Page 20 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

L achlan held her against him, feeling the tremor that ran through her slight frame as she spoke of her brother's betrayal. But even as he offered what comfort he could, his mind was churning with darker thoughts.

A braither who killed his own parents.

How was he any different? He'd killed his own father, spilled his blood in front of the entire clan. The circumstances might have been different, but the result was the same—a son's hands stained with his father's blood.

If Erica knew the truth, would she see him as another Leo? Another man capable of kinslaying? The thought made his jaw clench with barely controlled fury—not at her, but at the situation that bound them both to their violent pasts.

She'd hate me. She'd insist on returnin’ to McLaren lands, and I'd lose any chance of...

"Lachlan. What about ye?"

Erica's asked again, this time her voice breaking through his dark thoughts.

"What about me?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Her gaze fixed on the scar that ran from his cheek down to disappear beneath his shirt collar. "How did ye get that scar?"

Lachlan's entire body went rigid. The scar. This had been the reason women typically looked away in revulsion.

Instead, her finger reached out, tracing the raised line of damaged skin with a gentleness that nearly undid him. From his cheek, following the path it carved down his jaw, to where it vanished beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"Does the scar nae repulse ye?" he asked roughly, his voice barely controlled. "Why do ye touch it?"

"We all have our scars, Lachlan," she said softly, her finger still resting against the mark. "Some are inside our heads, some more visible."

The simple acceptance in her words, the lack of judgment, made something violent and desperate claw at his chest. He wanted to pull her closer, to capture that gentle hand and show her exactly how much her touch affected him.

The urge to kiss her, to take her right here by the lake, was so strong it took every ounce of his control to remain still.

"Now tell me how it happened," she said, settling back against him but keeping her eyes on his face.

Lachlan was quiet for a long moment, watching the water lap against the shore. No one had ever asked him to explain the scar before. They either knew the story already or were too afraid to ask.

"Me father gave it to me on me eighteenth birthday," he said finally. "Durin’ what he called trainin'.'"

"Trainin'?"

"Aye. Though it was more like torture disguised as education." His voice was flat, emotionless. "He believed pain was the best teacher. That a laird who hasnae bled for his position willnae value it properly."

Erica's hand found his where it rested on the fishing rod, her fingers intertwining with his. The gesture was unconscious, instinctive, and it gave him the strength to continue.

"He'd been drinkin' that day. More than usual. The clan had gathered to celebrate me comin’ of age, but he..." Lachlan's jaw tightened. "He decided I needed one final lesson before I could truly call meself a man."

"What kind of lesson?"

"He drew his sword and ordered me to defend meself. Said if I couldnae protect meself from me own father, how could I protect the clan?" The memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. "I thought it was just another trainin' session at first. Until he opened me face to the bone."

Her sharp intake of breath made him look down at her. There was no revulsion in her expression, no fear—only anger on his behalf.

"He scarred ye deliberately?"

"Aye. Said scars build character. That a pretty laird was a weak laird." Lachlan's voice grew harder. "But then he kept going. And going. The celebration turned into somethin' else entirely. I ken in me heart, he was tryin' to kill me."

"What happened?"

"I killed him to save me own life." The words came out stark, brutal. "In front of the entire clan. Cut him down like the rabid dog he was."

He waited for her to pull away, to show the fear and disgust he'd seen in so many others' eyes. Instead, she moved closer, pressing her back more firmly against his chest.

"Ye were only a lad." Her voice was soft with understanding. "To imagine growin' up knowin' yer father was a monster. And ye had to endure that yer entire life?"

"Since I was old enough to hold a sword." He paused, then added quietly, "Me maither never intervened. She'd watch sometimes, from the windows. But she never tried to stop him."

"Where is she now?"

"Exiled. She tried to claim I murdered him in cold blood, wanted to see me stripped of me inheritance so she could keep enjoyin’ all the advantages she had as lady Kinnaird." His laugh held no humor. "Fortunately, there were too many witnesses who'd seen what really happened."

Erica was quiet for a long moment, processing this. When she spoke again, her voice was thoughtful.

"So, we both ken what it's like to have family turn on us."

"Aye." He looked down at her, surprised by her calm acceptance. "Does it nae frighten ye? Knowin' I'm capable of killin' me own father?"

She turned to face him fully, her dark eyes serious. "Ye were defendin' yerself against a man who was torturin' ye. A man who was prepared to kill ye. That's nae the same as what Leo did."

"Isn't it? Blood is blood."

"Nay." Her voice was firm. "Leo killed because he enjoyed it, because he wanted power. Ye killed to survive." She reached up, touching the scar again. "This proves ye dinnae want to hurt him. If ye'd been like Leo, ye would have struck first, nae waited until he nearly killed ye."

The distinction mattered more than he'd expected it to. "Ye really believe that?"

"I do." She smiled then, small but genuine. "Besides, if ye were truly like Leo, ye would have used me fears against me by now. Instead, ye've been patient. Kind, even."

"Kind?" He raised an eyebrow. "Most people would use different words."

"Most people havenae seen ye catch someone when they're fallin'." Her voice grew softer. "Or take time to teach them to paint. Or bring them to yer favorite place because ye think it might help them feel safe."

Was that what he'd been doing? He'd told himself this fishing trip was about securing an heir, about overcoming her fears for practical reasons. But looking at her now, seeing the trust beginning to bloom in her dark eyes...

"Perhaps we're both more damaged than we care to admit," he said quietly.

"Perhaps. But maybe that's what makes us understand each other."

She settled back against him, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, their fishing lines forgotten in the water. For the first time since his father's death, Lachlan allowed himself to hope that someone could see past the scars—both visible and hidden—to the man beneath.

Then, quietly, she asked, "Did ye ken about our betrothal? Before I told ye about it?"

"Nay." His voice was flat. "It was never mentioned to me."

"Never? But surely yer parents would have?—"

"Me parents told me nothin' that might give me any sense of power or plannin' for the future." There was old bitterness in his voice. "Knowin' them, the betrothal was likely arranged as some kind of power move, a way to strengthen their position. But they'd never have told me about it."

Erica turned slightly to look at him. "What do ye mean?"

"Me father never taught me clan strategies, never explained alliances or trade agreements. Nothin' that would prepare me to actually rule." Lachlan's jaw tightened. "He wanted me dependent, uncertain. Knowledge was power, and he wasnae about to share any with the son who'd eventually replace him."

The pain underneath his controlled words made her chest ache. "So ye learned everythin' after..."

"After he died, aye. Had to rely on councilmen to teach me what I should have known from childhood." He was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps that's why the betrothal was never mentioned. Dead brides cannae strengthen yer position."

The casual way he said it—as if his parents had simply written off her survival—made her shiver.

"If ye never kent about the betrothal," she said carefully, "then why did ye never marry? Surely there were women..."

Something shifted in his posture, a subtle withdrawal that she felt rather than saw.

"There were women," he said finally.

"But?"

"But they wanted the ladyship of Kinnaird, nae the man who came with it." His voice was matter-of-fact, but she caught the hurt underneath. "They could stomach the title, the wealth, the protection of bein' married to a laird. But nae this."

His hand moved unconsciously to his scar.

"Nae me scars. Nae me touch." The words came out quietly, as if he'd never voiced them before. "They'd flinch when I came near. Oh, they were polite about it—ladylike. But I could see it in their eyes."

"See what?"

"Fear. Revulsion. The knowledge that they were settlin' for damaged goods because the alternative was bein' unmarried." His laugh was harsh. "At least ye're honest about yer reasons for flinchin'."

Erica felt something crack open in her chest at the raw pain in his voice. All this time, she'd been so focused on her own fears that she hadn't considered his. Here was a man who'd been rejected not for his character or his actions, but for the physical reminder of what he'd endured.

"Lachlan..."

"Daenae." His voice was sharp. "I daenae need yer pity."

"It's nae pity." She turned in his arms until she was facing him fully. "It's understandin'."

She reached up, tracing the scar again with gentle fingers. This time, he didn't wonder why she wasn't repulsed. This time, he just closed his eyes and let her touch him.

"They were fools," she said softly.

His eyes opened, meeting hers with naked vulnerability. "Were they?"

"Aye. Because this—" her finger followed the line of damaged skin "—this tells a story of survival. Of strength. Any woman who couldnae see that wasnae worthy of ye in the first place."

For a moment, something raw and desperate flickered across his features. Then Lachlan leaned closer.

"Erica," he said, her name a rough whisper on his lips.

His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with reverent gentleness. She could see the question in his eyes, the careful restraint as he waited for her permission.

Instead of answering with words, she closed the distance between them.

If Erica thought their first kiss was heated, this feeling set her completely on fire. His mouth moved against hers with skilled precision, claiming her with a thoroughness that made her knees weak.

His tongue ran over her lips, and the taste of him flooded her senses. He kissed like a man who'd been starving, like she was the first drink of water after crossing a desert.

His free hand tangled in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and she melted against him with a soft sound that made him groan low in his throat. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, could taste the desperation on his tongue as he devoured her mouth.

They broke apart, both breathing hard, and he let his forehead rest against hers.

"Christ, lass," he breathed, his voice rough with want. "Do ye have any idea what ye do to me?"

The raw hunger in his voice sent heat spiraling through her belly, and she realized with shocking clarity that she wanted to find out exactly what she did to him.

Suddenly, her forgotten fishing rod jerked violently in her hands, nearly slipping from her grasp as something heavy pulled on the line.

"I've got somethin'!" she gasped, the romantic moment shattered by the urgent tug of whatever was on the end of her line.

Lachlan was behind her in an instant, his arms leaving her waist to help steady the rod. "Keep the tension steady," he instructed, his hands reaching for hers. "Daenae let it?—"

But before Lachlan could get a firm grip, the fish—or whatever it was this time—gave another violent jerk, stronger than before. Erica, still flustered from their kiss and not thinking clearly, pulled back hard on the rod just as the line snapped with a sharp crack.

The sudden release of tension sent her stumbling backward with more force than she'd expected. Her heel caught on a loose stone at the water's edge, and she felt herself falling.

"Lachlan!" The cry tore from her throat as she felt herself falling.

The shock of the cold water drove the breath from her lungs as she went under completely. The fishing rod flew from her hands as she flailed, her heavy riding dress immediately soaking up water and dragging her down.

"Erica!"

She broke surface for a moment, flailing her arms, gasping and choking, her waterlogged skirts pulling her back under.

Through the water streaming down her face, and her hair matted over her eyes, she caught a glimpse of Lachlan launching himself from the bank in a powerful dive, fully clothed with boots and all, hitting the water with a tremendous splash just as she began to sink again.

She went under again, splattering her arms with the weight of her sodden clothing inexorably. When she surfaced once more, sputtering and desperate, she saw him swim toward her.

"Erica!"

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, hauling her up toward the light, and then she was breaking the surface properly, gasping and coughing up lake water.

"I've got ye," Lachlan's voice was rough with concern as he pulled her against his chest, treading water to keep them both afloat. "I've got ye, lass."

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, hauling her up toward the light, and then she was breaking the surface properly, gasping and coughing up lake water.

"I've got ye," Lachlan's voice was rough with concern as he pulled her against his chest, treading water to keep them both afloat. "I've got ye, lass."

But even his powerful strokes were labored as he fought to get them both to shore. Her waterlogged dress clung to every curve of her body while simultaneously dragging them both down like an anchor.

"Damn it, lass," he grunted, his arm tightening around her waist as he kicked hard toward the bank.