A Hellion for the Highlander

How many bannocks an’ sweet buns have I confiscated from this wee hidey-hole? An’ now look at me!

Suddenly, the stable was much darker, the only light now from the few dusty windows as the door shut with a loud bang.

Cicilia stood, the book clutched to her chest, and spun around. Her heart was hammering, and her mind was racing, considering the tools around her and how she could use them as weapons if need be.

Then she saw Alexander, watching her like a bird of prey, propped against the wall next to the door. He wore the most devilish smirk on his face as he said, “Why, good morrow to ye, Cicilia. What’s that ye’ve got?”

“Some light reading,” Cicilia replied. He didn’t need to know how her chest pounded, or that it wasn’t in fear. “What in God’s name are ye doin’ in me stables at this time?”

Alexander nodded to the side, where the filly was now drinking some water. In the stall beside her, the other Cob still slept. “I came to see Ailill an’ Aibreann. I love me horses, ye ken.”

Slowly, deliberately, he took a step forward.

“Oh,” Cicilia replied faintly, stepping back. She wasn’t afraid, not really. She hadn’t known him for long, but she knew there was no way that Alexander would hurt her. She could quickly get past him, but she couldn’t stop staring as he approached.

His eyes were bright, bright enough that even in the stable’s dim light, she could see the mischievous gleam they held. What was he thinking? Did he intend to take the book? Could she fight him?

Do I want to fight him?

And then suddenly he was too close, and Cicilia darted like a rabbit, heading for the door. She was fast, but Alexander was taller and had a much longer reach, and he caught her arm with no issue, stopping her in her tracks. He didn’t pull hard, but her body was drawn to him anyway, and now she stood before him, staring up into his eyes, clutching the book tight.

Now, with him towering over her like this, she could not help but feel a little nervous. It must have shown in her eyes, because Alexander’s smirk dropped instantly and he let go of her arm, even stepping back a little.

“Cicilia,” he said smoothly. “Why nae just give me the book? Will it nae make everythin’ better for everyone?”

“Make everythin’ better for ye, ye mean,” Cicilia retorted, trying not to look at the way the morning shadow highlighted the sharpness of his jaw. “I think ye’ll find we’re quite fine as we are.”

“Fine as ye are, are ye? Nae lettin’ yerself grieve for yer faither, pretendin’ to be a man on yer documents?” Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow. He stepped forward again, though not so close. She could feel the heat radiating from him, drawing her closer. “Is this really what ye want to be doin’ wi’ yer life, Cicilia? Do ye want to be hidin’ who ye are, playin’ a game o’ pretend forever?”

“Did ye want to be a Laird?” she snapped. She wasn’t really angry, but bickering would help clear her head more than noticing every angle of his face, every curve of muscle under his thin shirt. “Did ye want to be hidin’ yerself from the people like ye do? Seems to me ye ended up in yer own position much the same way I ended up in mine.”

Alexander’s expression didn’t flinch. “Aye, that may be so,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I dinnae need to bury mine in deception.”

“Aye?” she scoffed. “An’ tell me, Laird, what are all yer finely pressed shirts an’ immaculate kilts if they’re nae a sign of deceit?” Alexander looked surprised, and Cicilia continued. “Dinnae look at me like that. Just because ye’re nae outright lyin’ in yer words doesn’ae mean ye are nae lyin’.”

Alexander actually chuckled. “Quite the wit ye have there, Miss O’Donnel. More than ye’d expect from yer average farm girl.”

She knew he was teasing her, but it irritated her nonetheless. “An’ quite the teasin’ attitude ye’ve got there, Laird. Nae what ye’d expect from yer average pampered rich lad.”

His deep gaze was burning into hers now, the fullness of his lips and sharpness of his cheekbones highlighted more as the sun rose further. And he stepped closer once more, enough that he was close enough that, if she wished, she could simply put out a hand and touch…

Her hands slackened on the book, and that was when he pounced. He dived for it, giving her no time to escape—but she was ready for him, clinging to it with her fingertips as she tried to move out of the way.

Unfortunately for them both, Alexander had underestimated the difference in their weights and sizes, and his lunge sent them both toppling to the floor. The book skittered out of Cicilia’s hands and out of sight, but in this position, it was all but forgotten.

He was on top of her on the stable floor once more, his hands on the ground just next to her rhythmically rising breasts, his knees between her parted thighs. Her arms had shot out to stop him, and now they hovered just above his shoulders, her fingertips brushing an errant strand of his hair.

It’s soft. Softer than I would o’ thought a man’s hair could be.

“Ye’ve got me on the hay again, Laird,” she said, wondering at how thin her voice sounded, how light and girlish. “An’ I’m in yer power. What’ll ye do wi’ me now?”

She saw him gulp, saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as it bounced in his throat. His face was close enough that she could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, and the dilation of his pupils. “I dinnae ken what ye mean,” he said back. His own voice was different, too, a low, deep rumble that came from deep in his chest.

Did he feel the draw between their bodies? Did he feel how she ached to bring them together? Did he want that, too?

“Ye dinnae?” she asked doubtfully. She was unable to resist a slight tease, it was in her nature. “The great Laird o’ Gallagher cannae even dream o’ what to do wi’ a pretty lass he’s got pinned in the stable? I have to tell ye, Laird, every uneducated stable lad an’ milkmaid has worked out as much.”

It was a bluff, of course. Cicilia herself had no experience in such matters. She would not know what to do with a man if she had one. And yet, with Alexander here, their bodies so close…