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“August, if memory serves,” she taunted.
Her nails grazed lightly over his length. “Yes, whatever,” he see-sawed.
“Perhaps it’s September,” the digits went back to whispering.
“August,” he growled. “Get on with it!” One masculine hand took her nape and tried to bring her head to his…
“I don’t remember the day,” she procrastinated.
“Moira, please!” he begged.
And his member went back inside, her head bobbing with renewed energy. His hand on it guided her.
A savage grunt escaped him, his head falling back with relief.
That wicked mouth sucked him more, driving him to serious danger as her tongue teased him further.
“I want to be inside you,” he said, pulling out and climbing down to the carpet. “Come here,” he commanded.
He made her glue to the ladder, face to the rungs, urgency all over him. Hurried hands rucked her skirts up as he lifted one of her knees to rest on the upper rung, opening her to him. He positioned his bulbous tip at her scorching entrance and fairly swam inside with her wetness.
She moaned, he moaned. He thanked the ladder’s sturdy wood for supporting them. One bunched arm locked around her slim waist; the other hand cupped a breast after jerking the underdress down her shoulder. His thumb teased the nipple to extract a sound of approval from her.
He reared and lunged in as she held the side rails for dear life. Another thrust, and she arched to take more of him.
“I want to see you touching yourself,” he prompted.
No hesitation as her fingers trailed down her rucked skirts for him to register her pleasuring herself as he moved ever deeper. He went frantic with her gasps of pleasure.
“Come for me, wife. I won’t last much longer,” he grunted on her ear before his mouth closed on the pulse on her neck and his fingers squeezed her dusky nipple. With a moan, her head fell on his shoulder.
He plunged deeper. Seconds later her repeated squeezing of his member happened with her screams. His lunges accelerated, half in, half out, mindlessly. He felt his doom approaching the point of no return and he let go, pouring what seemed a deluge in the very core of her.
She held the ladder, he sagged on her, both breathless.
Only when his breathing became normal could he manage some speech. “As a welcome-to-the-clan gift, this was an…interesting one,” he said as he nibbled the shell of her ear.
“As a thank-you-for-the-gift, this was…huge!” she answered in kind.
Both chuckled at their private joke.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, Moira had been to the orchard to check on the health of the trees. If the flowers growing on them were anything to go by, they would collect a good amount of fruit for compotes and jams for winter. Not to mention the apples for cider.
Since the wedding, her uncle did not show up or inflict any of his treachery on them. Moira hoped that with her marriage and the recent development of Lachlan’s choice as The Darroch, Hamish gave up his unrealistic ambitions.
The thought of her marriage brought a smile to her delicate face. So far, they tackled married life quite well, she would say. Having him at her side showed her they worked harmoniously together. They usually talked about the manor’s problems and agreed on the possible solutions. Without even trying, they were united in managing the land. Her clan respected him before Harris’ visit. As their new Laird Darroch, the people expressed a newfound confidence, a renewed faith in the future she had not seen in a long time. She was very grateful for her husband to have undertaken the responsibility for the duties and accepted the leadership with quiet competence.
As for them as a couple, yes, she held no complaints either. Their nights were filled with passion—furious blush surfaced on her cheeks at the memory of the previous afternoon—and their days with companionship. It contained more than she envisioned, a solid basis for a marriage, she reckoned.
Yet, she abstained from looking into her feelings for Lachlan too deeply. Before she decided on the extreme measure of bringing him here and proposing to a man who had no intention of shedding his bachelor status, she fancied herself in love with him. Naturally, now she understood it to be a girly fantasy. She kept a distance from him for fear of falling for his manly charms even if she had fallen for them at first sight. Unwilling to give in to them, remoteness had been her strategy. The consequence was that she did not come to know him effectively. Rumours of his prowess with the lasses abounded, praise for his hard-working at his clan too. Apart from those, little did she glean about the man. After this time spent with him, she realised he was supportive and committed, also commanding and stubborn. There was no denying his attuning with what she held dear. He understood her grief when her strays died. The logical conclusion being that he was a good man, despite his overbearing disposition. It might not have been a bad match now, might it? She wondered optimistically.
The cluster of trees left behind, she obtained a broad view of the land ahead snaked by a cart track. On it, two people talked. From this distance, she discerned her husband, still wearing the McKendrick’s tartan. And standing close, too close, to him, Emily, the daughter of one of the most important chieftains in the Darroch. He towered over the girl who must be nineteen or twenty at most. She looked up at him in a clearly besotted way, a dazzling smile and stars in her eyes. No news there, of course, their wedding day had been crowded with lasses in the same condition.
But then, Emily stepped even closer and rested a hand on one of his biceps, covered with his shirt, yes, still… Lachlan held his attention on her as his smile broadened and he seemed to loom over her as if to listen better.
The view of them shot pure, acid venom in her veins, threatening to burn her insides to ashes. Her first impulse was to go there and thrash the both of them, scream, swear, go berserker. The reaction scared her, the depth and intensity of the feeling so foreign she did not know what to do with it.
