Page 54 of The Lass Abducted the Laird (Explosive Highlanders 4)

He sat back on the threadbare settee he dwarfed with his magnificent form. “The part where I did not agree with any of it.”

Her brows pleated. “You did not say it.”

“I’m saying it now,” he challenged.

“Don’t you want to return to your freedom, your bachelor lifestyle?” Of course, he did, he would be happier, and she…protected from hurt.

At that, he unfolded from the settee and posted himself before her. “No,” it came with finality. “What I want is you back in my bed.”

The mention of bed and what they did in it caused boiling heat to invade her, cheeks flaming. Her lungs forgot to take air and her head lacked rational processing. Their eyes clasped on each other, an intense current running between them. Her body did not obey the need to move, to leave, to save herself from suffering.

Quick as wind, he closed the distance to her. How such a big man moved with that agility she would never understand. But reality vanished when his large hands lined her face. The gasp in her throat did not materialise because his mouth dived to hers raw and hungry. The incendiary lightning that thrummed through her consumed any clear thought.

His tongue broke through her lips and raided the inside irreducible. Her throat produced another sound, this time in pleasure and surrender.

Later she would beat herself at the ease with which she gave in to his touch. But right now, her frame glued to his as her hands bunched his shirt-sleeves in a quest to remain standing. She kissed him as though she had been starving for decades not a mere forty-eight hours.

One of his muscled arms laced her waist as they nearly to melded together. Her spine connected with the wall beside the door, every inch of her smashed to him. He deepened the kiss, and it descended into a dissolute carnality that lit every single cell in her. His solid erection printed into her belly and erupted the need to ride it until she transformed in a mass of lasciviousness.

This weakness for him could not prevail. To propose a marriage of appearances and capitulate with a simple kiss would mock her resolve.

As abruptly as they clutched to each other, her arms pushed him away as she strode to the other end of the room, her back to him.

Several times she filled her lungs with air, willing her heart to quieten.

“My uncle had mistresses,” she produced in an almost inaudible voice.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lachlan had been so invested in touching her he took many seconds to adjust to the sudden break of the kiss. What she said made no sense.

“What of it?” he asked, not surprised with the lack of standards of her bastard of an uncle.

As she turned, her expression shocked him. Repulse, sadness and bitterness smothered it.

“My aunt died ever more inside with each mistress he paraded.”

He remembered her late relative from the functions he participated in, a fragile-looking woman with a perpetual sorrow marring her elegant person. Come to think of it, Moira resembled a little the older woman’s petite form, wavy chestnut hair and delicate face. But none of her personality.

“It was no secret to anyone,” he said.

Even as a lad, he remembered hearing the stories. The Pitcairn never hesitated to use his power to ‘induce’ a few of these women to what he demanded.

“In a dejected state, Aunt Olivia used to seek my mother’s support every time it happened.” Her arms wrapped around her waist at the bad memory. “I was a girl, but I never forgot it.”

Moira lifted her disheartened eyes to him and he had this urge to take her in his arms and shield her from every ugliness in the world.

A scowl crumpled his features as he fisted his hips. “And you think I’ll do the same,” he gleaned. He could have imagined any motivation behind her withdrawal but this.

“Lairds are prone to it,” she answered simply.

“Was your father?” Lachlan questioned.

Her hazel eyes snapped to him. “Well, no. But Malcom had his…trysts, and you—” she trailed off, letting him complete the sentence by himself.

“You’re comparing me with that villain,” he accused.

“I’m not comparing!” she threw. “You bear all the signs.”

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