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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.”
His right hand manacled her wrist, and he tugged her to him, making her pert breasts come to an inch from his chest. “Nobody ‘returns’ me anywhere.” Her womanly scent assailed him, and mingled with burned wood and wind. He bent his head in order to match her glare, which brought him even closer.
Their stances battled fiercely. “I will,” the infernal waif insisted.
From where he touched her, something rampaged right to his groin. Time froze while his breath accelerated. His body responded to her as a rush of blood sped to his groin, leaving none for his mind to process clear thought.
In response, her chest moved up and down ever quicker, sending air through open lips. A rosy tongue moistened the plump delicacy, and he wondered if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. Her irises darkened to a mossy shade when she darted them to his mouth.
His instinct clamoured he pull her flush into him.
Her feminine nostrils sucked in oxygen before she stepped back, shaking his hold on her. He let go, though his guts rebelled at the notion.
“Let’s call this pantomime off,” she said.
For a moment, he continued studying her, intrigued at the mixed signals she sent. One minute she devoured his mouth with her enormous eyes, the next she shut him down resolutely.
“Meaning?” His eyebrows shot up.
“We break the ‘betrothal’, you go back to your merry life, and I to mine,” Tiny hands braced a narrow waist as she cast a defiant look at him.
If she was having a merry life, he must be having a ride in Paradise Lost.
