Page 2 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER TWO

" E asy, Goliath," Frederick said, stroking the horse's neck. "The beast can sense yer mood, ye ken."

Lachlan's jaw tightened as he adjusted his horse's bridle with more force than necessary. The leather creaked under his grip, and his stallion snorted in protest.

"Me mood is fine."

"Aye, and I'm the King of Scotland." Frederick's weathered face creased into a knowing grin. "What's got ye so twisted up? The visit to Clan Morrison should be simple enough."

Lachlan's fingers worked the buckle with sharp, precise movements. "Another woman came to the castle this mornin’."

"Ah." Frederick nodded with understanding. "Let me guess—another bonnie lass with marriage on her mind?"

"They're like vultures circlin' a dyin' beast." Lachlan's voice carried a bitter edge. "Ever since the council started their blasted rumors about me needin' an heir, I cannae step outside without some simperin' female battin’ her eyelashes at me."

"The council's nae wrong though," Frederick pointed out. "Ye do need an heir. And Duncan's been struttin' around like he already owns the place."

At the mention of his cousin, Lachlan's shoulders tensed even more. Duncan had been insufferable lately, inserting himself into conversations where he wasn't wanted, making suggestions about clan business that weren't his to make.

"Duncan can strut all he wants. I'll choose me own wife in me own time."

"Will ye though?" Frederick's tone turned serious. "Because last I checked, ye'd found fault with every woman who's come callin'. Too young, too old, too eager, too timid..."

"Too eager for what's in me coffer instead of what's between me ears," Lachlan finished grimly. "I'll nae marry a woman who sees me as nothin' more than a title and a way to advance her family's position."

"So what exactly are ye lookin' for?"

Lachlan paused, his hands stilling on the tack.

What am I lookin’ for? Someone who willnae flinch at me scar. Someone who can match me wit. Someone beautiful but independent.

"Laird Kinnaird?" A young stable boy appeared at the entrance, slightly out of breath. "Beggin’ yer pardon, but there's a woman here to see ye."

Frederick shot Lachlan an amused look. "Speak of the devil."

Lachlan's expression darkened. "Tell her I'm busy."

"I... I tried that, m'laird. She said she traveled two days to see ye and she'd wait."

"I daenae care how many days she travelled. Tell her I'm nae acceptin’ visitors."

The guard shifted nervously. "She's... she's nae like the others, m'laird. She's got guards with her, and she's sittin’ in the great hall like she owns the place."

Frederick raised an eyebrow. "Guards?"

"Aye, sir. An older man, looks like he's seen his share of battles, with two others. And she's..." The boy searched for words. "She's got the bearin' of nobility, m'laird. Real nobility, nae the kind that's all show."

Lachlan studied the boy's face. In all his years of service, young Tom had never been one for exaggeration. If he said this woman was different...

"Fine." Lachlan stripped off his riding gloves with sharp movements. "But if she's another marriage-mad fool, I'm throwin’ her out on her arse."

"I'll ready the horses for when ye're done," Frederick said with a knowing smile.

Lachlan strode through the corridors of Castle Kinnaird with heavy steps, his mind already forming the dismissal he'd give this latest fortune hunter.

He'd been through this dance too many times—the coy glances, the breathy compliments, the not-so-subtle hints about what a wonderful mother she'd make.

But when he reached the great hall, his steps faltered.

The woman sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, her posture straight as a sword blade. She wasn't fidgeting or primping or casting nervous glances around the room. She simply sat, waiting, as if she had every right to be there.

And she was... extraordinary.

Dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the firelight like polished wood.

Her profile was elegant, aristocratic, but there was something in the set of her jaw that spoke of strength rather than delicate breeding.

She wore a traveling dress of deep blue that had was elegant and spoke of good taste, but she carried herself like a queen.

Lachlan found himself staring, mesmerized by the curve of her neck, the way her fingers rested calmly on the arm of the chair. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and that realization hit him like a physical blow.

"Ye wanted to see me?" His voice came out rougher than intended.

She turned at the sound, and their eyes met across the hall. For a moment, neither moved. Her eyes were dark as midnight, intelligent and wary. But then she seemed to register who he was, and she flinched—just slightly, but enough for him to notice.

The familiar disappointment settled in his chest like a stone. Another woman terrified of his reputation, seeing him as some kind of monster. He'd grown tired of that look, tired of the way people's faces changed when they realized who he was. And what he'd done.

"Aye," she said, rising gracefully from her chair. "I'm here to make ye a proposition."

Her voice was cultured, well-educated, with just a trace of Highland accent. But there was steel underneath the refinement.

"Are ye now?" Lachlan crossed his arms over his chest. "And what might that be?"

"First, I should introduce meself." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm Erica. Lady McLaren."

The words hit him like a thunderbolt. Lady McLaren? The McLaren clan had been ruled by that madman Leo for years. When had that changed? And how had this woman become the lady?

"Ye're Lady McLaren?" he said, his voice sharp with surprise.

"Aye. And I believe ye're in need of a wife."

Straight to the point. No coy games or batting eyelashes. Lachlan found himself intrigued despite his wariness.

"How did ye become Lady McLaren? And what makes ye think I am in need of a wife?"

"Me brother Leo never married, and he was killed six months back, makin' me the lady.

Besides, I recently found out from James, the only survivin' councilman from when me parents were alive, that they had disinherited me brother and made me the heir.

" She moved closer, and he caught a faint scent of lavender that made his blood warm.

"Laird Kannaird, I need a husband. I ken ye need an heir to secure yer position. I need marriage to secure mine. It seems we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Mutually beneficial," he repeated, studying her face. "What exactly would ye get out of this arrangement? Aside from a husband, I mean."

"The right to continue leadin’ me clan as I see fit. Nay interference from me husband in McLaren affairs."

Lachlan's eyebrows rose. She wanted autonomy? That was... unexpected.

"And what would I get, besides the obvious?"

"Ye'd seal the alliance with Clan McLaren which our parents proposed to yer father when they betrothed us. Trade advantages like routes and partners. And I'm a wife who willnae bore ye with simperin’ conversation. And when the time comes, I'll cooperate with ye to get the heir ye need."

She said it matter-of-factly, as if she were discussing the weather. But Lachlan caught the slight tightening around her eyes when she mentioned the heir.

"Ye seem to have thought this through," he said slowly. "But I have conditions of me own."

"Such as?"

"If we marry, ye'll keep yer distance unless clan business requires our interaction. I'll nae have a clingy wife followin’ me around like a lost puppy."

Relief flashed across her features so quickly he almost missed it. "That's... acceptable."

Interestin’. Most women would be offended by such a condition. But ye - ye look almost grateful.

"Good. Second condition—we need an heir within a year. The council's been breathin' down me neck about it."

And there it was. The color drained from her face, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Fear. Raw, unmistakable fear.

"I... So soon?" She swallowed hard. "I'm nae comfortable with someone I daenae ken touchin' me. Will ye nae give me more time to ken ye better?"

The way she said it—so quietly, so carefully—made something cold settle in Lachlan's stomach. He'd heard that tone before, from women who'd been hurt by men who should have protected them.

"Then we'll remedy that," he said, his voice gentling slightly. "Three outings. Just the two of us. I'll set the terms, and ye'll come willingly."

"What kind of terms?" The question came out sharp, defensive.

"Nothin' that involves me bed, if that's what ye're worried about." He saw her shoulders relax fractionally. "I've nay interest in unwillin' women. But if we're to marry, ye'll need to be comfortable with me touch. And I'll need to ken the woman I'm bindin' meself to."

"And after these three outings?"

"If ye still cannae bear the thought of me touchin’ ye, we'll find another way to make this work." He paused, studying her face. "But I think ye'll find that willnae be a problem."

"Ye seem very confident."

"I am." He stepped closer, close enough she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "By the time I'm done with ye, lass, ye'll be cravin’ me touch."

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she didn't back down. "Ye're very sure of yerself."

"I have reason to be."

They stood there for a moment, measuring each other, the air between them crackling with something Lachlan couldn't quite name. Challenge? Attraction? Both?

"So," hesaid finally, "are we agreed? Three outings to get to ken each other better?"

She met his gaze steadily. "We need to marry within a sennight."

A sennight. This woman continues to surprise me.

He tilted his head, studying her face. "Why the hurry? Most women want time to plan their weddin’, to make it perfect."

"Most women arenae facin’ the loss of their birthright if they daenae marry soon."

"Is that so?"

"Aye. Is that a problem?"

"Nae at all." He smirked, his countenance turning into something that might have been called wicked. "We'll marry tomorrow."

Her eyes widened. "Tomorrow?"

"Ye said ye were in a hurry. I'm simply accommodatin’ yer request." He stepped back, enjoying the way she blinked in surprise. "Unless ye've changed yer mind?"

"Nay. I... nay. Tomorrow is fine."

"Good." He turned toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Erica?"

"Aye?"

"Welcome to Castle Kinnaird. A maid will show ye where to rest."

As he walked away, he could feel her eyes on his back, and he found himself looking forward to tomorrow in a way he hadn't looked forward to anything in years.

I have a feelin' life just got much more interestin'. Marriage to ye, Erica McLaren, is going to be anythin' but borin'.