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Now the poor animals painstakingly climbed the steep track that led to the clan’s manor. His first visit to it as a matter of fact. Never did he think the lass he met four years ago would act so insanely. Their brief interaction at the gathering in the McPhersons had made an impression on him. The petite lass had jested carefree with him, and in the scarce moments their eyes met in the middle of a crowded room, something happened to his guts. His vision had filled with one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. But he knew better than to trifle with a Laird’s daughter, so he strived to put it past him.
Finally reaching the manor, the cart halted at what seemed to be a back entrance. In agile movements, the mad Darroch got down, rounded the vehicle, and neared him.
“I’m tearing the net, McKendrick,” she started in a voice that was feminine and firm. “Try anything and I’ll call my men for your utter regret,” she warned.
“Oh, lass,” his answer did not convey his burning contrariety. “I’d not dare offend after being invited here so graciously.”
A sharp knife pierced right under his ticking jaw and ran skilfully all the way down to his midriff. In annoyed jerks, he tossed the thing to his feet while his gaze met hers. They fizzled. To cut him free meant she was close. And armed with a knife she knew how to use. But that meant nothing because time froze. The quiet backyard disappeared.
Riotous chestnut locks framed a face so delicate any man would consider her fragile. A great mistake. Nonetheless, the symmetric lines of it would arrest the beholder from the large hazel eyes to the long lashes, oval shape, and the full lips. Said beholder would be lost at the sight of these. Her mouth looked fresh, its soft ripeness conjuring images he had no business conjuring. That knife might slash any unsuspecting man and he would become none the wiser. Lachlan imagined those men would gratefully melt at the attention.
She broke the spell by stepping back. Only at that moment did he take note of what she wore. A long underdress served as a base for a full tartan in the Darroch colours of Burgundy and white, wrapped around in a fashion that men used to do it. But on her the effect was…intriguing to say the least. The folds around her hips marked her tiny waist, falling to her booted feet. The upper end came up to cover her chest demurely, the result being anything but. The wool denounced firm high breasts before it looped over her narrow shoulder and tied at the waist on her other side. In short, she transformed men’s clothes into provocative attire. He would bet his whole inheritance on her having no idea how feminine she looked.
“We always treat our special guests with the utmost deference, my laird,” she quipped in response to his earlier taunt.
Besides mad, the lass was defiant. And why this made Lachlan want to unwrap the coarse wool from her petite frame and teach her a lesson that had nothing to do with etiquette, he had no idea.
Up a flight of back stairs, Moira guided the McKendrick along a desert hallway towards the study. She took deep gulps of air. During the drive, she had feared the man would resist and blow her plans. She had her brother to thank for her fighting skills. But she had doubted she would be able to take on this giant McKendrick. Upon touching him, she feared her bravado would melt into a string of disgustingly pleasurable sighs. Beating herself up mentally for the thought, she strived to keep calm. The scoundrel did not react after all and followed her now as if he had come of his own volition. Not that she was fooled. The anger in his dark eyes sparked like lightning in a night storm.
They entered the study, and she did not waste time in barricading behind the solid desk piled with documents and ledgers. Her features schooled to appear purposeful, she lifted her hazel irises to him. Tall, legs braced, and arms crossed, he did what no one else did: dwarf the cavernous room. The flutter in her stomach repeated itself much to her irritation.
A dire hope he would not notice the derelict state of everything she lay her attention on cut through her. There was no hiding the threadbare carpet, the torn upholstery on the chairs, the faded drapes, or the scarcity of wood available by the fireplace. There should be no shame in poverty, but the precarious state of her beloved manor made her feel bare. The lack of cosiness, the lack of means to take care of the innumerable needs of this house and the people she was responsible for? Ate at her insides.
Any idea on how to start this? Having come all this way, she might as well get straight to the point.
Her lungs filled with air, hoping it would bring the necessary courage. “I brought you here to marry you,” she blurted before she lost her nerve.
The scowl that surfaced on those perfect features gave her a fairly clear notion of
how he would take it.
“First, you didn’t bring me here. You hunted me and bluidy dragged me up to the Darroch’s.” His words reverberated in the moth-eaten room.
Her throat swallowed what seemed like gritty sand. Not that bad, or was it? “I didn’t hurt you,” she defended.
“Thank you for that.” he bit out with a curl on his mesmerising lips. Pointedly, he eyed the knife on her waist and the ball-less rifle she leaned on the back wall of the study.
“In any case, I’ll just summon the blacksmith and—”
“You have to be delirious if you think I’d agree with this ridiculous idea,” he said.
Perhaps she had not handled this with the tact it required but being refused dampened her self-confidence considerably. What did she expect? A man who could have any woman under the sun—because they sought him like travellers sought a fireplace in winter—would never consider taking a dishevelled lass like her to wife. She possessed neither time nor funds to pamper herself and, to be frank, she was not interested in attracting the opposite sex, simply for the fact she never intended to marry. Or had never intended until the need urged it.
With an effort, she suppressed her musings in favour of ploughing through the matter at hand. “I’m not delirious, just desperate.”
A thumb and a forefinger lined his stubble-lined, square jaw as he inspected her with a snort “Desperate for what, a man? If that’s the problem, I’ve already told you—”
Her turn to interrupt his arrogant conclusion. “The Darroch is in danger of being usurped.”
“Who’s your brother’s heir?” Everyone in the Highlands who was anyone had been to Malcom’s funeral, including all the McKendricks.
“A distant cousin who has an…indulgent life in Glasgow and isn’t remotely interested in the task,” she informed. That had been the reason she held up until now. “But my Uncle Hamish is threatening to take over.”
“The Pitcairn?” He scowled quizzically. “Their clan is insignificant.”
“Precisely, he’s aiming to expand,” she completed. Her grand-father gave permission for her Aunt Olivia to marry into a minor clan because she was dreadfully in love with Hamish. No sooner than her father granted Olivia’s wish and she tied the knot, did she see a parade of mistresses. There was no love for Olivia. Hamish merely grabbed at the opportunity to join into a bigger clan.
“No one in the Highlands will accept him as The Darroch.” As a McKendrick, he grew up well versed in Highland’s politics.
