Page 19 of Highlander's Secret Heiress
Her body was warm and pliant, her skin supple, her hair as soft as silk. Her scent was almost making him dizzy with desire. It had been so very long since he had been able to breathe in the warm, indescribably sensual aroma that was just woman, the essence of femininity itself.
Lachlan groaned. Knowing this woman was not his and could never be his was infinitely frustrating, but there were many others out there, he reminded himself. Why did that not console him, though?
Alyth felt Lachlan’s arms going around her, and a thrill of triumph shot through her. Men might be bigger and stronger than women, but when it came to the power of desire, they were as weak as water; she had seen this for herself many times.
That was not to say that she was immune to the force of attraction herself. As she felt Lachlan’s manhood pressing against her, she felt her own arousal welling up. It was glorious, but Alyth realised that she had to quell it: she could not allow it to weaken and overwhelm her.
Very reluctantly, she broke the kiss and moved back a step to look into Lachlan’s eyes again. They were still closed, as if he was under the influence of some soporific drug, and he opened them only very slowly.
That was when Alyth sprung her surprise. In the split second before Lachlan saw her again, she whipped a small knife out of her pocket. She had not been able to lay a hand on it before, but now she was in the perfect position to do so. The knife was very small, but extremely sharp, so much so that she had to keep it in a leather sheath when she was not using it.
However, she used it now to great effect. She pushed him back even harder against the desk and pressed the knife against his throat next to his Adam’s apple. The blade lay flat against his skin, but Alyth only had to turn it a fraction, and the little weapon would slice through it without any effort at all.
She smiled at him darkly, and for the first time she saw a hint of fear in his blue-green eyes.Now I have him where I want him,she thought triumphantly.
“I don’t know if you can see the weapon I’m holding in my hand,” Alyth said, injecting a friendly note into her voice to anger him further. “It’s only a small knife, but I only have to move it a fraction of an inch, and it will kill you, M’Laird. You should never underestimate the measures a desperate woman will take to protect herself. The consequences can be fatal.”
Suddenly, Alyth turned the blade so that it nicked Lachlan’s neck and made a small scratch on his skin, which began to bleed and stained his tunic red. “First blood,” she said, smiling. “I win.”
Alyth crossed the room swiftly, unlocked the door and left, then began to run to her room as fast as her legs would carry her, expecting to hear the noise of the Laird’s heavy footsteps behind her at any moment. To her amazement, they never came. Once she reached her chamber, she locked the door behind her and put a chair under the handle for good measure.
Alyth sat down on her bed and stared into space for a long while. She looked back on her actions of the last hour or so with complete disbelief. What on earth had she done? She had kissed the hostile Laird of Leithmuir, then, to make a bad situation even worse, she had pressed a knife into his neck and threatened him. She had even dared to injure him, even though the wound was only tiny.
Alyth had no doubt that at some point in the next hour or so, half-a-dozen guards would come and break the door down; a chair and a flimsy lock would hardly deter a small party of very well armed men. What had she been thinking, for god’s sake?
“You will not survive tomorrow, Alyth,” she said aloud with a heavy sigh. “Or perhaps even the next hour.”
She thought of trying to escape, but decided it was futile. The sun had risen fully and there was no chance of sneaking out in broad daylight; she would have to accept whatever fate Lachlan Carrick decided to dish out to her.
Lachlan went to Davina’s bedroom to watch her sleeping before she woke up for the day. In sleep, she was even more adorable than she was during the day—if that was possible. He loved her with an intensity that he could never have foreseen before he was a father; she was his world, his reason for existence, and that was the main reason he was so fiercely protective of her. She was so vulnerable.
He could see now that any resemblance between Jeannie Dunbar and his wife Sandrina was purely superficial, since Sandrina had respected him too much to ever have treated him so callously.
As well as that, the fact that a woman, a person so much smaller and weaker than himself, had managed to beat him, not exactly with ease, but with strength of will and determination, sorely hurt his pride.
But why was Davina so fond of her? His daughter had never responded like this to anyone since her mother died, then Jeannie Dunbar had come into his household. Now she had completely emerged from behind the wall she had built around herself since her mother died. No one else had managed to get her to do this, and the fact that Davina was beginning to speak absolutely astounded him, since she had never before said a word to anyone, not even him. The strangest thing of all was that it had happened with no apparent effort on Jeannie’s part; she was as surprised as everyone else.
Damn, he thought furiously.Why are you letting her torment you like this, Lachlan?
Yet, he knew why; he also trusted his instincts, and they told him that there was something between him and this strange woman that had to be settled before he could be at peace.
Yes, he could throw her in the dungeons. Indeed, he could, as he had threatened, have her hanged, but she touched something inside him that he had not been aware of for a long time.
What was it? She certainly aroused him physically, but any beautiful woman could do that to a man. No, it was something more, something intangible that he had to struggle with. Did he care for her? Lachlan almost laughed out loud at the thought, then he saw Davina stirring restlessly in her sleep and stopped himself just in time.
He stood up and bent down to kiss her forehead, looking down at her long red-gold hair spread across the pillow, her innocent little face so peaceful and content, and his heart swelled with love. How could he and Sandrina have created someone so lovely? It never ceased to amaze him.
Soon she would be a woman, but he was not looking forward to that, since he would not be able to protect her as he always had before. She would be laughed at if her father was always hanging around. Despite the fact that she had been traumatised by the death of her mother, there were signs that Davina was becoming a little more independent.
And what if a man wanted to marry her? He could picture some predatory individual taking advantage of her and pretending to be the love of her life. He would treat her with gentleness and kindness until there was a ring on her finger and her dowry was in his pocket, then his true colours would emerge. He would hate to be the man who wrenched Davina’s husband away from her: she might loathe him forever.
However, there was consolation in knowing that there were not many men who would take on a girl who would not speak; perhaps remaining unmarried would be the best path for Davina to follow.
Yet now Lachlan could see another way. What if he let Jeannie work and play with her? She might gradually coax Davina to speak, not just the odd word now and then, but real meaningful conversations with friends and others. She might bring out Davina’s hidden talents, like the ability to draw that no one knew about; Davina would be quite a gifted artist one day.
Lachlan shook his head to clear it of all his unwanted thoughts, then tucked Davina’s blankets under her chin, kissed her again, and left, after pausing at the door to give her one last loving glance.
He closed the door quietly behind him and went out and climbed up to the topmost turret of Leithmuir Castle, which was so high that he had a view all around the countryside for miles around. The sun had just peeked over the horizon and its light was flooding the fields around, showing flocks of sheep like tiny dots against the slopes of the hills.
