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Lachlan narrowed his eyes at the taunt. “She’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” he spat.
With an end of his tartan, the older man cleaned the mess on his skin. “I hope she’s also good at blo—”
Hamish had no time to finish the lewd quip. McKendrick tore himself free and again struck his fist on the Pitcairn’s bony face, this time crunching the other man’s nose. He cared not that he was bigger and stronger than the filthy uncle, he just wanted Moira safe and happy.
Even if attacking her uncle probably would not achieve the desired feat.
With this last blow, The Pitcairn passed out, needing his cohorts to carry him away from the tavern.
Counting himself placated, Lachlan nodded drily to the other men and also left the tavern.
Moira put an end to her endless work in the study as she decided it was time to rest. In the hallway, the image of the steaming bath waiting in her chamber quickened her pace.
That was when she heard harsh steps coming from the opposite direction. Probably the giant returning from wherever he had ridden. He appeared at the other end of the corridor, expression crumped, muscles tense, a savage glint in his coffee eyes. Something was amiss, evidenced by his wrinkled shirt, rumpled tartan, and messy hair. He raked his long fingers into his hair, fingers that had…was that blood…on them?
“McKendrick,” she pivoted to call him.
He halted at his name, but did not turn. Silence followed.
“What have you been up to?” a quizzical expression on her face.
Slowly, he turned to her. Tension and stiffness strung him. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with.” And did not meet her eyes.
She ignored his deliberately vague answer. “Is that blood on your hands?” Her chin jerked at them.
Only then did he seem to realise his state, examining his knuckles. “As I said, it’s nothing.” And moved to go.
She approached. “Have you been fighting?”
The nostrils in his perfect nose flared as he inhaled. “I didn’t know you were adept of the Spanish inquisition,” he bit out irritably.
Her gaze scrutinised him. He did not usually behave this grumpy. “You’ve been to the tavern, I gather,” her hands braced her waist. “I’ll go there and ask Mary.” The owner and his wife delighted in a good gossip.
Her back to him, she headed to the stairs that would lead her to the front door.
“I punched Pitcairn,” he spat behind her.
It was her turn to freeze. Blasting, fuming hell!
With a swift swivel, she fusilladed him. “You did what?”
He merely stared back, the phrase ‘you heard me’ all over his stance.
“Are you crazy?” Her forehead pleated.
“No, only mad,” his apparent calm betrayed his tightly leashed temper. “The villain killed your pets cold-blooded.” His bunched arms that banded her so deliciously just yesterday crossed over his broad chest.
The sight of those defenceless creatures lying in a pool of their own blood flashed in her memory, making her sorrowful all over again. During the day she avoided thinking of them, pressed by her duties. But she did not imagine how she would spend the night free from her grieving. This would be a problem for later though.
“You shouldn’t have.” Her lips expelled a sigh attracting his glance there.
“But I did, and he left unconscious and with a broken nose.” His attention did not waver.
“And when he wakes up he’ll certainly find a way to retaliate.” Her arms hugged herself, daunted by what would come from it.
At this, he paced the narrow hallway, hands raking his luxuriant hair. The giant stanched before her. “My temper got the best of me.” For a long moment, their glares merged with an abysm of jumbled emotions. Anger, worry, tension. “You need to be safe and happy.”
His words made her melt a little. Even wrong, he did it for her. The realisation cracked open something deep inside, and it had nothing to do with anger, more with…warmth and tenderness.
