“Don’t be silly, I was only jesting.” But Mary looked so worried, Flora felt awful for teasing her. She took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t you stay here? Gilly can watch for Od—Allan—and we’ll be back before you know it.”
Mary shook her head. “I’ll come.”
Flora smiled. “Good. To the armory, ladies.”
Lachlan was itching for a fight. Even the hours spent in the yard training had barely taken the edge off. He felt like a caged lion, restless and agitated. The source of his discomfort wasn’t hard to identify.
The wee hellion had been here less than a week and had already managed to turn his keep upside down. She was a born troublemaker. Or his personal tormentor, he wasn’t sure yet. To think, he’d actually been happy at first, believing her interest in his castle was a good sign that she was becoming involved. He grimaced. One look at the termagant’s face and he knew exactly what she was up to. But he’d be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of losing his temper. Countless times over the past few days he’d been forced to bite back his anger, although every instinct clamored to put her in her place. Too much depended on wooing the recalcitrant lass.
But her mischief was only half the problem. He couldn’t seem to look at her without getting hard. And Lachlan was not a man used to keeping his passions in check. Although some of the tension could be relieved with a long visit to his leman, he told himself that he refrained for Flora’s sake—not wanting to flaunt the woman before her. But there was another explanation far more troubling: The lovely and talented widow Seonaid held little appeal.
Not when all he could think of was big blue eyes in a delicate elfin face. It was a case of wanting what he could not have. Not yet, anyway.
The years of constant fighting and fending off attack had taught him to be careful. To plan. To appraise the situation before rushing in. He was doing his best to give her time to adjust to her presence at his keep, but he’d been patient long enough.
It was time to make his move.
As she hadn’t been in her tower room or the hall, he’d made his way to thebarmkin. It was a fine day, and he thought she might have decided to take a walk around the courtyard. He looked across at the armory and noticed his sister Mary talking to Allan.
Lately, whenever he saw Mary or Gilly, Flora wasn’t far away. His sisters were enthralled by Flora’s sophisticated grace and refinement—which was obvious even without the fashionable wardrobe. He felt a twinge of regret. His sisters had suffered along with the rest of his clan. There hadn’t been the time or money to see to their instruction. At least Flora’s tocher would help with that. Two thousand merks. It was a bloody king’s ransom. He’d be a fool not to marry her for that alone.
He frowned, watching Mary converse with Allan. His captain was…hell, he was smiling. Mary’s eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks were pink. She was looking at Allan with…
Damn.He strode across the courtyard, intending to put a stop to it immediately. He had other plans for Mary. What was Allan thinking? He should know better than to encourage the attentions of an impressionable young lass, barely out of the schoolroom—or what would be the schoolroom, if there had been money for such luxuries. Allan might be his most trusted guardsman and his fiercest warrior, but he was not for Mary.
As he drew closer, his sister caught sight of him and froze. Her eyes widened, and he swore a look of guilt swept across her features.
“What are you doing out here, Mary? And where’s Gilly?” He ignored Allan. He would have a wee talk with his captain later.
“Uh…I…,” Mary mumbled. Instinctively, she’d taken a step toward the door. Almost as if she were hiding…
The armory. Flora was in the armory. He let out an oath. “I’ll kill her.”
After moving his sister gently out of the way, he opened the door. The smell almost made him keel over. Both women looked up.
Gilly jumped up and came rushing toward him. “Brother, we were hoping to surprise you.”
Lachlan looked right at Flora. “I’m sure you were.” God help her, the wee banshee looked as if she were going to burst out laughing. Anger whipped around inside him like a tempest. The carefully constructed façade of patience he’d built up over the past few days shattered.
The lass had oiled his swords—including his claymore—in fulmar oil. The birds spat the fishy-smelling oil on anything that drew too close. The damn odor lingered and stank like hell. He’d imported the oil from St. Kilda for lamps—which was no doubt how she’d known what it was. The remote isle of St. Kilda was part of her brother Rory’s lands.
Lachlan looked at the pile of gleaming weapons scattered across the floor. She hadn’t left a surface uncovered, including the horn hilt and leather grips.
Gilly wrinkled her nose. “It certainly does have a strong smell. But Flora said this type of oil is the best.” She sensed something wasn’t right. “Did we do wrong, brother?”
He turned to his sister, trying to control his fury. “Gilly, you and your sister go inside the keep and ready yourself for the evening meal. I would like to speak with Mistress MacLeod for a moment.”
When the door had closed, he was on her in a second flat, pulling her from the bench and jerking her hard against his chest. Blood pounded through his body. No one had ever brought him so close to losing control.
She tried to push away. “Let go of me.”
Anger and lust converged as she squirmed against him, and his body thickened with the heavy rush of heat. He didn’t know whether to shake her or drag her to his chamber and release the pent-up desire raging inside him. He couldn’t think straight. She was the most stubborn, willful woman he’d ever met. Yet when he held her in his arms, and she gazed up at him with those wide, defiant blue eyes, he was deeply conscious of her fragility. Of how easily he could hurt her.
She was just a lass. And from what he’d surmised, a scared and lonely one at that.
He let go of her, struggling to cool his rage. “You’ve gone too far. You will wipe these swords until every last bit of that oil is removed.”
“Did I do something wrong?” She gazed up at him from under her lashes. Lashes that curled thick and feathery against the ivory softness of her pale cheek. Despite its calculation, the sweetly feminine gesture was not without effect. But the twitch of that naughty little dimple near the corner of her mouth almost pushed him over the edge.
