The Laird, the witch and Lock Ness

The door swung open. In walked a six-foot-six-inch muscular man, shirtless, dressed in a dark-green and black kilt.

He stopped and gazed at her with wide eyes. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” She eyed him with caution, inching herself along the wall.

“Disrespectful lass.” He tossed his long, curly, chocolate-brown hair away from his face as he shut the door.

“Arrogant jerk!” Lizzy muttered.

“Jerk?  What language do you speak? You are in my bedchamber, within my castle. I won’t allow such rudeness.”

“Well, you’re not my lord.” She moved towards the entrance. “And I’m leaving now.”

As she attempted to walk past the lord and out of the room, he grabbed her by the waist. “Not so fast.”

She swung her hand against his chest and tried to twist her body out of his hold. “Let go of me! I’ve to leave now.”

“Upon my honour, you’re a feisty one! You will stay here until you answer my questions.” He swung her over his shoulder and carried her toward the bed.

She screamed and thumped his back with her fists, but he was as hard as the monstrous Loch Ness. Worse, he was more difficult to get rid of, because of his hands and legs. He easily tied her to his bed with some cloths he found in a pile by the bed.

“Now, who are you?” He stared down at her in a thoroughly unsettling manner.

“I don’t have to tell you.”

He lowered his mouth and kissed her neck. “You smell good, like flowers,” He said, his voice growing thick.

“Let go of me.”

His mouth moved to the neckline of her T-shirt. “Where did you come by such strange clothing?”

You can continue reading at Prince Darcy's Private Eye.