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Her eyes looked down at him, and in the periphery of her vision, she saw a tented tartan.
Blasted, blasted hell!
“No, thank you,” she said in a hard voice.
“Are you sure?” he taunted with an unholy smile. “You could sit on your…” he looked down at his erection and back at her, “…favourite chair,” he said suggestively.
Her brows pleated as she tried hard not to melt all over him. “Damn you, McKendrick!” And pounded her feet to the door.
“I’m a Darroch now, Darroch,” jest perforated his tone.
No answer came from her as she exited and banged the wood back shut.
Lachlan’s pretend light mood vanished the minute she disappeared. He heard her restlessness on the other room the whole night. Because he did not find his sleep, obviously. His bed had felt empty without her and his body craved filling hers like they had been doing since they got married.
Awake and alert, he heard when she moved around, presumably dressing. He had grabbed his tartan and shirt and hurried to the study where she certainly would seek refuge. He occupied the chair one second before she came in, his hand groping for something for him to do and found the blasted letter.
Ask him if he regretted doing the yawning prank. Of course not! He enjoyed ruffling her feathers all too much. She walked past him and he registered her familiar scent, her familiar warmth, his flesh reacting instantly to her. The priggish woman tempted him the moment she posted herself behind the seat. Too close not to tease. Problem was that the teasing turned on the teaser and he had not been able to disguise his rampant condition. And who needed to disguise it anyway? She was more than used to his anatomy. Better, she used his anatomy for her pleasure without complaint. He was not complaining either, on the contrary, he was seeking the resuming of their intimacy.
Perhaps he should use the lake in the fields for a cold bath. She accused him of short attention span and he wondered if he would ever tire of his wife. There was no sign of it happening any time soon. The more distance she put between them the more raggedly he wanted her.
Standing up, he headed to the morning room. Breakfast and a busy day awaited.
That evening, Moira sat in the drawing room with her work. She chose it to avoid bumping into her husband in the study. The whole day, she toiled around the manor tirelessly, but the moments from that morning did not leave her head. Her weakness for him angered her; though she felt sorely tempted to throw it all to the wind and give in to the delights he promised.
It had been a ragged struggle not to accept his taunt and take him on his blunt invitation. She succeeded in resisting, but the frustration followed her wherever she went. If she intended to guard herself from the hurt that would surely come, she needed to be strong even if it tore her insides into tiny pieces of burning desire.
A noise made her lift her head. Lachlan stood at the closed door, her heart skipping a beat to then nearly race out of her chest at the view of him.
The cursed giant was not about to give her any reprieve!
A glass of whisky in one hand, closed letters on the other, he sat right in front of her. He placed the glass and the letters on a side table.
“I thought you wanted the study for yourself,” she said, taking in his wind-ruffled hair, his tanned skin and the way his knees showed as the tartan fell to the sides of his thighs.
His coffee eyes clasped on her like a torch that caused her skin to scorch. “The fire isn’t lit there,” he supplied, looking meaningfully to the blazing fireplace.
His presence would not let her concentrate, she predicted, the fact beginning to annoy her. Why did not the man respect her privacy?
No answer came from her as she returned her attention to what she had been doing, trying to shut him out. But whatever it was, her mind had scattered all over the place now, his mere presence a reminder of what she could not have.
“Duncan’s cottage is nearly finished,” he started.
With no other choice, she must look at him. “I heard,” she answered, her eyes focusing on the far wall. “They’ll be happy to move back to their home.”
The conversation stalled. The view of him was creating a strained tension in her. When she referred to the dist
ance between them, she possessed a very clear idea of what she wanted, or else should want. No contact, no relaxing in the evenings, their marriage for appearances and for the alliance it brought. She would not be able to keep him at arm’s length in any other way. Retreat was the only expedient she could use.
Standing up, she excused herself in a murmur and headed to the door.
“Until when do you intend to run, Moira?” the low question made her freeze on her tracks, not only because of its content, but also for the effect it had on her body.
“I’m not running,” she denied the undeniable, her back stubbornly turned to him.
“Not physically, no,” he challenged. She thought of doing exactly that, run as fast as she could to the confines of the manor. To some place where her memories of their life together did not bully her.
The single option was to face him. “What part of separate lives did you not understand?” her voice hard with vexation.
