Page 18 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

" Y e come here often?"

"When I need to think. Or when I need to remember why I'm fightin' so hard to protect what's mine."

The possessive note in his voice made her pulse quicken, though she wasn't sure if it was from fear or something else entirely.

They dismounted near the water's edge, where the lake lapped gently against a small, pebbled shore. Lachlan retrieved fishing rods from his saddlebags, along with a small pot of bait and what looked like a simple meal wrapped in cloth.

Erica looked out at the expanse of water, its surface deceptively calm. "I should mention—I cannae swim nor fish," she said quietly. "Never learned. Leo thought it was a waste of time for a lady."

"Ye'll nae need to swim for fishin'," Lachlan assured her. "We'll stay right here on the shore." He set down his saddlebags and selected two rods from his equipment, testing their flexibility with practiced hands.

"I'll teach ye how to fish, like I taught ye how to paint," he said, moving behind her with the rods in hand.

The moment his body pressed against her back, Erica's eyes fluttered closed.

This was different from the horse—so much better.

There, she'd been trapped, unable to move, hyperaware of every jolt and bounce that pressed them together.

But here, standing at the lake's edge, his closeness felt deliberate, chosen.

He felt like a perfect fit around her form.

He was so solid, so warm, and she could feel the hard planes of his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

His arms came around her to position the fishing rod in her hands, and she found herself trapped in the overwhelming presence of her husband—but this time, the trap felt like a sanctuary.

His hands covered hers on the rod, his fingers intertwining with hers in a way that had nothing to do with fishing technique and everything to do with the heat building between them.

"Hold it like this," he murmured near her ear, his breath stirring the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. "Firm, but nae too tight."

His hands covered hers on the rod, his fingers long and strong and surprisingly gentle. She tried to focus on his instructions, but all she could think about was how those same fingers had felt on her face during their kiss, how they might feel if he touched other parts of her...

Stop it, she commanded herself, but her treacherous body was already responding to the way his thighs fitted around her hips. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she found herself leaning back against him almost unconsciously.

"Good," he said, his voice rougher now. "Just like that. Let me guide ye."

She could feel every inch of him pressed against her—the solid wall of his chest, the strength in his arms, the warmth that seemed to radiate from his skin. And underneath it all, his scent surrounded her, making her head swim with want.

"Now cast out," he instructed, his hands moving hers in a smooth arc that sent the line sailing over the water.

But as they moved together, she became acutely aware of something else—the way he shifted slightly behind her, the soft intake of his breath when her body pressed more firmly against his. And then she felt it, unmistakable evidence of his own arousal pressed against the small of her back.

Heat flooded her cheeks, but instead of the panic she expected, she felt a strange thrill of power. She affected him. Her nearness, her body, was stirring him just as his was stirring her.

She shifted slightly, testing, and heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Are ye all right?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Aye," she whispered, then shifted again, more deliberately this time.

His hands tightened on hers, and she felt him adjust his position behind her, trying to put some distance between them. But the movement only made her more aware of him, more conscious of the heat building between them.

"Erica," he said, a warning in his voice.

She turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. They were dark with desire, pupils dilated, and she realized she wasn't the only one forgetting to be afraid.

"What?" she asked innocently, though her voice came out husky.

His smile was slow and wicked. "A bonnie lass like ye should expect to stir some things in her husband. But if ye keep movin' like that, we'll be doin' a lot more than fishin', and I'm nae sure ye're ready for what ye're temptin' me with."

She swallowed, her mind running images of the things they could do together here, in the sanctuary of the lake. And for the first time since their wedding night, Erica wasn't afraid of what her body was telling her.

But she adjusted her sitting so she did not press into him so smugly.

"Good," he said, his voice rougher now. "Just like that."

Suddenly, the rod jerked violently in her hands, bending nearly in half as something heavy pulled on the line.

"I've got somethin'!" she gasped, excitement replacing the heat that had been building between them.

"Aye, ye do," Lachlan said, his hands tightening over hers. "Keep the tension steady. Daenae let it break the line."

The rod bucked again, and Erica laughed despite herself—a sound of pure delight that made something shift in Lachlan's expression. She was fighting whatever was on the end of her line with determination, her cheeks flushed with exertion and excitement.

"It's strong," she panted, trying to reel it in. "What do ye think it is?"

"Could be a good-sized trout," he said, though his tone was measured, controlled. Even in this moment of shared excitement, he maintained that careful reserve. "Keep pullin'."

She did, step by step, until finally something dark broke the surface of the water. But instead of the silvery flash of fish scales, what emerged was a tangle of green lake weed, heavy with water and wrapped around her hook like a sodden banner.

"Oh," she said, her face falling with disappointment. "It's just... weeds."

"Aye," Lachlan said dryly. "Ye've caught yerself the most elusive prey in all of Scotland—pond scum."

The deadpan delivery made her burst into unexpected laughter, and in her mirth, she turned toward him without thinking. Her foot slipped on the muddy bank, and she felt herself falling backward toward the water.

Strong arms caught her before she could hit the lake, pulling her against a solid chest. She found herself cradled against Lachlan, his arms wrapped securely around her, his face mere inches from hers.

Time seemed suspended. She could see flecks of silver in his blue eyes, and she noticed how thick his lashes were. There was a small scar near his left temple that she'd never noticed before, and she had the strangest urge to trace it with her fingertip.

His jaw was hard, shadowed with the hint of a beard, and she wondered what it would feel like against her skin. Would it be rough? Would it scrape deliciously if he kissed her neck?

Encased in his arms like this, she felt something she hadn't experienced since childhood—complete safety. Not the careful politeness he'd shown her before, or the distant consideration, but the absolute certainty that nothing could harm her while he held her.

"Steady," he said quietly, setting her back on her feet but not releasing her immediately.

After a few minutes, he finally stepped back and retrieved his own fishing rod, casting his line into the deeper water with practiced ease. They stood in companionable silence, the tension from their earlier proximity settling into something calmer but no less aware.

"Why do ye flinch when I touch ye?"

The question came out of nowhere, cutting through the peaceful quiet like a blade. Erica startled, nearly dropping her rod again.

She hadn't expected that question. Not here, not now, when flinching was the last thing she wanted to do.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Just stood there watching the gentle ripples on the lake's surface, as if the answer might be written in the water.

"It's nae... it's nae because of ye. I daenae think ye'll hurt me," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nae exactly."

Lachlan remained silent, waiting. The patience in his stillness encouraged her to continue.

"Me braither..." She swallowed hard. "He had a way of makin' ye feel safe one moment, then..." She shook her head. "I learned that a man's hands could comfort or destroy, sometimes within the same breath."

"What did he do to ye?"

The question was asked quietly, but she heard the steel underneath it. When she glanced at him, his jaw was set in a hard line, his eyes fixed on the water with the kind of focus that suggested barely leashed violence.

"When we were children, he could be... kind.

Sweet, even. He'd read to me when our parents were busy, help me with lessons.

" Her voice grew quieter. "But only when others could see.

When we were alone, he'd pull me hair if I answered a question wrong or pinch me hard enough to leave marks where nay one would notice. "

She cast her line again, the motion giving her something to do with her hands. "I loved him despite it all. Wanted his approval so desperately. I thought if I could just be good enough, smart enough, perfect enough, he'd stop hurtin' me and love me the way a brother should."

"But he dinnae."

"Nay. If anythin', me attempts to please him seemed to make it worse.

As if me fear was what he truly wanted." She paused, remembering.

"Even as a lad, he'd talk about ruling the clan soon.

Said our parents were too kind to the people.

That they needed someone with a whip hand to control them properly. "

Lachlan's knuckles were white where he gripped his own rod. "And when ye grew older?"