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“I’ll be in the barn if you need anything,” she threw over her shoulder.
Lachlan watched Moira’s brisk walk in the cool morning and called himself a thousand kinds of fool. What the bluidy hell was he thinking going along with this charade? Every time he looked at her it felt like a trail of fiery gunpowder ran through him. Just being close and recognizing how her height barely reached his chest triggered a chain-reaction of protectiveness totally strange to him. It had made him jump out of bed before sunrise, stuff a few personal belongings in the satchel, and ride here without even contemplating the consequences of his actions.
If, as she suspected, her uncle had anything to do with Malcom’s death, Moira would be in danger, too. Foolish as it might seem, she was standing up to The Pitcairn with no intention of backing down, practically alone. In an ill-locked manor, she became an easy target. His conscience would not rest should something happen in his watch.
Malcom and Lachlan had not been close, but they were comrades in that they undertook responsibilities for their clans. They had been peers and met in taverns in many a raucous occasion filled with whisky and wenches. The fact the circumstances of The Darroch’s death seemed less than acceptable proved reason enough to be on alert. So here he stood, doing what he always did, handy work in which he thrived and felt useful.
Needless to say, he saw the spark of contrariety in her hypnotic hazel eyes. He suspected she’d not relinquish her decision-making position so lightly, despite being a woman. And why it caused his chest to inflate with admiration he cared not to understand.
These musings would get him nowhere. Therefore, he left the entrance hall and headed for the fields where there would be plenty of work this time of year. Lachlan understood the importance that folk become used to his presence. Wagging tongues would make the ruse look real.
Moira entered the smallest of the barns where she allowed strays to sleep. Currently, a bitch occupied it with its puppies. The poor thing appeared in a cold rainy day with sad eyes and a swollen belly. Led to the barn, the dog gave birth to five puppies. A stray cat joined the group soon after, her six young clinging to her in avid suckling. The dogs greeted her with eager licks. The mother-cat bumped her head on Moira as she visited their pens.
At last, Moira headed to the pen where three orphaned lambs lay. During birth, the ewe had not resisted death. The sight of the lonely lambs broke her heart. She made a bed for the lambs and took care of them herself. She fed them bottles and did not relent until the little ones became stronger. At two months old, they gave the impression they would make it to adult life. In the pen, she changed the water bucket and renewed the fodder as the cute balls of fur did not need a bottle anymore.
Deep fondness filled her heart for those strays and the orphans. She lost her mother at ten to a fever and understood how lost the lambs must feel. Since the little ones had been born, Moira’s morning routine included checking on the animals. Inside the pen, she knelt and the fluffy lambs circled her while she held them to her bosom, relishing in their growing furs. Tenderness filled her with the display of their affection. That they were happy overflowed her heart with joy.
After making sure all of them received food and water, she left the barn for the fields.
“My lady Moira,” someone called behind her.
Her head turned to see Caitlin, a clan member’s wife approaching. Caitlin and her husband, Duncan, came from generations of Darroch. Loyal to the clan, they went to any length to offer help in times of strife.
“Caitlin.” Moira greeted the woman in her forties, whom she considered a friend. “Is something the matter?”
Dark hair and a sturdy constitution met Moira’s eyes. The other woman lowered hers in hesitation. “Aye, my lady.” After a pause, she resumed speaking. “Duncan is getting a wee worried ‘boot the clan.”
“How so?” Moira held no illusions that the clan mem
bers wondered where their future would lead, or if they would have enough for their families by next winter. Their fretting kept her awake at night.
“He keeps saying we dinna do well last year and wilnna get any better if we dunno do aught.” The strong brogue betrayed the poor woman’s affliction.
Moira wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “I know, Caitlin. Tell him not to dwell on it, I’m trying for solutions.”
She had a fairly good idea the people were becoming restless with their situation. They must think about their children after all. The yields of the clan had been…disrupted by her father’s and her brother’s demise. A few had not been so patient and sided with Hamish.
“I dunno want to leave here, my lady,” she said in a disgruntled way. “All me family is here and me dead father and mother and them parents.”
“Ask Duncan for a bit more patience, will you?”
“Aye, I’ll tell him.” Arm in arm they headed to the fields.
The green, white, and black tartan was visible from the distance, different from the others from her clan. And then there was the height, setting him apart by at least a head. But what made the McKendrick monument really stand out was the number of girls surrounding him with starry eyes and open smiles.
Something scalding and uncontrollable threatened to erupt from Moira’s insides. Especially because the scoundrel grinned back at them. Even teeth shone through his treacherously appetizing lips and highlighted the cleft on his chin. His smile was a piece of art. She wished she were skilled at painting to commit his likeness to canvas, so she could stare at them for hours and hours without a witness.
As it were, she directed her eyes somewhere above his head. It was that or join the club of admirers.
“Does anyone plan to have any work done here?” she asked as she approached the group.
They sowed the first fields by the end of March, but the clan still had a lot to do.
Lachlan turned to her, his smile enlarged. Approaching, he took her hand. “My Lady Darroch.” Gallantly, as if they stood in a ballroom of a lofty London town house, he bowed, maintaining his gaze on her face.
The contact of her tiny limb with his callused, strong one produced a veritable earthquake in her veins. Her hazel gaze widened as her insides flipped on themselves. Speech rebelled together with the air in her lungs. Her glare clashed with his amused glint when he lifted his broad torso. Hurriedly, she retrieved her hand, not about to become a puddle at his booted feet.
Clearly, he did that for show, true to their earlier agreement. His humour evident in the enactment, the cad!
