The Lass Abducted the Laird Read online

  Copyright

  The Lass Abducted the Laird

  Copyright 2018 Lisa Torquay

  Published by Lisa Torquay

  Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Art

  Jo Singleton

  Editor

  Tanya Kaanta

  DEDICATION

  To my mother who, through thick and thin, held it all together.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Cheryl Adamkiewicz for her infinite kindness. And Ross Murray, for his infinite attention to detail.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Copyright

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  From the Back Cover

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  PREVIEW OF HER WICKED EARL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Connect with Lisa Torquay

  Other Books by Lisa Torquay

  From the Back Cover

  A WOMAN ON A QUEST TO SAVE HER CLAN

  Moira Darroch is struggling to keep her clan together after her brother's death—or murder. Her uncle Hamish Pitcairn is looking to usurp her clan and is doing his worst to undermine the Darroch's balance. Alone, Moira is barely managing to keep it all together. She needs a powerful match to neutralise Hamish's ambitions. The only man she can think of is Lachlan McKendrick. But how do you persuade an inveterate bachelor to marry you? By abducting him, of course! Even if marrying a womanizer is the dumbest mistake on Earth, she cannot deny that she's wanted him for years.

  A LAIRD SET ON KEEPING HIS FREEDOM

  Lachlan, from the mighty McKendrick clan, has no worries. A third son, he lives his life as he pleases. And women please him. A lot! When the infernal Darroch abducts him, he's livid. But, as he involves himself in her clan's predicaments, he experiences a sense of purpose he has never felt before. Yet the fierce lass also sets fire to his blood like no other. Working by her side is threatening to take him out of control--problem being--he wants to throw control to the Highland's winds, or throw the impossible lass on the nearest bed!

  AND A PASSION THAT THREATENS TO BURST LIKE TINDER ON GUNPOWDER

  Heat level: hot, sizzling

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Highlands, 1813

  Moira Darroch hid behind a tree by the dusty road, heart thrashing so frantic in her ribcage that the fast air she gulped did not satisfy her lungs.

  She was about to commit a crime.

  A smirk came to her full lips as she looked down at the rifle in her hands. She was already committing a crime. Scots must not carry guns, a prohibition put down by the English after Culloden.

  She was about to commit her second crime, then.

  Considering both would happen in the same breath, her outlaw status would be quick to draw.

  The second one would be triple serious because it involved a McKendrick, one of the most powerful clans in Scotland. But what choice did she have? Perhaps this is true, everyone did have a choice. But for Moira? Her other choice was to let her clan fall into a usurper’s hand.

  As choices went, she did not think the latter worth contemplating.

  A late April’s cool breeze blew one riotous chestnut curl, and she wiped it from her brow impatiently. The movement reminded her of her brother, who used to tease her, calling her Lamb because of her curls.

  She grieved at the memory of her poor, deceased brother, Malcom. Dead for a year, the certainty of his poisoning and murder still engraved in her chest.

  Moira must do this. She found no other solution to the predicament Clan Darroch faced. Her uncle—by marriage—manoeuvred to take over the clan’s leadership. She must not allow it to happen.

  Which meant she needed a husband, one from a clan important enough to tilt the scales, and strengthen her position to thwart Hamish’s ambitions.

  The only candidate she could think of had been Lachlan McKendrick, the very useless and very womanising youngest brother of the four siblings in the family. That was how she regarded him, at least.

  A movement in the distance made her freeze. With a catch of insufficient air, she turned to peek through the foliage. Two hundred yards ahead, a horseman appeared. Lachlan McKendrick used to ride by this road in Darroch lands to reach one of his favourite lochs for fishing. How she knew it? Not that she would confess to any soul dead or alive, but she would steal a glance at him when he rode by, the path cutting right below the study window. The same where she learned to update the ledgers in this past year.

  She strove to learn and do as many duties as she could during this time. It felt as if she lived ten years in one. And matured decades by her twenty-fifth birthday.

  Her delicate, petite frame swivelled back into hiding, in wait for the exact moment to act. Though she looked delicate, she discovered she was anything but. In these last months, she summoned a strength she never imagined she possessed. Facing up to the odds of her people regarding her as the leader, dodging her uncle’s malice, struggling to keep her clan’s welfare safe. It had been like killing a lion daily.

  Now she would have to kill another. Or marry one, in this case.

  Marriage to a womaniser sounded like a lousy bargain to waste her life on, by the way. However, for her clan she would do anything.

  Her hazel eyes turned back to the road. A hundred yards. Wait a moment more, she told herself. She took the time to steady her breath and her heart rate. To no avail.

  She checked again. Twenty yards. Her hands firmed on the rifle as she turned and posted herself in the middle of the road, aiming it.

  “Stop right there, McKendrick,” she issued in what she hoped to be an assertive tone, tightening her fingers on the cold metal in order to stop their trembling.

  “Darroch?” he said in that smooth voice of his as he halted his horse. He used to call her by her clan’s name when they chanced on each other.

  She lifted her gaze to him.

  The man had always been a weapon himself. In mere seconds, the sight of him sent every nerve ending to a meltdown. He was perfect, just perfect, there was no other word for him. At about six feet four, the view of him reminded her of the statue of Apollo Belvedere she saw once reproduced in a book. The face, that is, because the rest of him she did not even want to contemplate, lest she display a ninny swooning she utterly despised.

  “You’re trespassing on Darroch’s lands.” She blurted to cover up her reaction.

  With nowhere else to focus, she absorbed him. The locks of dark brown hair, the straight brows, the deep-set coffee eyes fringed by sooty lashes. Next, she studied his fine, straight nose, those lips designed to induce unlawful thoughts, the square jaw including a cleft on his male chin. The strong, masculine body under his green, black, and white tartan clamoured for exploring hands.

  His beauty attracted scores of women and she refused to fall prey. Since she met him four years ago, she lived with the misfortune of reacting to him, despite her attempts to feign indifference. Those years ago, both happened to be in the gathering that made his nephew the heir of the McPherson and the McKendrick.

  “No one complained before,” he stated, an amused gleam in his piercing eyes.

  She lifted the rifle one extra inch to show how serious she was. Of course, she need not tell him she had no money to buy the balls required to shoot, the detail unimportant.

  “I’m complaining today.” Her voice hardened at his dismissal.

  At that, he dismounted. Yes! Precisely what she wanted him to do.

  One straight brow rose mischievously. The man held fame for being a jester. “All right, lass, you need not use this subterfuge in order to meet me. We can arrange it any time you wish by the usual means, you know, send a note or something.” His nefarious lips rose on one side. It made the cleft on his chin stand out. It also made her want to devour him.

  His voice and his grin caused a flutter in her stomach. “Only you would think of such a self-centred motivation.” She scorned, tamping down the flutters.

  Had she the time or opportunity for flirtation, he would be the last man on the planet to whom she would turn. Moira harboured an utter contempt for womanisers, having seen enough for a lifetime.

  His stance froze to deadly still, granite smothering his Apollonian features. “Now wait there for a second, Darroch,” steel entered his tone, making it lower and coarser. Lachlan also held the fame for being rather hot-headed and he did not look pleased at that exact moment.

  Never would she back down, however.

  The strip of strong legs she saw between the tartan and the kilt hoses paced forward despite the gun pointed at him. Would those legs feel rough to t
he touch? The random thought infuriated her.

  He moved once more onto a patch of dry leaves—that he did not fear the threat of a gun amazed her—and triggered the trap. A net made from the estate’s sheep’s wool enveloped him, suspending his tall frame up to a tree’s thick branch.

  “What the hell are you up to, Darroch?” Downright anger shot from him in droves.

  Moira’s hazel eyes lifted to the trees’ canopies, surprised with her success. The tightly knit net she had made held steady.

  Laird Lachlan McKendrick dangled right in the air.

  Lachlan joggled on the donkey-pulled cart, eyes peering through the tight net with difficulty. The wool obscured his view, as he could only discern his horse tethered to the back of the cart with his fishing supplies and a much-needed—and out of reach—knife on it.

  The moment he succeeded in setting himself free a certain feminine neck would taste the strength of his fury. A wheel stumbled on a protrusion causing his backside to concuss against the raw wood. It made his fury soar sky-high.

  As soon as he hung from the tree branch, the mad Darroch lass brought about the cart that had been hiding in the woods. Dexterously, she lowered him onto it and tied the top rope to the yoke, effectively immobilising him. Any protest would fall on deaf ears, he reckoned, so he kept the boiling words for when her elegant neck was between his large hands. Tying done, the mad Darroch sat at the driver’s place and incited the donkeys with the reins. The lass drove a cart for pity’s sake!

  Now the poor animals painstakingly climbed the steep track that led to the clan’s manor. His first visit to it as a matter of fact. Never did he think the lass he met four years ago would act so insanely. Their brief interaction at the gathering in the McPhersons had made an impression on him. The petite lass had jested carefree with him, and in the scarce moments their eyes met in the middle of a crowded room, something happened to his guts. His vision had filled with one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. But he knew better than to trifle with a Laird’s daughter, so he strived to put it past him.

  Finally reaching the manor, the cart halted at what seemed to be a back entrance. In agile movements, the mad Darroch got down, rounded the vehicle, and neared him.

  “I’m tearing the net, McKendrick,” she started in a voice that was feminine and firm. “Try anything and I’ll call my men for your utter regret,” she warned.

  “Oh, lass,” his answer did not convey his burning contrariety. “I’d not dare offend after being invited here so graciously.”

  A sharp knife pierced right under his ticking jaw and ran skilfully all the way down to his midriff. In annoyed jerks, he tossed the thing to his feet while his gaze met hers. They fizzled. To cut him free meant she was close. And armed with a knife she knew how to use. But that meant nothing because time froze. The quiet backyard disappeared.

  Riotous chestnut locks framed a face so delicate any man would consider her fragile. A great mistake. Nonetheless, the symmetric lines of it would arrest the beholder from the large hazel eyes to the long lashes, oval shape, and the full lips. Said beholder would be lost at the sight of these. Her mouth looked fresh, its soft ripeness conjuring images he had no business conjuring. That knife might slash any unsuspecting man and he would become none the wiser. Lachlan imagined those men would gratefully melt at the attention.

  She broke the spell by stepping back. Only at that moment did he take note of what she wore. A long underdress served as a base for a full tartan in the Darroch colours of Burgundy and white, wrapped around in a fashion that men used to do it. But on her the effect was…intriguing to say the least. The folds around her hips marked her tiny waist, falling to her booted feet. The upper end came up to cover her chest demurely, the result being anything but. The wool denounced firm high breasts before it looped over her narrow shoulder and tied at the waist on her other side. In short, she transformed men’s clothes into provocative attire. He would bet his whole inheritance on her having no idea how feminine she looked.

  “We always treat our special guests with the utmost deference, my laird,” she quipped in response to his earlier taunt.

  Besides mad, the lass was defiant. And why this made Lachlan want to unwrap the coarse wool from her petite frame and teach her a lesson that had nothing to do with etiquette, he had no idea.

  Up a flight of back stairs, Moira guided the McKendrick along a desert hallway towards the study. She took deep gulps of air. During the drive, she had feared the man would resist and blow her plans. She had her brother to thank for her fighting skills. But she had doubted she would be able to take on this giant McKendrick. Upon touching him, she feared her bravado would melt into a string of disgustingly pleasurable sighs. Beating herself up mentally for the thought, she strived to keep calm. The scoundrel did not react after all and followed her now as if he had come of his own volition. Not that she was fooled. The anger in his dark eyes sparked like lightning in a night storm.

  They entered the study, and she did not waste time in barricading behind the solid desk piled with documents and ledgers. Her features schooled to appear purposeful, she lifted her hazel irises to him. Tall, legs braced, and arms crossed, he did what no one else did: dwarf the cavernous room. The flutter in her stomach repeated itself much to her irritation.

  A dire hope he would not notice the derelict state of everything she lay her attention on cut through her. There was no hiding the threadbare carpet, the torn upholstery on the chairs, the faded drapes, or the scarcity of wood available by the fireplace. There should be no shame in poverty, but the precarious state of her beloved manor made her feel bare. The lack of cosiness, the lack of means to take care of the innumerable needs of this house and the people she was responsible for? Ate at her insides.

  Any idea on how to start this? Having come all this way, she might as well get straight to the point.

  Her lungs filled with air, hoping it would bring the necessary courage. “I brought you here to marry you,” she blurted before she lost her nerve.

  The scowl that surfaced on those perfect features gave her a fairly clear notion of how he would take it.

  “First, you didn’t bring me here. You hunted me and bluidy dragged me up to the Darroch’s.” His words reverberated in the moth-eaten room.

  Her throat swallowed what seemed like gritty sand. Not that bad, or was it? “I didn’t hurt you,” she defended.

  “Thank you for that.” he bit out with a curl on his mesmerising lips. Pointedly, he eyed the knife on her waist and the ball-less rifle she leaned on the back wall of the study.

  “In any case, I’ll just summon the blacksmith and—”

  “You have to be delirious if you think I’d agree with this ridiculous idea,” he said.

  Perhaps she had not handled this with the tact it required but being refused dampened her self-confidence considerably. What did she expect? A man who could have any woman under the sun—because they sought him like travellers sought a fireplace in winter—would never consider taking a dishevelled lass like her to wife. She possessed neither time nor funds to pamper herself and, to be frank, she was not interested in attracting the opposite sex, simply for the fact she never intended to marry. Or had never intended until the need urged it.

  With an effort, she suppressed her musings in favour of ploughing through the matter at hand. “I’m not delirious, just desperate.”

  A thumb and a forefinger lined his stubble-lined, square jaw as he inspected her with a snort “Desperate for what, a man? If that’s the problem, I’ve already told you—”

  Her turn to interrupt his arrogant conclusion. “The Darroch is in danger of being usurped.”

  “Who’s your brother’s heir?” Everyone in the Highlands who was anyone had been to Malcom’s funeral, including all the McKendricks.

  “A distant cousin who has an…indulgent life in Glasgow and isn’t remotely interested in the task,” she informed. That had been the reason she held up until now. “But my Uncle Hamish is threatening to take over.”