Slowly, he lowered his sword.
The hot rage of battle that had welled inside him eased back, dampened by Flora.
His men dispersed, fading away quietly as Lachlan stood in the hot sun, staring at the fey creature before him, not quite sure what had just happened. Hell, he knew what had happened. After their conversation about Mary, he and Allan had taken their anger to the battlefield. Lachlan didn’t want to think what might have occurred had Flora not stepped in and defused the situation.
Allan had shot him a quick glance before he left. His captain had looked equally taken aback by what had transpired. By how quickly their practice had turned into something altogether different. Damn. This thing with Mary had gotten out of control. How could he not have realized what was happening? Allan might be his friend, but Lachlan was chief, and he had to make his decisions as such—for the good of the clan. Even if those decisions went against his personal feelings.
He glanced down at her tiny hand, still resting on his chest. He couldn’t describe what he felt the moment she had touched him. It was as if her hand had plunged through ice, reaching a part of him he hadn’t even known existed. She’d drawn him back into the light from a dark place. All with a simple touch.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her hand self-consciously. He felt the loss acutely, the severing of a connection the significance of which he was only beginning to comprehend. This woman did something strange to him.
He bent down, picking up the shirt and plaid that he’d tossed over a rock, feeling suddenly exposed. Though he knew it wasn’t his state of undress that bothered him. He folded the clothing over his arm and held out his hand. “Come.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Where are we going?”
“To the water. Then you can tell me what you wished to speak to me about.”
Steeling himself for rejection, he was surprised when she wordlessly slid her hand into his. He ignored the sudden hitch in his chest and led her down the rocky pathway to the water’s edge. Rather than step on the white sandy beach, she pulled back with almost an aversion that he found odd and found a low rock to sit on.
Once again he relinquished his shirt and plaid to a rock, then pulled off his boots and dove into the waves of the sound, allowing the cool water to wash over him and rinse away the sweat and grime of the fight. His muscles burned, and he could have used a long, cold soak, but he was acutely aware that she was waiting. Reinvigorated nonetheless, he stepped up the rocky bank, feeling her big blue eyes on him the whole time, traveling over his chest and arms, unable to hide her interest. His body hardened. He wanted more than her eyes on him. Her hands…for starters. And then that naughty red mouth. She could drive a man wild with erotic images of those softly curved lips.
The heat of battle had left him and been replaced by a different heat. A raw one. For her. Even sitting there in that simple gown, she looked beautiful. Soft and sweetly feminine. Her hair tumbled in loose waves around her shoulders like a silky golden veil. Her pale cheeks flushed with a hint of pink from the heat of the sun. But it was the taunt of his vivid memories that drove him to distraction. Memories of lush breasts with tight nipples, curvy hips, a round bottom, and long, lean legs.
Completely unaware of the direction of his thoughts, she pointed behind him across the sound. “Is that the Isle of Mull?”
He nodded, reluctantly pulling on his shirt. “The northern edge.”
“And Coll?”
“It lies just beyond Mull to the west.”
She thought for a minute. “So Hector is close?”
“Yes.” He could hear the unspoken question. Then what was taking Hector so long? Wringing the remaining water from his hair with a squeeze of his fingers, he changed the subject. “What is it that you wanted?”
Hands twisting, she gazed up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Eyes that were the same startling blue tinged with green as the sea he’d just sunk into. Mesmerizing eyes. Her long dark lashes shone iridescent in the sun like the edge of a raven’s wing. She took his breath away.
“Mary is unwell,” she said.
His head cleared immediately. “What’s wrong with her?”
She raised her chin to him defiantly. “Her heart is broken.”
He stiffened, the tension returning to the back of his neck and shoulders. “It will mend.” He hadn’t intended to sound so harsh, but damn her for interfering. His sisters were none of her concern.
“You can’t mean that.”
She sounded so certain. He didn’t know what shethoughtshe knew about him, but she was wrong. “I assure you, I always mean what I say.”
“Then you don’t know what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Mary’s marriage was important to the survival of his clan. He’d already had discussions with Ian MacDonald, son of the Chief of Glengarry and brother to Rory MacLeod’s wife, Isabel. Ian was a good man. His sister would be well cared for, with liferents in some important property in Morvern. And his clan would have another important ally in the feud against Hector.
Her mouth pursed with annoyance, a sentiment he well understood. “You have nothing more to say?” she asked indignantly.
“I’m not accustomed to explaining myself.” He gave her a long, hard look. “To anyone.”
She disregarded the warning. “But surely you can see that sheloveshim.”
