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Authors: Julianne MacLean
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what they suspected.
It was difficult for Logan. He had a fierce and reckless fire in his blood that Darach had never been able to put out, no matter how hard he tried. Ever since that day on the battlefield at Sheriffmuir, fifteen years ago, Darach had suspected that his baby brother would always feel as if he had something to prove. It was no secret that he blamed Darach for everything, including how their lives had turned out.
Over the past two years, however—since the death of their father—it had gotten much worse. Logan had always imagined he would return to make amends and somehow win back their father’s approval, but that dream was snuffed out now. It was impossible to seek approval from the dead.
Sometimes Darach caught Logan staring absently toward the horizon, flexing and squeezing a fist while a muscle flicked hard at his jaw. In those moments, Darach knew exactly what he was thinking…where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do….
While all Darach wanted to do was forget the past and move on.
But ignoring the past wasn’t easy on this night when the daughter of their father’s killer slept across from him, her lush curves tempting and inviting beneath the tangled woolen blanket that had become wrapped around her shapely legs. Darach had felt a fierce and greedy lust for her from the first moment he saw her, helpless and unconscious in the woods, mere seconds before she rose up like a wild creature and struck him in the head.
She was brave and defiant, a sizzling spitfire, and perhaps that’s what continued to stir his passions more than anything. He’d never had much interest in shrinking violets, and she was nothing of that sort. Ever since he’d flipped her onto her back and felt the strain of her hips against his heavy loins, he’d been fighting to ignore his body’s desires and his intense awareness of her as a woman—even after he found out who she was. All day, the rise and fall of her ample bosom beneath that snug bodice had presented all sorts of stimulating diversions from the endless monotony of their journey. It was pure torture, because he had to remember that she was Fitzroy’s daughter and engaged to an English colonel—therefore as off-limits as any woman could possibly be.
Not to mention the fact that his brother Logan had scheming designs of his own that Darach needed to keep an eye on—and talk him out of—or else they could both end up as dead as a couple stones on the moor.
Chapter Ten
Larena woke the following morning to a low rumble of thunder in the distance and the scent of rain on the air. Sitting up with concern for the oncoming weather and how it might affect their travels, she noticed that Logan was still asleep in his bedroll. Darach, however, was nowhere to be found, and all his possessions were packed up and gone.
With a white-hot flash of alarm, she quickly rifled through her saddle bag. Relieved, she found the critical document still inside.
Rising to her feet, she glanced around the empty clearing, which looked remarkably different in the light of day. Logan stirred and sat up.
“Morning, lass,” he said blithely, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Moderately well, all things considered,” she replied, distracted by the fact that Darach was gone. “I’m a bit parched, though.”
“As am I.” Logan stood up and adjusted his kilt, then seemed to take notice of her distress. “Darach’s probably just gone to fetch some water from the creek,” he said. “It’s south a ways.”
“I see.” Making an effort to relax and wait patiently for Darach’s return, she glanced toward the thick grove of junipers where she’d found privacy the night before…and made off in that direction, but not before she picked up the saddle bag to take with her.
When she returned, she spotted Darach on his horse within the trees on the far side of the glade. Oddly, Logan was gripping the horse’s halter, holding him
It was difficult for Logan. He had a fierce and reckless fire in his blood that Darach had never been able to put out, no matter how hard he tried. Ever since that day on the battlefield at Sheriffmuir, fifteen years ago, Darach had suspected that his baby brother would always feel as if he had something to prove. It was no secret that he blamed Darach for everything, including how their lives had turned out.
Over the past two years, however—since the death of their father—it had gotten much worse. Logan had always imagined he would return to make amends and somehow win back their father’s approval, but that dream was snuffed out now. It was impossible to seek approval from the dead.
Sometimes Darach caught Logan staring absently toward the horizon, flexing and squeezing a fist while a muscle flicked hard at his jaw. In those moments, Darach knew exactly what he was thinking…where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do….
While all Darach wanted to do was forget the past and move on.
But ignoring the past wasn’t easy on this night when the daughter of their father’s killer slept across from him, her lush curves tempting and inviting beneath the tangled woolen blanket that had become wrapped around her shapely legs. Darach had felt a fierce and greedy lust for her from the first moment he saw her, helpless and unconscious in the woods, mere seconds before she rose up like a wild creature and struck him in the head.
She was brave and defiant, a sizzling spitfire, and perhaps that’s what continued to stir his passions more than anything. He’d never had much interest in shrinking violets, and she was nothing of that sort. Ever since he’d flipped her onto her back and felt the strain of her hips against his heavy loins, he’d been fighting to ignore his body’s desires and his intense awareness of her as a woman—even after he found out who she was. All day, the rise and fall of her ample bosom beneath that snug bodice had presented all sorts of stimulating diversions from the endless monotony of their journey. It was pure torture, because he had to remember that she was Fitzroy’s daughter and engaged to an English colonel—therefore as off-limits as any woman could possibly be.
Not to mention the fact that his brother Logan had scheming designs of his own that Darach needed to keep an eye on—and talk him out of—or else they could both end up as dead as a couple stones on the moor.
Chapter Ten
Larena woke the following morning to a low rumble of thunder in the distance and the scent of rain on the air. Sitting up with concern for the oncoming weather and how it might affect their travels, she noticed that Logan was still asleep in his bedroll. Darach, however, was nowhere to be found, and all his possessions were packed up and gone.
With a white-hot flash of alarm, she quickly rifled through her saddle bag. Relieved, she found the critical document still inside.
Rising to her feet, she glanced around the empty clearing, which looked remarkably different in the light of day. Logan stirred and sat up.
“Morning, lass,” he said blithely, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Moderately well, all things considered,” she replied, distracted by the fact that Darach was gone. “I’m a bit parched, though.”
“As am I.” Logan stood up and adjusted his kilt, then seemed to take notice of her distress. “Darach’s probably just gone to fetch some water from the creek,” he said. “It’s south a ways.”
“I see.” Making an effort to relax and wait patiently for Darach’s return, she glanced toward the thick grove of junipers where she’d found privacy the night before…and made off in that direction, but not before she picked up the saddle bag to take with her.
When she returned, she spotted Darach on his horse within the trees on the far side of the glade. Oddly, Logan was gripping the horse’s halter, holding him
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