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Laird and Lady were alone at last.
“He insisted too much in serving you,” she explained to her husband’s inquisitive stance. “I remembered the aspect of the wine was similar to the one served to Malcom the night before he died.”
A chill ran through her and she began to tremble uncontrollably. Her legs gave, but Lachlan was there to pick her up. All colour drained from the surface of her body. Shock had taken over her system.
Her giant of a husband sat with her on the same settee he had occupied just the previous evening. She hid her face in the curve of his thick neck for fear of giving it all away.
It just dawned on her that she had nearly lost her husband. The fact made her feel so hollow inside that she trembled twice as intensely. Her mind produced images of what her life would have been without him in it, and a feeling of dark despair accompanied them. A life without him would be the bitterest she had ever imagined. She would die inside without the man she loved.
Oh, dear, she loved the deuced giant!
Her body jerked at the realisation.
“Shh,” he said in her ear. Everything is fine now.” His voice came calm, soothing.
Her head snapped to him. “How can you be so calm?” She struggled to keep hysteria from her voice, but feared she had not succeeded. “You nearly lost your life!”
He looked at her with a tenderness she had not seen before, a thick thumb caressing her cheek. “But I did not. And the most important is that you are unharmed.” He pressed the glass of whisky to her lips. She took a large gulp eager to go back to her normal.
But the rage at Hamish increased tenfold. That he had put the clan in danger was bad enough. To threaten her husband’s life, a McKendrick, was taking it too far. Come morning, she would take decisive action. She did not care if it made her more vulnerable, or that it might increase the danger to her clan. This could not, and would not, go without a response.
They remained so long in the drawing room that Moira nearly forgot herself. She looked at him again, his beautiful eyes on her as if he could not absorb enough of her.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he said in that low tone of his, the one that bathed her in so much delight.
“You are always welcome,” she answered simply.
She wished she had known how to avoid her brother’s death, too. And imagined him still here leading the Darrochs with his able hand. None of her predicaments would have happened, including marriage to the man she disastrously loved.
The thought started her into action. Slowly, she disentangled from her husband and stood. “I should go,” she justified her skittish reaction.
Attentive coffee eyes looked at her. “Are you sure?”
She remembered that night after her uncle had slaughtered her poor pets. Lachlan had not allowed her to sleep alone, which gave fodder for gossip in the clan, leading them to marriage. One he had not wished for his life. The memory gave her forces to do what she must.
“Yes,” she replied, turning so he did not see the disheartened expression on her face.
In haste, she retreated to her chamber.
Lachlan lay in his large bed that night wide awake. His bed felt empty and cold. He missed his wife, not only their ultra-compatible physical togetherness but also her warmth, her wit, and even her tart tongue that made him laugh so often.
Were it not for her, he would have lost his life tonight. But if he was frank, without her, life seemed half-lived, just a shell of what it really should be. He did not know if he should blame her or thank her for bringing him here. To experience this torment that having had her and then having to live distant from her caused in him. If he had not accepted to play their ruse, he would never have understood what companionship meant. He would not crave it either, no one craved what they did not taste.
For the life of him, he did not wish to die ignorant of what she had brought to his life. She filled a void he did not even see was there. Only to lay here wanting it all back. With her, exclusively. Yet, he needed to give her time to realise he meant what he told her in the drawing room. The waiting might shred him to tiny pieces, but he would stand firm. She must make the decision to risk breaking through her fears and imagined unhappiness.
On the other side of the connecting door, Moira sat on the edge of her bed. She stared at said door, with yearning and with love. And doubts, loads of them.
Were it not for her previous trauma of losing Malcom, she would not have been able to avoid this tragedy. The realisation made it all worse. It hit her that life could be too fragile and brief. Too brief.
Why try to preserve her pride when time with Lachlan
would always be so precious. Life did not come with guarantees. It surprised her how willing she was to take several risks with the management of her clan but cowered when confronted with what really mattered. The man in the next chamber.
It dawned on her it had been no coincidence she chose this precise giant to bring here and propose marriage. She had wanted him for long years. That he meant a solid alliance, that he would help her clan’s predicaments had been meaningless distractions, excuses for her to stay with the man she really wanted.
How could she be so blind?
Now he was just feet away, her husband, the only man to whom she would have given the right to her body, her heart, her soul. With her slim fingers she fiddled with the edge of her nightgown. What was the use of staying away, saving her pride when she almost lost him tonight? What would these things serve her if the worst happened?
