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“Your clan is very helpful,” he said, pointing at the ever-increasing crowd of females.
Helpful, huh? What they wanted was to help themselves to him. And Moira would not be the one to deny how enticing the man was to a woman’s senses.
She understood his lure more than anyone. How many times had she not been to a festival or a gathering of some kind to which he also went, only to keep as far away from him as she could, watching the lasses vie for his favour? How many times did she wish to come closer to try her luck but felt unwilling to make a fool of herself? How many times did her heart race, her body combust at the mere view of him, to go back home and toss and turn in her bed in a feverish state? Unlike the other lasses, she made it a point to leave early before she lost her will to resist. No, this monument of a man was best avoided. He might be every woman’s dream in the dark, but in the light of day he would be solely a nightmare. On her own, she was safe. She channelled her energies toward her clan’s welfare. A more sensible and rewarding endeavour, especially in the long run.
With that in mind, she glared at him. “If you excuse me, someone must sow the fields.” She cared not if she sounded stern or even boorish. As she turned, she trudged to the farthest point where the labour began.
“Say it again?” Drostan, The Laird McKendrick, snapped his whisky-coloured orbs toward his younger brother.
That evening, Drostan, Fingal, and Lachlan lounged in the study, drinking their amber beverage.
“Moira Darroch and I are getting betrothed.” Lachlan thought it wise not to mention the temporary status.
“Ha!” came Fingal. “He must be in a delirious fever.”
“The Darrochs sent several proposals. Why didn’t you say anything?” Drostan asked.
“We wanted to be sure.” Talk about lies that brought on more lies.
He boasted a very productive day in the fields, disentangling himself from the lasses and focusing on the sowing. It would not do to accept their flirtatious offerings if he planned to announce an alliance with the lady of the clan. Said lady did not seem to like him very much if her behaviour in the morning was anything to go by. The lass kept away from him all day. And only said a brief good bye when he explained he would have a drink with his family before returning to the Darroch’s manor. Their lands bordered each other which made it a quick ride between lands.
“In that case, I’ll have the solicitor prepare a betrothal contract,” Drostan intervened.
“The spit-fire lass will make you walk the line,” Fingal taunted.
The lass in question would not even stand near him. He remembered seeing her at celebrations and gatherings. The will to invite her for a dance, and share a drink or a conversation had always lingered. On those occasions, he realised she remained with her girl-friends, engaged in lively conversation. Moira displayed levity then. But that was before her father, and soon her brother, died and she undertook the heavy leadership of her clan. A sobering experience he reckoned. On those festive nights, though, Lachlan felt tempted to be with her, he knew she was not to be trifled with. Not the daughter of a laird. But a dance or a drink would not harm anyone. Would it?
Yet the petite lass proved to be more slippery than an eel. One minute she had been in a group of girls, the next she vanished like smoke. Lachlan never succeeded in even saying hello to her. A country dance would have afforded him the opportunity to lay his palm on that slim waist, or test the smoothness of her skin, or hear her laugh. He stood no chance, and now he knew why. The lass did not seem to favour him. The novelty struck him as vexing. This Darroch lass had been the only one he found intriguing. And she was the only one who cared nothing for him.
“I rejected marriage because I intended to remain free. If it happens, I’ll stick to the rules,” he stated his true concept. He held no intention of deceiving anyone. What he did not want was to limit his life with a wife. His clan secured the next generation’s heir when Drostan’s son was declared laird of the McKendricks and McPhersons. So he, Lachlan, could skip the chore.
And after this charade with the Darroch lass was over, he would regain his freedom and resume his pleasurable life. Even if he wanted to be on his way to the Darroch. For the lass’s protection obviously, why else?
“Let’s call in a feast to celebrate,” Fingal suggested. “So, people can witness miracles do happen,” he jested.
“I prefer if we do it at the Darroch’s,” Lachlan answered. The presence of their whole clan played a key role in the context of boasting a clan alliance.
“Freya and Catriona will be excited by the news,” Drostan added, referring to his and Fingal’s wives.
“I’ll send word to Eileen, too,” Lachlan volunteered. Their youngest sibling and her husband, the mighty McDougal, would not want to miss it.
Lachlan entered the Darroch manor after caring for his horse. The place looked understaffed. He would have to address the issue in the morning. As he walked along the hallway, he saw light under the study door. The woman was nothing short of tireless. She spent the whole day in the fields. Then disappeared somewhere in the barns to check on the livestock. And now she was in the study. Did she ever stop?
Without knocking and, worse, without thinking, he opened the door. She sat at the desk, which minimized her form, with a quill in one hand, a document in the other. Her head snapped up, and Lachlan felt her enormous eyes engulf him. The heat that spread in him darted to a very forbidden place in his lower abdomen. Their gazes clashed and clasped for long moments.
“Do you ever rest?” was all he managed to ask.
“After I finish my duties for the day,” she dismissed him yet again. “I’ve made dinner, if you haven’t eaten.” Her attention went back to the document.
“You’re telling me you don’t even have a housekeeper?” His strong arms crossed at his broad chest, he refused to be dismissed.
Dropping paper and quill with a sigh, she returned her attention to him. “We’ve not been exactly solvent in the last few years.”
Since her father passed, he surmised. “I’m hiring staff, starting tomorrow,” he stated.
At that, she sprang from the chair and braced her hands on the flat wood. “You’re here temporarily. No need to go ordering people about.”
Spit-fire sounded like a really appropriate moniker for the lass. “While I’m around, I’ll do what I consider necessary,” he countered.
