Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots by Caro LaFever Page A
Authors: Caro LaFever
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and disgraced himself. Before he let himself dwell on that memory, he ran back into the forest, on another trail leading upward.
When he’d found running as an escape, in his late teens, he’d been worried about stumbling over some obstacle or making a fool of himself in front of others. He’d suffered until he’d bought his first treadmill and could run alone at home. So it surprised him how much he enjoyed the sun and open air. He didn’t mind swerving to skip a gnarled tree trunk, or stretching his gait to leap across a puddle of water.
His breathing escalated. The sweat streamed down his body. A body he appreciated now. A body that worked the way he wanted.
A body that could run outside. On his land.
He ran for over an hour, encountering no one, to his relief. He ran until his emotions had gone quiet, his brain calm.
Lorne ran until the familiar peace came.
Dropping his stride as he got to the end of the forest, he stopped cold at the first noise he’d heard other than the trill of a Scottish crossbill.
Singing.
Someone was singing. A female someone.
Edging down the path, he crept to the one last tree obstructing his view and peered around.
The womanwas singing.
She stood behind the old well that hadn’t been used in years. The circular well was positioned about ten feet from the cottage. His mum had loved to plant flowers around the circular stone and, as a kid, he’d joined her in patting the dark earth into place around the little stems. At the time, the cottage had been empty. His da had bordered it up to stop trespassers. Lorne had once pleaded for it to be opened so he could use it as a teenage hangout for himself and the few friends he’d had. But his da had been worried he might hurt himself with the fire or the old wood timbers and he’d said no.
Her voice rose, a pure, clear soprano that made his heart shiver in delight.
Which surprised him.
Music wasn’t something he paid attention to. It seemed to drive people into a frenzy of some kind of emotion or another. He’d never been interested in any of that.
She leaned on the stone well, her hair down for once, a black fall of darkness. It looked slightly damp, as if she’d just come from the shower.
The thought made his body tense.
The woman didn’t wear her usual baggy, nondescript clothes. Instead, she had on a simple robe, the white cotton wrapping around what he could see of her. The sunlight lazily highlighted her form beneath the garment.
The sweat from his run turned into another kind of sweat in one flat second.
She trilled one more strand of lyric.
He couldn’t make out the words. They were foreign. Probably Welsh. The trills she added to the ends of the words made the song sound exotic. Erotic.
His throat went dry.
She pushed herself off the well, and before he could move back, run far from this place, she slithered into full view.
The white cotton barely contained her lushness. Her breasts shifted under the cloth, making him think of low-hanging fruit ready to be plucked. Her waist curved into rounded, ripe hips. The cotton looked slightly damp, too, as if her skin had still been wet when she put on the robe.
His fingernails dug into the rough bark.
Her voice rose again, the music weaving its way around him, into his gut, into his soul.
Into his cock.
Eyes closed, she threw her head back as she finished the song. The last lingering vibrato strummed through him like she’d placed her fingers on his spine and traced the line of his bones down.
He swallowed. And stepped away.
The crack of a branch breaking under his foot cut through the air.
The woman’s eyes flew open and she looked right at him. Pinning him to the land of his ancestors with her dark, flashing eyes. The land she’d stolen and the land he aimed to get back.
“You.” Her arm rose and she pointed at him as if she were about to throw a spell on him or aim a poisoned dart into his heart. “What do you mean by spying on me?”
Chapter 9
H e
When he’d found running as an escape, in his late teens, he’d been worried about stumbling over some obstacle or making a fool of himself in front of others. He’d suffered until he’d bought his first treadmill and could run alone at home. So it surprised him how much he enjoyed the sun and open air. He didn’t mind swerving to skip a gnarled tree trunk, or stretching his gait to leap across a puddle of water.
His breathing escalated. The sweat streamed down his body. A body he appreciated now. A body that worked the way he wanted.
A body that could run outside. On his land.
He ran for over an hour, encountering no one, to his relief. He ran until his emotions had gone quiet, his brain calm.
Lorne ran until the familiar peace came.
Dropping his stride as he got to the end of the forest, he stopped cold at the first noise he’d heard other than the trill of a Scottish crossbill.
Singing.
Someone was singing. A female someone.
Edging down the path, he crept to the one last tree obstructing his view and peered around.
The womanwas singing.
She stood behind the old well that hadn’t been used in years. The circular well was positioned about ten feet from the cottage. His mum had loved to plant flowers around the circular stone and, as a kid, he’d joined her in patting the dark earth into place around the little stems. At the time, the cottage had been empty. His da had bordered it up to stop trespassers. Lorne had once pleaded for it to be opened so he could use it as a teenage hangout for himself and the few friends he’d had. But his da had been worried he might hurt himself with the fire or the old wood timbers and he’d said no.
Her voice rose, a pure, clear soprano that made his heart shiver in delight.
Which surprised him.
Music wasn’t something he paid attention to. It seemed to drive people into a frenzy of some kind of emotion or another. He’d never been interested in any of that.
She leaned on the stone well, her hair down for once, a black fall of darkness. It looked slightly damp, as if she’d just come from the shower.
The thought made his body tense.
The woman didn’t wear her usual baggy, nondescript clothes. Instead, she had on a simple robe, the white cotton wrapping around what he could see of her. The sunlight lazily highlighted her form beneath the garment.
The sweat from his run turned into another kind of sweat in one flat second.
She trilled one more strand of lyric.
He couldn’t make out the words. They were foreign. Probably Welsh. The trills she added to the ends of the words made the song sound exotic. Erotic.
His throat went dry.
She pushed herself off the well, and before he could move back, run far from this place, she slithered into full view.
The white cotton barely contained her lushness. Her breasts shifted under the cloth, making him think of low-hanging fruit ready to be plucked. Her waist curved into rounded, ripe hips. The cotton looked slightly damp, too, as if her skin had still been wet when she put on the robe.
His fingernails dug into the rough bark.
Her voice rose again, the music weaving its way around him, into his gut, into his soul.
Into his cock.
Eyes closed, she threw her head back as she finished the song. The last lingering vibrato strummed through him like she’d placed her fingers on his spine and traced the line of his bones down.
He swallowed. And stepped away.
The crack of a branch breaking under his foot cut through the air.
The woman’s eyes flew open and she looked right at him. Pinning him to the land of his ancestors with her dark, flashing eyes. The land she’d stolen and the land he aimed to get back.
“You.” Her arm rose and she pointed at him as if she were about to throw a spell on him or aim a poisoned dart into his heart. “What do you mean by spying on me?”
Chapter 9
H e
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