Page 35 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"Wait now," Ada said, catching sight of something that made her face light up. "Is that nae Frederick over there? I've been meanin' to speak with him about... about some kitchen arrangements Cook and I were discussin'."
Erica followed her gaze and saw the burly man-at-arms standing near a weapons rack, observing the sparring matches.
"Kitchen arrangements?" Erica asked skeptically.
"Aye, well..." Ada's cheeks flushed slightly. "There's been some confusion about meal times for the guards, and I thought... I should just go speak with him quickly. Ye wait here."
Before Erica could protest, Ada was hurrying across the courtyard toward Frederick, leaving her standing alone in the archway.
Traitor,Erica thought, but she couldn't bring herself to follow. Something had caught her attention—a familiar voice calling out commands, the particular ring of steel that seemed different from the others.
Almost against her will, she found herself stepping closer to the edge of the archway, peering around the stone to get a better view of the training yard.
And there he was.
Lachlan stood in the center of the yard, sword in hand, circling a younger opponent. His shirt clung to his chest with sweat, his dark hair pushed back from his face. Every movement was controlled, precise, deadly graceful.
Erica's breath caught in her throat.
She'd seen him briefly during their wedding celebration, formal and contained. She'd felt his strength when he'd guided her hands during their painting lesson. But this... this was different.
This was Lachlan in his element—powerful, commanding, completely in control. When he moved, it was like watching a predator at play. His swordwork was beautiful in its efficiency, each strike calculated, and each defense perfectly timed.
Her heart began to race, and not from fear.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she watched him disarm his opponent with an almost casual flick of his wrist, then offer the younger man a hand up with what might have been approval.
Sweet Mary. What is wrong with me?
This was exactly what she should be afraid of—his strength, his skill with weapons, his complete physical dominance over other men. Everything about him should remind her of danger, of men who used their power to hurt those weaker than themselves.
Instead, all she could think about was how those strong hands had felt on her face during their kiss. How that powerful body had felt pressed against hers. How much she wanted?—
Nay.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the traitorous thoughts.
But when she opened them again, Lachlan was looking directly at her.
Their eyes met across the training yard, and Erica felt her entire body respond—pulse racing, skin heating, something low in her belly tightening with want.
Her body was betraying every rational thought in her head.
Erica fled.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"—and she practically leaped behind a pillar when she saw me comin' down the corridor yesterday," Lachlan said, setting down his ale with more force than necessary. "Like I was carryin' the bloody plague."
Frederick leaned back in his chair, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Och, the mighty Laird Kinnaird, terrifyin' his own wife with his fearsome presence."
"This isnae amusin', Frederick."
"Isnae it?" Frederick's grin widened. "Because from where I'm sittin', it's bloody hilarious. Do ye remember all those lasses who used to chase ye around? Battin' their eyelashes, findin' excuses to bump into ye in the corridors?"
Lachlan's jaw tightened. "That was different."
"Aye, it was. Because then ye were the one doin' the avoidin'. Now look at ye—mopin' about because yer own wife willnae give ye the time of day."
