Fingal.

  “I believe I do.” He returned.

  Witnessing their conversation in such tones, Aileen made no secret of her disapproval. “Will you stop this fellowship of the brutes?” The witch asked vexed.

  To avoid her rising wrath, the five men struggled into a grave appearance.

  “There is no turning back, Aleen.” Wallace sobered. “You must marry The McDougal.”

  Mahogany irises wide, she glared each brother as if seeking an ally to counter it. None found.

  When they focused on Taran, his brows arched, challenging her to go against five.

  To which challenge she rose. “You cannot be serious.” She hissed.

  “We are.” Drostan emitted stonily.

  Her feet paced the study, hand on her brow, mind racing, probably. Five big men watched her and stood motionless.

  “Alright.” She expelled air soundly through her delectable lips. “I will marry him.”

  Luck smiled at him, Taran celebrated.

  “On one condition.” She continued before anyone said anything.

  Luck sneered at him, more like it. He waited for her to fire away.

  “Send Sam to Oxford.” Her stare unwavering on him. “He is too bright a boy to waste away his gift.”

  The diminutive lass proved to be clever, he would give her that. “You strike a hard bargain.” His turn to pace now.

  Of all the stipulations she could have asked for herself—a town house, jewels, whopping pin money—she remembered his own son. And put him in a check-mate position, the hurricane.

  “Written on the marriage contract.” She demanded further.

  He froze, to snap his glare at her. “You are not going to tear this one to pieces too, are you?”

  She blanched while her brothers and father shot dumbfounded glances at her.

  “Provided it is not a prison conviction.” She devolved haughtily.

  “Done.” McDougal conceded, a hand raking his hair exasperated.

  “She found her match.” Lachlan stated, victorious.

  The now betrothed pair slung a burning ogle to the offender.

  “If he— “ Aileen started pointing an angry finger at him.

  “If she— “ Taran started at the same time.

  “Is my match— “ They continued in unison.

  “I am the Queen of England.” She concluded.

  “I am the King of England.” T
aran followed.

  The McKendrick men exchanged disguised smug looks between them. That the lass and the Laird would say practically the same thing at the same time must prove them right.

  Wallace opened the study’s door and called Robert to order him to prepare a chamber for The McDougal.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Too keen on escaping marriage, you crashed right into it, wee lass.” Fingal teased his sister as soon as The McDougal exited for his appointed room.

  Why she thought the impossible troglodyte would simply accept her departure from his manor was a mystery she would not decipher in a short time. The man gave all signs of being marriage-phobic, considering his negative experience with it.

  “Not my doing, as you saw.” She devolved.

  Drostan, Lachlan and Wallace had left for their chores.

  “Did you expect to go and marry another as if nothing had happened?” The question she asked herself in the night.

  “Yes, I did.” She answered candidly. “Many lasses did that in our clan.” They had, and no one made a fuss of it.

  “You are the daughter of The McKendrick though.” He pointed. “They would mostly expect a maiden.”

  “But they would have also required the dowry and the alliance.” She rebutted.

  “Fair enough.” He acceded. “But grooms own those expectations.”

  The past days and what transpired in the study took their toll on her as her eyes shot daggers at her older brother. “I am tired of having to rise to men’s expectations!” She blundered out, not minding her tongue.

  His thumb and forefinger rubbed his jaw, reflective. “I see.”

  “No, you do not!” She said hotly. “Growing up with the four of you assuming you could bend me as you saw fit did not sweeten me to overbearing men.”

  “We were not that hard on you, I reckon.” Fingal tried to reconcile.

  “Agreed. But if I accepted everything you dumped on me, I would be crazy by the time I turned fifteen.” The compromise a slight one. “And now I will marry into the same tune.”

  “It is not as if he has completely disregarded your wishes.” He defended. “McDougal came here for your hand after all.”

  “Yes, he did.” No chance of denying it. “Only because I allowed him no less.”

  Her brother nodded. “Anyone can feel the vibration when you both are in the same room. There is more than mere clan alliance there.”

  Who would argue with this? “An alliance which will reshape the Highlands, I daresay.” She ventured.

  “I am sure of that.” The tall McKendrick said before going to the stables to take care of his precious horses; and she resumed the managing of the manor.

  ~.~.~

  Dinner became naturally a dull event where the men discussed the marriage arrangements and the contract.

  They talked as though they had been old friends, drat it!

  Mostly, Aileen kept out of the conversation, which did not include her much anyway. That she would marry The McDougal and what it entailed baffled and stunned her in equal measure. Until today she did not seriously consider marriage to him. The presumption that she would be able to skip it prevented her from facing the question head on as she should. No more, it seemed.

  The deceptive part, though, proved to be straining. His presence at the table she had shared exclusively with her family up to tonight, disquieted her. He unbalanced her to the point of distraction. Her stomach tolerated a modicum of nourishment. The sight of him, tall, red and black plaid among the green and black ones, made him stand out. Her heart somersaulted every time she had to look at him as he talked. The nearness scalding her senses as the candelabra illuminated his remarkable eyes. The same that flushed on her with earth quaking constancy.

  She looked forward to the end of the meal.

  Finally, she headed for the drawing room to do her sewing while the men retreated to the study for their whisky.

  ~.~.~

  In her dressing room, she changed into her nightgown and combed her hair, trying not to remember the giant would be barely two doors away from her. The temptation to sneak into his chambers so palpable, she might taste it.

  The devil had the power to lead her astray with the snap of his fingers.

  At the threshold to her chamber, she froze. The implacable warrior sat on an armchair in the moonlight as if he owned all the right to be there.

  That accomplice heart of hers raced to immeasurable speed at his presence. Hot and molten, her centre recognised him instantly.

  Eyes meshed, they remained immobile for long minutes.

  “What are you doing here?” She did not need to ask the breathy question. She knew. And she wanted him there; though confessing it listed as another thing entirely.

  “The idea of waiting for you to come to my chambers bored me.” His deep-voiced words bathed her in warm honey. Those words themselves caused a rebellion in her clear mind, and she gasped involuntarily.

  That bold gaze sauntered over her, heating every inch of where they reached. Like a touch. Two days without him, not two centuries, for pity’s sake!

  “I was not going to do it.” She declared, hopefully convincing.

  As her stare ventured from his, she realised he dressed—not even dressed—wrapped solely in his soft tartan. Never a kilt, nothing less than the traditional tartan for him. Under it, his god-like frame lay nude. Broad shoulders and taut legs on show. She did not stand a chance.

  “No?” He unwrapped the tartan from his torso, regaling her with the muscled chest sprinkled with fine dark hair, begging for her palms. “You would condemn us to a frustrating night.”

  “You should have waited for the wedding tomorrow.” Who was she trying to convince, anyway?

  His chuckle thrummed through her. “We are as good as married, with a wedding night and all.”

  The memory of said wedding night brought her to a boiling state. “Not for the Clan McKendrick.” True, but ineffectual.

  “Mere semantics.” The silvery light of the moon shone on his coal hair, lending bluish streaks to it. “There are more important… issues in need of your attention.” His long, strong fingers removed the lower part of his tartan to display the rest of his magnificence, gloriously ready for her.

  No amount of self-control would have prevented a gape. Hunger gnawed in the most sensitive parts of her.

  “Come here, Aileen.” The command added to her weakened senses.

  How could she abhor dictatorial males and melt shamefully at the bidding of this one?

  With her rational mind undeniably shut down, she obeyed disgracefully. Nearing the armchair, she halted in front of him, their eyes consuming each other.

  His big hands found her thighs under the nightgown and rolled it up as his caress revealed the hips he coveted so much. Those hands pulled her and she fell straddling him.

  Green eyes illuminated by the moon elevated to her. “If you force me to spend one more night in an icy bed, you will answer for it.” The moonlit beacons acquired a quality that reminded her of wolves in winter—ineluctably famished.

  Unrepentant, his fists tore at the thin fabric that walled her from him. The gesture contributed to sow goose-bumps over her skin and to harden her nipples to his appreciation. Pure combustion. The bristle jaw did not waste time. It clasped one while his hand teased the other, her head falling back in delectation with a sigh. The movement caused the torn nightgown to slip from her shoulders to the middle of her back. It edged her glossy hair, hanging in the air from her bent head. Her hands merged in his marvellous hair, inhaling earthen scent and man.

  His sinful mouth abandoned her mound to climb up her bosom to the juncture of her neck and her shoulder where her pulse claimed his suckling. Long fingers descended over her ribs, her navel, to the centre which denounced her need for him. A need his fingers made a point to transform in torment, pushing her to the edge.

  Muscled arms locked around her slim waist to pull her down, thus impaling her with his extreme
erection. A moan greeted this. This was when his mouth captured hers, the assault on her senses complete and unmitigable. She had to grab his bare shoulders to stand the avalanche of pleasure.

  He moved up, she moved down, his arms pressed her to him. His mouth inflamed her lips, her breasts, leaving no space for finesse. They groaned, they sought, they accelerated. They demanded. At last, she gave up and exploded, channel gripping him, her mouth clamping to avoid the open scream it threatened to utter. Out of his mind, he grabbed her buttocks desperate for release. Rugged face contorted, he poured in her as she registered the undulations of his release.

  She fell on him, he fell on the armchair, both panting and sweating, replete.

  Unable to move, they remained on it for a long time.

  The chilly air obliged both to go to bed. Still joined, he lifted her and tucked the both under her coverlet. The desire they released so intense it drove the betrothed to slumber.

  The pre-dawn encountered them entangled in a mess of bed linens, legs jumbled together. On his belly, he lay, head on the curve of her neck, one arm around her waist, the other over his tousled head. Glossy chestnut hair emanated the perfume he identified with her.

  The amazement at how she had only to look at him and she held him in the palm of her hand endless. His self-restraint disappeared the moment she came near him. It was as if he was at her mercy, unable to rein in his desires. Or his feelings. The fact taunted him, but no chance he would stay away from her. He did not even know if he wanted to escape it, escape her. It would mean keeping a distance. He mustered no forces for that.

  Tonight, he would be a married man anew. He would take this intriguing woman to the house she made him feel at home with her mere presence. The manor he had lived his entire life became the real place of his rest and retreat because of her presence there. To give it warmth, comfort. To give it a soul. To fill him with something completely nameless, bottomless. Fathomless.

  A hand slid along his spine, awaking each sinew, to stroke each muscle. Soothing and arousing in one craved touch. It descended and ascended slow, appreciative, soft. Her other hand reached his hair to play with the scattered coal strands. She liked it, he could tell.