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The men’s rant infuriated her. “I need no one to look after me! I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself!” She cast a hard stare at both. “And the Darrochs pulled through the difficulties, thank you very much!”
The men exchanged an accomplice glance. “I agree and admire you for that,” Harris reiterated. “But as a woman, you have legal limitations, as you well know,”
Those limitations had been a hassle when it concerned managing the estate. Many times, she had had to enlist the solicitor’s good will. As her husband, Lachlan had the right to step in, but not fully. The newlyweds nodded in understanding.
“To the new Laird Darroch,” Harris toasted.
In a hurry to resume his life in Glasgow, Harris departed early next morning, promising to be back for the official transferring of leadership.
That afternoon, Moira entered the master chamber and froze. Lachlan climbed on a ladder seemingly repairing the tired drape. His new status meant that he could use this chamber that had belonged to her father and brother. As the lady of the clan, she could use the lady’s chamber connected with this one.
He lifted his head to her questioning glance. “This won’t close,” he explained. “We’ll renovate the whole manor as soon as it can be done,” he decreed and returned his attention to the task.
She closed the door and neared the ladder, with Lachlan’s hips on level with her head. The scene reminded her of the first day he came to stay after she had abducted him and they settled on a betrothal. As she had opened the front door to start her day, she had found him up a ladder fixing a hinge. The scalding feeling she had had then duplicated now.
Both the Laird and Lady’s chambers had been readied for their use after Harris left. Her head lifted to him competently rearranging the drape.
“That would be nice, provided we can afford it.” She posted under the ladder to hold it and keep him safe from falling.
“I can afford it,” he stated firmly, eyes on the task.
“I have no doubt, but it’s the Darroch manor and renovation will use Darroch resources,” her tone brokered no questioning.
“Stubborn lass!” he exclaimed under his tone. “All I have to do is transfer my resources to the Darroch. Easy.” He looked down with a naughty glint in his coffee eyes.
Lachlan had trouble concentrating on the task. He could not explain this veritable compulsion that invaded him every time she came close. The need for physical contact, any contact, dominated him. Since the wedding, he had not been able to keep his hands off her. It was as if no other woman existed in the entire world.
As he worked around the land, lasses tried to approach and he harboured only coldness towards them. He treated them cordially, for sure, but they meant nothing, he did not even pay attention to their appearance anymore. They lost in comparison with his wife, whom he kept track of the whole day, impatient for the evening, the night, when he would have her completely for himself.
The infernal waif, though, did not seem to take notice of it, her clan her single concern. She accepted his attentions, more than accepted, he was sure she relished them. But she never sought him out, never directed besotted gazes at him, or behaved clingy, like so many he had met. He stood in disadvantage here for the first time. Yet another first.
Like now. He just wanted to grab her, throw the both on the bed and take her, then take her again, and some more, until they had no breath left in them.
Damn it!
“Are you sure you’re all right with being Laird Darroch,” she interrupted his musings.
His eyes snapped to her. The title still felt strange to him. During the day, people had addressed him by his new name. He nodded in acknowledgement after nearly looking around for someone else to respond.
“I’m getting used to it,” he answered truthfully.
“Unsurprisingly,” she commented.
“Even if the clan didn’t appoint me as the Laird, working with your clan has given me a sense of purpose.”
“Is that so?” A hint of astonishment came to her tone.
“As the third spare, there was no pressure over me.” He tugged on the drape to test it. “Freedom was my name, which proved fine for a while.” The fabric was stuck.
An expression passed over her delicate face and he could not decipher it. “Won’t you miss it?”
“Unlikely. Everybody needs a purpose in life.” He pulled the curtain back to redo it.
“And you found yours,” she added.
“Definitely.” He spotted what was wrong and rearranged it.
“Good to know,” she said.
