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In long strides—as long as her small stature permitted—she put maximum distance between them.
“The silver lining is this is a temporary post,” she quipped at his taunt. She surprised herself she was able to speak amid the fog in her brain, which manifested itself anytime Lachlan was near. The other good news was that Atholl Brose, the beverage made with whisky, oat milk, heavy cream and honey would be served only at New Year, very far from now.
By then, the Darrochs would have surely sorted their problems.
As she pushed him away, he turned his back to her, approached the window, and raked his dark brown waves.
“There are more pressing matters than thinking of when this will end.” A steel clink rang in his voice when he turned to face her fully.
Sparks of lightning zinged in the space that separated them and landed like butterflies on her stomach. She needed to flee from here at once. No matter how cowardly.
“You’re absolutely right,” she replied tersely. “It’s time to free the herb garden of weed. If you’ll excuse me.” She pivoted, temporarily freeing herself of the unruly feelings that grew like weeds inside her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two weeks later, Lachlan carried a beam to the roof of Duncan’s cottage. The weather had warmed perhaps two degrees, but even so, sweat trickled from his brow. Moira and other clan women had gone into the fields to check on the oat sprouts and make sure they were growing healthily.
Since the fire, in their spare time, the clan had worked on the cottage. The debris cleared and they assessed what needed doing. Fortunately, the fields required not so much attention as they were sowed and would require work only at harvest. This freed the men to help in the rebuilding when they were not tending to the livestock, which would go out in the pastures in late May.
The backbreaking labour suited Lachlan perfectly. Or nearly perfectly, he should say. Despite his enjoyment of physical work and the repairing it involved, it did not render him tired enough for deep sleep. Oh, no! And two doors away from the lass? That made it almost impossible.
He would have kissed her that day after Mrs Darroch left. Senseless. The pulsing desire to do it had thrown him in an inferno of lust. Pure, explicit lust. He had been a millisecond from capturing her mouth when she pushed him away. But not before he had witnessed the naked want in her eyes. Though she might not like him very much, she was far from indifferent.
The realisation of his own hunger impeded proper sleep. More than that, the woman had become even more skittish than usual. Ensconced in her study, she had been avoiding him. She either requested dinner in her study or left early in the morning. Which made him see little of her.
Her only feat was that, when he in fact saw her, it was to devour every single aspect of her. His brothers would have a long laugh should they know there was one woman in this world that made him feel like four horses pulled him in different directions. When all he wanted was to taste her in every way.
As he hammered the beam onto the roof, movement on the ground drew his attention. The women walked back from the fields to lend a hand with the building. He had been amazed in the first day at the sight of Moira leading the others to undertake the heavy tasks. They had been working side by side with the men, speeding up the reconstruction. There was nothing the infernal waif would not do for her clan. This commitment erupted warm respect for a true Highlander like her.
Lachlan pretended to inspect the beam as he covertly watched her. Underdress and wrapped Burgundy-and-white tartan stood out from the women wearing full dresses and a plaid shawl over their shoulders. He would bet his fortune he could span her waist with his hands. He envisioned himself doing exactly that, to pull her flush against him, carry her somewhere hidden, and take her until neither could even breath.
“My laird,” a clan member called behind him.
Startled, he would have fallen head first, were he not kneeling and holding the beam.
His eyes turned to the other man. “Yes, John?”
“Wid ye move a wee bit, so I can take this beam over there?”
In answer, he descended the ladder to retrieve more building materials. On the ground, he turned and almost collided with Moira. She held a bucket of cement in one hand, and with her other, she wiped a stray chestnut curl from falling on her eye.
“Let me take this,” he said without thinking before he extended his hand and covered hers.
The contact with her callused palm elicited heat. He wondered how those labour weathered hands would feel on his naked— Bluidy hell!
His gaze trailed her throat as she swallowed a gulp of air. “No need, I can do it,” she blurted too quickly and silkily.
The tone induced weird effects on him and, worse, induced him to caress her calluses with his thumb. Her glare snapped to his as her delicate face flushed crimson. Several heartbeats passed with them in this seemingly intimate contact. And in front of the whole clan.
He grasped the handle and took it from her. “You shouldn’t be carrying this heavy burden,” he admonished, more to disguise the nature of his stray thoughts.
Her eyelids narrowed. “And you shouldn’t be intruding in my work,” she hissed.
Before he did something not intended for other people’s eyes, he grabbed the bucket and strode to the half-finished wall.
The rest of the day he thought it better to stay on the roof—not looking at her—as she worked on the wall.
Moira halted even before she reached the fields the next morning. A few people stood on the fringes, erect like trees.
