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All the while, he kept his eyes on her, absorbing every little reaction. “You’re pure fire,” he murmured in amazement.
When she finally came, her eyes clasped on him, hair dishevelled by her fingers, shirt half-open, and her eyes blazed. She wanted to do the same for him, to uncover his magnificence, discover every inch of his body, explore, give the same pleasure he gave her.
Her fingers came to his shirt. “Let me—”
His hand closed on hers. “Leave it, Moira.”
Feminine brows creased. “But you also are…” her eyes sought his rampant middle.
His
head shook. “If you start it, I won’t be able to stop.”
Moira inspected his ruddy cheekbones, the tense muscles, the see-sawing breath, and all she wanted was his suppressed male energy spent in a frenzy full of passion.
But he was already straightening, pulling her with him, and adjusting her clothes. His hand entwined with hers and he pulled her upstairs to her chamber before proceeding to his.
Lachlan awoke with a start to the first lights of dawn sieving through the drapes. He had lain on bed the previous night, sleep not exactly the thing on his mind. Again, he had given in to the obscene pull that roiled in him every time he came near Moira. Without making conscious decisions, he sought her wherever she might be. It was becoming a too rooted habit.
He had known he should not have gone down to the pantry yesterday. When he saw her, he dissected every single inch of her delectable petite person. And desired all of it. That close to her, it had been an uphill battle to resist. A lost battle, despite his attempts at reason. The lass was more explosive than gunpowder, and he wanted to be the spark that fired it.
Her breasts were beautiful, the precise size for his hands. Pert and delicious.
His body instantly reacted to the memory. The very cause of his lack of sleep when he came to his chamber. He must be stronger, he admonished himself. She deserved more than a tryst, and he could not offer more than that.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings. “Come,” he answered.
“My laird,” Murray called. “I believe you should see this.” And retreated discretely.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a scowl, Lachlan jumped from bed, dressed quickly, and followed the butler.
“The small barn, my laird.” Both men rushed through the fresh morning. “Mrs. Murray alerted me when she came to feed the little ones.”
They opened the barn, and Lachlan’s stomach rebelled, almost refusing to stay put. Every single kitten, pup, their mothers, and lamb had been slaughtered. Their carcasses laid on the hay in a pool of blood. No life remained in the barn. His entire being froze, initially denying what he saw. Then a fury so wild and uncontrollable over it nearly blinded him.
“Let me pass!” Moira demanded. “I need to know what happened!”
Her presence grounded him. He must hold this at bay, for her.
“Don’t let her in!” he shouted to whomever had remained outside the barn. Who the hell told her? Mrs. Murray, sure, but the woman should have had more sense than that.
Wrenching his eyes from the killing, he strode to the entrance. Moira was just pushing herself inside the barn.
“Don’t come in!” he thundered and ran to her.
Too late, her hazel eyes looked at the atrocious scene in horror. “No, no, no,” the murmur accompanied features that became a mask of disgust.
Five seconds later he reached the entrance and pulled her head to his chest. She crumbled on him in ragged sobs that seemed to come from the deepest of her being. He wished he could absorb her sorrow and free her from it.
Strong arms lifted the lass, and he strode away from the innocent creatures.
Out in the grey morning, his head turned. Murray and his wife stood by the barn’s door, revulsion on their faces.
“You know what to do,” he gave the order. They must call someone to clear the carnage and make it disappear from view if not from memory.
In his arms, Moira clung to him, cheeks buried in his chest, body shaking though the tears fell silently.
