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The bountiful banquet became merrier with an endless amount of ale and the McKendrick whisky. Moira had to count herself happy with the occasion, seeing her clan so hopeful in the future. This happiness was why she risked Lachlan’s abduction. And if she achieved her aim, she would hold no qualms about it.
Far into the evening, Lachlan offered Moira his arm and they mingled among the guests. No one would have a lint of doubt as to the authenticity of their union.
The bagpipes and drums sounded vibrantly as couples crowded the floor to dance.
“Come dance with me,” invited Lachlan, and she had no choice but to accompany him.
Dread filled her. If a simple peck on her hand turned her world upside down, in his arms she would certainly disintegrate.
The moment he placed one capable hand on her waist, holding one of hers with the other, she was doomed. Her fingers held his bunched shoulder under the pristine shirt, the heat of his body mingling with hers. They stood so close she could see each prickling stubble on his chiselled jaw under the light of the torches. They danced as if they had done it for decades and decades. In fact, they had. In her dreams and fantasies.
But this, being with him was light-years beyond any fantasy she might have harboured. This was the wall of his body towering miles over hers. This was the heat of him inflaming her. His muskiness, pine and sandal, invaded her nostrils like a wicked army. This was dream and perdition, memories and wishes, sin and elation all wrapped in one forbidden male. A dance, everything she had ever wanted to do with him, and never allowed herself. Each unfinished function she fled from, left her cold and alone. Surely the planet would not explode if she did it once in a while.
Yet the planet may have exploded. Because it felt like her insides blew up in a million shards of sensation, cutting through her, burning her with promises and yearning. And a need to grab his hand and pull him somewhere deserted, dark, and hidden.
“You dance like a fairy, Darroch,” he said in her ear, multiplying her weakness. Had he come closer? The heat of him enveloped her with more allure as her entire body craved more proximity, to be totally glued to the wall of muscle and sinew, warmth and power.
She dared lift her head to him, and what she saw mirrored on his coffee eyes almost knocked her off balance. His st
are contained fire and anticipation. It dared her to follow her desires, dared her to follow him to the confines of the universe. If he only knew she would. She would go anywhere, everywhere if he joined her.
“You’re not bad yourself, McKendrick,” she managed.
But the man had to go on wreaking havoc. Because his hand on her waist slowly splayed and moved farther, tugging her nearer to his temptation. Her fear heightened, and she was unwilling to reveal how much she wanted this man. Her self-defences rose as her frame rose rigid.
Tensing her arms, she tried to keep a safe distance from the laird, though she more than wished to devour him. “What are you doing, McKendrick?” she hissed in order not to sigh.
His head came lower putting their eyes—and mouths—inches away. “Why, Darroch, I’d think it clear. Dancing, of course.” Those lips designed to torture a woman lifted into a half-smile. If he meant to be innocent, he succeeded in being anything but.
A blunt thumb strolled over her palm, sending quivers through her nerve-endings. The forcefield he represented demanded she connect her whole silhouette to his muscular person, decency be damned. Though she resisted it with a bravery worth a military medal.
She filled her lungs with fortifying air, or at least it was supposed to be, since the scent of him followed, mining her resistance from the very base. Congratulations were in order, for she had taken the right path in avoiding him like the pest in previous years or she would have fallen for him hard and foolishly.
With the remaining of her forces, she mustered threadbare resolve. “Stop it, you blackguard!” To imprint anger in her voice took effort, the man was a landslide of temptation. “I am not one of your women.”
Those tragic lips smirked. “No. If you were, we’d be very far away from a crowded place.”
The idea simply washed over her and pooled in a very clandestine place in her middle. Her whole being threatened to become mouldy clay, for him to do whatever he wanted because it would be what she wanted, too.
“I’d have to be witless to find myself alone with a womaniser like you.” The attack was a smoke screen to disguise the insidious heat pulling her to him.
His brows crumpled in transparent disagreement. “I’m not a womaniser.” The rumble came steely. “I only take what’s on offer.”
Of course, he did. What man would not?
Even steely, his tone called to her, promising delights. It coaxed the woman in her to yield to the man in him merely because it was what nature required of them.
Before she could surrender and live to regret it, the music ended. With it, reality intruded. And intruded hard as the crowd dispersed to reveal her uncle.
CHAPTER THREE
Dancing with her fogged Lachlan’s mind, a new first. It seemed this woman would give him a cart load of unprecedented experiences. Her dainty figure so close to him, her womanly scent of lavender drew his appetites. Shamelessly, he must admit to trying to drag her closer. And if he was honest, drag her somewhere not crowded. She was messing with his guts. And he held no sympathy for the fact. Every time they were around each other he found himself in a struggle to keep his wits about him. Who would have imagined that a simple dance would inflict this effect on him? Together with the woman. He noticed her before, even thought of approaching her, but not to be bulldozed by her mere presence.
At last, the reason she despised him came to light. She judged him unworthy because of his lifestyle. But he told her the truth. He was no womaniser as she accused. He did not go about seducing women. It was the other way around most of the times. His looks afforded him a wide choice, his position in the Highlands enhanced it. Nobody could blame him for making the most of his, say, assets, could they? And he refused to feel guilty just because a petite lass looked at him as if he did not deserve consideration.
Lachlan sensed something wrong the second her hand squeezed his arm. He trailed the direction of her attention to find a middle-aged man, short and skinny with pale blue-eyes fixed on her. The Pitcairn undoubtedly.
He realised Moira’s hand went dead cold and, as he lowered his regard to her, he registered her face leeched of all colour. He placed his hand on hers on his arm with a light press. That seemed to take her out of her shock.
