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His large foot kicked the study open and then shut as he carried the lass inside. He sat with her on an armchair. Fortunately, a fire already roared in the fireplace.
Lachlan held her tight, giving her space to pour out her emotions while he murmured words of solace and stroked her hair. She had obviously dressed in a hurry, her underdress wrinkled, the Burgundy and white tartan wrapped hazardously around her delicate frame, hair tied carelessly with a torn ribbon.
“I didn’t even have time to choose names for them,” she lamented, clearly lost in her sorrow. He remembered she had told him the names she had given to the lambs, though she had not yet thought of any for the cats and dogs.
“Shh, don’t think about that.” He kissed the top of her head.
Her face lifted to him, eyes shot red drowned in pain, cheeks streaked with tears, nose sniffling. The sight lanced him with sympathy and wrath in equal measures. Her uncle had no limit.
“How could he do this?” Her ragged question came in awe. “It does nothing to further his greed.”
Looking straight into her eyes, he let one of his hands smooth her riotous curls. “No. But it shows it’s become personal now.” Whereas before her uncle had aimed at the Darroch’s assets, this time he aimed to hurt Moira’s feelings.
Creased eyebrows met his view. “But why? He gains nothing with—”
“You thwarted him with your refusal to accept defeat,” Lachlan interrupted her. The more he thought about it the more he saw what a snake the man was. “This is his way of saying he’ll not tolerate it.”
Her hazel orbs, darkened with worry, widened on him. “Won’t he ever stop?” A dainty hand rubbed her temple.
His large one embraced her hand and kissed her wrist, where her pulse beat frantically. “Yes, he will, because we will make him.”
Her breath seemed to calm with his gentle touch. “You shouldn’t involve yourself even more, he’s getting dangerous.”
As though the man had ever not been a threat.
“Don’t even think of it,” he brushed her comment with a slash of his arm in the air.
“Damn you, McKendrick, for being such a pig-head!” she vented.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s just say you’ve found your match in this particular area.” And pulled her to cradle against his chest.
“Hm,” she rumbled.
A long while elapsed before her feet regained the floor, and they headed for breakfast.
Without a warning, Lachlan stormed into the tavern that evening, his hard gaze scanning the patrons drinking their ale, all from different clans. As he spotted his intended, he pounced on him, grabbed his shirt collar, and flew repeated punches on the middle-aged face.
His rage had been boiling, though he forced himself under control for Moira’s sake. Devoid of any will or need to stop this moment, he unleashed his fury on the man that had been causing so much damage to the Darrochs and to the lass who led her clan.
Taken by surprise, The Pitcairn had not a chance to react.
Earlier, Lachlan had gone to her uncle’s place to confront him, but was told he would find him here.
“You bluidy villain!” he growled through his clenched teeth. “You’ll pay for all the trouble you’re making.” And prepared for another blow.
Someone grabbed his arm from behind, preventing him from meting another satisfying punch. A second man held him, but Lachlan did not let go of the older man. Lachlan’s head turned to see Duncan, fairly recovered, and a few other Darroch members. Lachlan thrashed to break free, almost spitting fire through his nostrils. Two other Darrochs came to hold the McKendrick.
“He isna worth the trouble,” Duncan said.
He might not be, but goddammit, the man deserved this and much more. Lachlan had no condition to use reason at that minute. By any means, he must relieve this burning fury coursing through his veins. His brothers always said he had too quick a temper, but he gave a damn to their opinion. He even regretted not thrashing the McPherson after the latter threatened Drostan and his son. This here, though, he would not let go.
Shaken from their frozen surprise, the men accompanying The Pitcairn separated both men as Hamish groped his own bloodied face. He breathed hard as he tried to keep his skinny, bald person upright.
“Stop your shenanigans, Pitcairn, or I swear I’ll drag you to jail myself!” the McKendrick barked.
Moira’s uncle stretched a dirty grin. “Is she worth all this?”
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