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As Moira saw herself alone with the McKendrick, she motioned to make her exit without fuss.
“A smashed mill?” Came Lachlan’s dark voice in a tone that denoted the gravity of the situation.
No, he would not let her slip away this easily.
She pivoted, and he dished her with six feet plus of male, legs braced, fists on tapered hips, a scowl on his chiselled face. “Yes, someone destroyed the millstones.”
The cylindrical stones crushed the grains for the three to four hours cooking needed to make them edible. Without the millstones, the mill was virtually useless.
“Bluidy hell, Moira! You had to deal with this type of crime?”
“We fixed it, you heard Caitlin.” She aimed at nonchalance, but succeeded only to imprint a shade of remembered distress.
“At what cost? Time and money?”
“High, of course,” she admitted grudgingly.
“What else happened?”
Her brows pleated at his intrusion. “I don’t think it’s your busi—”
“Tell me!” he cut, giving her no room for evasion.
The sigh she expelled told of resignation. “Mostly stolen property. Like the hay, sacks of apples from the orchard, milking cows.”
Each missing item caused a hole in the manor’s finances. The apples would become cider that yielded a profit when sold. Good milking cows cost veritably a fortune, together with the milk that meant to produce cheese and other dairy products that would feed the clan.
The ugly expletive he muttered under his breath left no doubt as to what he thought of her plight. “Why didn’t you come to us?”
Moira had contemplated the possibility. The McKendrick support meant that she would have the whole of the Highlands backing the Darrochs.
“Involving your clan would have been the same as declaring war. I hoped to put a stop to the troubles without resorting to extreme measures.”
“But ended up having to do exactly that,” he concluded.
“Unfortunately,” she answered with frankness. “The McTavish have no male relation to spare.”
Of Laird McTavish’s two daughters, Catriona was married to Fingal McKendrick.
If she believed he had scowled before, now he exhibited a nakedly savage look. His long, strong legs strode to her and his large hands held her shoulders. The firmness of the warm touch made her crick her neck back to meet his determined eyes.
“I am the suitor in place at the moment.” His masculine overbearing tone did not escape her. Neither did the overheated quiver that took over her insides.
To keep her balance, she put her hands on his bunched upper arms. A colossal mistake because the silky shirt combined with his warm skin seeped through her palms, making them hungry to stroke th
e whole length of his biceps and then more.
Hazel eyes widened when the pressure on her arms became softer at the same time his strong hands pulled her near. They were so close she could see each fleck of amber in his eyes. He did not stop pulling her until their chests almost touched.
She inhaled his scent. Her mouth fell open in the act and, suddenly, it seemed to have dried as if she had not drunk a drop of water for days. Her lashes threatened to weigh down and her entire body nearly sagged against him.
Darn! Was there not a single woman in this world that could resist him? That did not want to savour every inch of his god-like person? She must force her wits to prevail. Her teeth caught her lower lip, attracting his heated gaze.
“Moira?” he rumbled.
She felt vibration of his voice run through her and the sound pour in her ears like warmed Atholl Brose, smooth and inebriating.
Hearing her name served to wrench her back to reality. Little strong-will remained, but she mustered the shreds to jerk free from the promise of delights he dangled at her with his very presence.
