Page 27 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A lone in his study, Lachlan sank into his chair and rubbed his temples. He'd handled Duncan, but Erica was still furious with him. And honestly, he wasn't entirely sure she was wrong to be.

But the thought of her confronting dangerous men alone—even pathetic ones like Duncan—made his blood run cold. He'd watched his mother try to stand up to his father, watched her fail and pay the price. He couldn't bear to see the same thing happen to Erica.

Even if she was strong enough to handle it herself.

Lachlan decided to give Erica space to cool off, but the chamber was dark when Lachlan finally returned, lit only by the gentle glow of embers in the fireplace. He could make out Erica's form on the bed, curled on her side with her back firmly to his side of the mattress.

"Erica," he said quietly, setting his sword aside.

She didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken.

"I ken ye're awake," he tried again, his voice harder now. "Daennae ignore me now."

Still nothing. Not even a shift in her breathing. Anger flared hot in his chest.

"Ye're stubborn, ye ken. Plannin' to ignore me forever?"

Fine. If she wanted to play the wounded wife, so be it.

He yanked off his belt with sharp, aggressive movements, the leather hitting the floor with a harsh slap. His shirt followed, pulled over his head, and discarded without care. Each piece of clothing was stripped away with barely controlled violence—boots kicked off, breeches shoved down his legs.

He moved to the washbasin and splashed cold water on his face and chest, cleaning under his arms, the shock of it doing little to cool his temper. The rough cloth scraped against his skin as he dried himself, every movement sharp with frustration.

The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed in, and he felt her stiffen at his presence. But she said nothing, did nothing, just lay there like a stone statue.

Lachlan turned his back to her and closed his eyes, his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached.

Even as he forced his thoughts to rest, he could not resist one last attempt at peace. “Ye ken this is unnecessary. I was only protectin’ ye.”

Dawn was slowly creeping its way into the day when he stirred, his body instinctively seeking hers in the near darkness. Even in sleep, he craved her warmth, the soft curves that had become as necessary to him as breathing.

His arm reached across the bed, his hand searching for the silk of her skin. When his fingers found her shoulder, bare beneath the thin chemise, heat shot through him. She was so close, so perfectly within reach. His hand skimmed down her arm.

"There's me bonnie wife," he whispered in her ear, his hand skimming down her arm. "Even angry, ye're still the most beautiful thin’ I've ever seen."

But instead of the reaction he expected, she shifted abruptly away from him, pulling the covers up over her head like armor.

Lachlan's hand hovered in the empty air where she'd been, his chest tight with frustration and something deeper—hurt, maybe. Or longing.

She was mine just yesterday. Respondin’ to me touch, moanin' me name. Now she acts like I'm her enemy.

He stared at the lump of blankets that concealed her, remembering how she'd looked by the lake—eyes dark with desire, lips parted as she'd begged him to touch her. The memory made his body ache with want.

"I could pull those covers away right now," he said, his voice carrying a hint of warning. "Make ye look at me. Make ye remember how good it is between us."

Still no response.

Something snapped in his restraint. In one swift movement, he grabbed the covers and yanked them away, then pulled her up to sit facing him. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild waves, her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and something else entirely.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat, the air crackling between them, before he captured her mouth with his. She tried to pull back, her hands pushing against his chest, but her body betrayed her—and she soon melted into him.

When he finally broke the kiss, she was breathless, her pupils dilated with desire mingling with anger.

"Cannae resist yer husband, can ye, lass?" he murmured against her lips.

She looked up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Ye think ye can just... just do what ye want whenever ye please?"

The words were meant to sound defiant, but her voice was breathless, and her hands had somehow tangled in his shirt instead of pushing him away.

"When me wife responds like that? Aye, I do," he said, but then reality crashed back.

He had responsibilities. The sun would rise soon, and with it would come the endless demands of leadership.

Border disputes with Clan Morrison that needed his attention, correspondence from allies, and training with his men.

"Damn the clan business," he spat, surprising himself with the intensity of the words. When had Erica become important enough to affect his duties? When had the need to touch her, to hear her voice, war with his obligation to his people?

His eyes held hers intently, before reluctantly, he released her. "This conversation isnae finished, Erica. Not by a long shot." With a frustrated growl, he rolled out of bed and began dressing. Each piece of clothing felt like another barrier between him and what he truly wanted.

Tonight I'll come back early. We'll have supper together, and I'll make her talk to me. Listen to me. Make her understand.

He paused at the door, looking back at the bed where she lay. Even furious with her, the sight of her there—in his bed, in his chambers—made something fierce and possessive unfurl in his chest.

"This isnae over, wife. I'll see ye soon." he said quietly to the silence, then left before his resolve could weaken.

By the time he finally climbed the stairs to return to their chambers, the castle had long since settled into its evening quiet. His stomach growled—he'd missed not just supper, but any decent meal at all.

The chamber was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace. He moved quietly, not wanting to wake her, but he could not help pausing to look at Erica.

By the gods, but she's beautiful.

Even in sleep, even angry with him, she was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen.

He undressed as quietly as possible. His shirt whispered against his skin as he pulled it off, and his boots made soft thuds on the floor. Every movement was careful, controlled, because he knew if she woke and pulled away from him again, he might actually lose what remained of his sanity.

"Ye missed supper," she whispered into the darkness. "Ye told me ye would be back for the evenin' meal."

He paused, sensing rather than hearing the disappointment underneath her words. "Clan business ran late, lass. There was trouble with at the border that couldnae wait."

She sat up slightly, and he could see her silhouette against the pale sheets. "I... I brought ye a plate. In case ye were hungry when ye returned."

His heart clenched at the thoughtful gesture. On the bedside table sat a covered plate—bread, cheese, cold meat. She'd been thinking of him, caring for him, even while angry.

"Thank ye," he said quietly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Ye didnae have to do that."

"Ye're me husband," she said simply. "Of course I did."

He ate gratefully while she watched, the simple domesticity of the moment easing some of the tension between them. When he reached for his water cup, a crumb caught at the corner of his mouth.

Erica reached out to brush it away with her thumb. The simple touch sent heat racing through both of them, and their eyes met in the flickering candlelight.

"Erica," he said softly, his voice rough with longing..

Just let me hold ye. Just for a moment. Let me remember what it feels like when ye're not angry with me.

Unable to help himself, he moved closer, his arm sliding around her waist with infinite care. She came willingly, her body molding against his chest as if she belonged there. Which she did. She was his wife, his woman, his?—

Mine.

His hand found the curve of her breast through the thin chemise, and he had to bite back a groan at the perfect weight of her in his palm. She was so soft, so warm, and when she sighed and arched slightly into his touch, fire shot straight to his groin.

Ye're what I've been cravin' all day. This is what I need.

His other hand skimmed down her stomach, fingers tracing the gentle curve of her belly, imagining it round with his child. The thought sent another bolt of heat through him—Erica carrying his babe, her body changing because of him, because of what they created together.

When his fingers reached the junction of her thighs, she instinctively parted them slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips that made his heart race with triumph.

Aye, that's it, love. I’ve longed for ye all day. Want me. Need me. As I need ye.

He began to stroke her through the thin fabric, and she responded beautifully—back arching, hips shifting toward his touch, another breathy sound that went straight to his manhood and made him strong for her.

This was his Erica, the passionate woman he'd discovered by the lake, the one who'd come apart in his arms with such sweet surrender.

I could take right now if ye let me. Fill ye with pleasure, make ye remember how good it is between us. Make ye forgive me for what I did wrong.

His hand moved lower, until he slipped two fingers into her soft, wet folds. She responded with a soft gasp that made his blood sing. He made to shift her so he could have deeper?—

But then she stiffened.

Her eyes snapped open, and in an instant, the spell was broken. She was pulling away from him, scrambling to the far edge of the bed as if his touch burned her.

"Dinnae," she whispered, and the rejection hit him like a physical blow. "Just... dinnae."

The fury that rose in him was swift and overwhelming. She'd been responding, damn her. Moaning for him, moving against him, wanting him. And then her stubborn mind had taken over and ruined everything.

"Why? " He muttered as he sat up, every muscle in his body tight with frustrated desire. "Ye respond to me touch, then pull away from me like I'm some kind of monster!"

Without waiting for her reply, he grabbed his clothes and stormed toward the door. If he stayed, he'd either say something unforgivable or do something they'd both regret—like pin her to that bed and make her admit how much she wanted him.

"Where are ye goin'?" Her voice was small in the darkness, almost lost.

"Away from here before I do somethin' we'll both regret," he snarled. He almost turned back to grab her and actually finish what they had started when she casually turned over to her side, giving him her back. Instead, he let the door close behind him.

By the time Lachlan entered the solar, he found the room cold and dark, but he didn't bother lighting more than a single candle. He poured himself a generous measure of dram and settled into his chair, his body still hard and aching from her touch.

Images flickered through his thoughts—Erica laughing when he'd tickled her feet, Erica melting into his kiss by the lake, Erica coming apart in his arms with such beautiful abandon. And then the way she'd looked tonight, eyes wide with disappointment.

Even if this was about that bastard Leo who hurt her, she told him she wasnae afraid of him.

The thought made his jaw clench with murderous rage. Even dead, that monster was still haunting his wife, still making her afraid of a man's touch. Even his touch.

But she wasnae afraid by the lake, or since. She wanted more, begged me for more. What's changed? Is she still angry about the way I responded when she reported what Duncan did?

He took another pull of dram, trying to sort through the tangle of his emotions. Desire, frustration, protectiveness, and underneath it all, something deeper and more dangerous.

Am I fallin' in love with her? The gods help me. Am I fallin' for me stubborn, impossible wife?

The council wanted an heir. The clan needed stability. But he... he needed her. All of her. Her laughter, her strength her passion, her trust. And he was starting to realize how important she was becoming.

He stood abruptly and hurled the glass into the cold fireplace, watching it shatter against the stone with savage satisfaction.

The dram was making his thoughts darker, more primitive. She was his wife. His woman. And by God, it was time she started acting like it .

Tomorrow I stop treatin' her like spun glass and start treatin' her like the strong woman she is. If she wants a fight, I'll give her one. If she wants honesty, I'll give her that too.