by Lisa Torquay
The elderly housekeeper, Mrs Thomson, showed her to a guest chamber on the second floor of the tower. The room looked recently decorated, but kept a somewhat mediaeval atmosphere with its round shape and diamond-shaped window. The velvet drapes, the polished fireplace, and the four-poster bed completed the decoration. The latter included a fluffy mattress and pillows, and the counterpane had a very feminine embroidery on it. Mrs Thomson told her to make herself at home and that she would bring a tray of tea before she left the room.
As soon as she was alone, Catriona crossed the room. A peer through the window got her sighing wistfully. Green woods with a lake in the distance, as clouds in the horizon gave a touch of movement to the scene. Catriona had missed this so much. Her land, her country. How did she stay away for so long? Why did she not insist on more trips here? Because of that, few people would recognise her in the Highlands, this being the reason Laird Fingal did not. Her absence spoke of unrooting. Her parents were allowing her and Anna to forget their traditions and their origins. It felt sad, and it made Catriona pensive to realise she would marry an English lord and remain away from everything that defined her—everything she loved so deeply. She tore herself away from the view before tears pricked her eyes. No use bringing this about now. The opportunity to enjoy this summer in her homeland presented itself, and she would make the most of it.
Mrs Thomson entered with the tea and said dinner would be served in the main room. While she took her tea, she wrote to her mother.
Footmen brought the one trunk she carried for this trip into her chambers early in the afternoon. Presumably, dinner would be in the company of the manor’s owner, the impossible god, which would require her to dress accordingly. She was happy that she usually chose discreet and refined but muted apparels. The one in a celestial blue shimmering silk with a discreet neckline seemed proper. No need of a maid either as her clothing could slide on with ease.
The prospect of spending the evening with the man who would become her brother-in-law caused her insides to quiver a little bit without plain reason, though denying it would be a deplorable case of self-delusion. If there was one thing Catriona did not suffer from, it was self-delusion.
Taking a deep breath, she descended the round stairs and ambled ramrod straight to the main room. As she entered it, her heart somersaulted. Fingal stood there, a glass of wine in his big square hand, his hawkish profile cut against the fire in the fireplace, his gaze on the cool twilight outside the window panes.
Catriona had imagined, hoped—even concluded—that the initial impression he made on her was erroneous somehow. How irksome to find out she had been wrong. Irrevocably, dishearteningly wrong. His tall, broad frame was clad in a pristine shirt with a green, black, and white tartan wrapped around him, making him look like a warrior of old. A hot flush ran over her, followed by an icy one. She was not supposed to eye him with anything but that kind of casual familiarity one reserved for their in-laws. Tearing her eager gawk from him, she looked anywhere else, only vaguely noticing the renovated, comfortable furniture placed carefully around her.
“Mr McKendrick.” She made her presence known, training her eyes somewhere over his bunched shoulder.
He pivoted to her and cannoned her with a stare that seemed to see exclusively her. “Miss Paddington,” the deep rumble greeted.
Weak, earthly creature that she pitifully was, she directed a glance at him, defeating her determination not to succumb. And nearly melted at the sight of damp, luxuriant dark-brown hair, the shadow of an evening stubble on tanned skin, transforming him from warrior to pirate, to outlaw, a bandit, a burglar of her composure and strength of will.
The concept she had formed of herself had been of a woman unaffected by male attraction. Up to this moment, no member of the opposite sex had ever caught her…not attention, that word did not begin to describe it…her breath, yes breath; her lungs burned from lack of air. And she did not appear capable of drawing air in any time soon. No English lord had ever done anything for her, not so far.
It had taken one week travelling through precarious roads, from a longing to revisit her birthplace, for a highlander to overcome such a false assumption. And the most inappropriate highlander, in the most inappropriate manner.
“Mrs Thomson said I should attend dinner,” she blurted, her brain too dysfunctional for anything else.
His glare sauntered down her silhouette and before starting back up again, lingering on the swell of her breasts and her mouth before snagging back at her. It felt like an unbridled caress, sowing goose-bumps on every inch of her skin.
“It’s about to be served,” he assured her.
If these first minutes were a sample of what dinner would be like, it might be wise to retrace her steps. For the life of her, though, she would not act coward.
“Allow me,” he continued, motioning to one of the set places on a long table sitting to one side of the hearth.
In three large strides he neared to help her to a chair, and Catriona captured a faint scent of him, green woods and a touch of horse mingled with another subtle essence that made her want to press her nose to his taut muscles to inhale deeper. As she took her seat, he pushed her chair closer to the table from behind her. His breath fanned the nape of her neck, the sensation reflecting directly on her plucked breasts. The novelty of it did not diminish its intensity, and she took a few seconds to suppress it.
In economical movements, he moved to the other side of the table and sat across from her. Her gaze snagged to the candelabra with flickering candles because darting it to him would be disastrous.
The silence thickened with all the things unsaid, unsayable; she strove to break it. “It is a charming house you have here.” Neutral territory, and the safest.
His stance showed he understood what she was doing. “It sat in shambles until a year ago, when my brother assigned it to me.” A footman came to serve the wine. “The refurbishing started then.”
She took a sip of the excellent Burgundy. “With remarkable success, I must say.” In between the lines it became clear the McKendrick gave him a place where he could house his future wife. Her sister, she reminded herself doggedly.
“This used to be the McKendrick dwelling before my grand-father built the newer one.” His focus trained on where the glass touched her lips. They tingled from his gaze.
“You have a big family, I understand.” She helped herself to the first course, though her hunger had disappeared. The hunger for food, that is, as for other types…
“Two brothers, one sister, and the next generation is already coming.” He lowered his head to his food, giving her the opportunity to appreciate him.
To be frank, she preferred him without the shirt, like the lairds who came before him. The broad expanse of his pectorals would not leave her memory in haste. And the nipple. Dear me, would she not let it go? The dusky skin planted amidst the dark hair had her hands itching to test its texture. Naturally, it proved to be much less risky with him all covered up in his flawless tartan and shirt.
“Nieces and nephews, I presume.” She dabbed her lips with the napkin, which was promptly followed by his focus.
“Two nephews and one niece,” he provided. Catriona had heard Aileen, his sister, had a son, Rory; and Drostan had Ewan and recently, Sorcha.
Fingal sat there feeding this inane conversation, struggling not to burst from his chair and do something about this rising heat that threatened to explode any minute. When the glass or the napkin touched her lush lips, indecent thoughts crossed his uncensored mind. The impossibility of following the impulse built inside him.
Nothing in her composure suggested the least inappropriate action. The fashionable blue of her dress might be labelled diluted, the neckline came just three inches below her collarbone, the sleeves reached her elbows, and her midnight hair was in a simple bun. But all of this added to his torture, for he imagined himself yanking the dress away, scattering the pins from her hair to reveal her dramatic beauty and the w
oman behind her sheer armour.
“Enough of me,” he declared. “Tell me about you.”
Her head tilted gracefully. “Parents alive, one sister.”
“That was a succinct description,” he mocked.
”There’s not much to say, I should admit.” She did not drink a lot of her wine, but he felt her thumb caressing the crystal glass as if it were right on him.
“It’s clear you come from a family of means,” he added. Her manners and clothing made that an understatement.
“My father owns land,” she summarised as her long lashes veiled her eyes.
This reluctance to disclose her background got him intrigued. Another piece of information flashed in his memory. The return address on her letter had been a postal box. Too mysterious for his taste.
“You earn your living with horse-whispering,” he probed. Though she surely did not need the money. What would a Sassenach lady be doing in the confines of the Highlands? he wondered.
“When the opportunity arises.” Again, she lowered her face to her plate.
He did not like her evasiveness one bit. She came from London because the stamp indicated as much. More than that? Difficult to fathom.
“Not an open book, I see,” he provoked.
Her brilliant dark eyes clasped on him and the contents of his brain almost vanished. “It’s just that there’s nothing unusual about me, not many things to talk about,” she emphasised, but he did not count himself reassured.
Nothing unusual about her? A young—presumably single—lady, traveling alone to this place, no maid, no chaperone, no one answering for her. What if it was revealed that she’s a fallen woman running from a mistake?
“Going from property to property to aid horses must make for a nomadic life.” His insistence would never be called polite, but who said he was a gentleman anyway? Far from it—and he was unwilling to fix the issue.
Her irises focused on him, sharp intelligence showing in them. “I do not do it so often.” The sip she took from her wine had an awkward drop to it.
“Many occasions to collect…adventures, perhaps.” His needling came from the desire to know who this intriguing woman really was.
Her whole posture turned rigid as she cast him a furious look. “What do you mean by that?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. He used to be nothing if not blunt in every dealing. There was no reason not to be so at this instant. “That you seem to be a worldly woman.” Fingal did not mean this in a positive way, and he did not care if his taunting rang presumptuous. He had met the chit mere hours ago, and she meddled with his lucidity without even trying. Which may explain—but not justify—the unpleasant comment.
Quick as a feline, she sprang up from her screeching chair, grabbed her glass and dumped its contents on him. “You will treat me with respect!” Even faster, she darted to the closed door, delicate hand wrapping on the door knob.
Red liquid dripped down his chiselled face but he paid no heed, still sprawled in his chair as if nothing abnormal had happened. “Sassenach,” he called silkily. After such an elegant meal, there remained no point in keeping with formal addressing.
The haughty miss froze without turning to him, waiting for what he would say.
“It should have been icy water, aimed a little lower,” he said to her straight spine.
“That can be arranged.” She yanked the door open and left, head held high.
CHAPTER THREE
Draped in a serviceable riding habit, Catriona stood by the stockyard fence in the grey mists of dawn. The attire would already give her more freedom of movements with its wide skirts. But she also ordered these garments not to have the dragging skirts as demanded by London fashion. Too long skirts might be dangerous for the rider and the horse, so she had them made to the exact length of her legs. Like this, she gained freedom of movement and safety.
Her sleep had been heavy and dreamless courtesy of the long trip to the manor. Up, dressed, and gifting Debranua a carrot in the stable did not dispel her fuming temper. She had spent several minutes with her mare, checking if she received her due food and care. It had not been enough to dampen said temper.
The blasted laird and his insinuations were the first thing to come to her mind upon awaking. Granted, she had been rather monosyllabic in her answers to his intrusive questions. She stuck as close as possible to honesty, but saying too much would make a liar of her. And this she did not want. Curt replies had been her solution. His prying made her nervous. If he discovered who she was, not only would he send her home, but it also might deflagrate a clan situation. An unwelcome development in these circumstances. The McTavish were not so well connected as the McKendrick, but her clan still held their weight over the power balance in the Highlands. Catriona travelled here out of her need to see her country again. She could not afford to cause a row among the lairds, and she would not.
Her laconic rejoinders the previous evening had clearly led the blasted laird to misleading conclusions. Which, in turn, had driven her mad. She would not accept that arrogant behaviour even if it incited a raging war. It had been indescribably satisfying to see the rugged giant dribbling with wine from his hairline to his square jaw! Oh yes. Even if he had looked at her with those hypnotic eyes without an ounce of shame. He provoked her, she snapped, full stop. No regrets, no prisoners taken.
“A fairy of the woods gracing us mortals with her presence,” someone said behind her.
Turning, she saw a tall young man walking towards her with a smile. “Good morning.” She returned his smile.
“Lachlan McKendrick at your service,” he said before bowing.
“Emily Paddington.” She curtsied. He must be one of Fingal’s siblings for the obvious similarity.
“The horse-whisperer everyone is talking about?”
“I don’t know if anyone is talking about me, but, yes, I am here in this capacity.”
“They say you reduced Fiadhaich to a purring kitten.”
Catriona breathed a laugh. “He may need a gentle hand, that’s all.”
“Beautiful and modest? I am in love!” He placed his hand over his heart playfully. Another laugh bubbled in her.
“Lachlan,” a hard voice called, “you promised to help, not to while away with chit chat.”
The deep commanding rumble set Catriona’s pulse to a skitter. She pivoted to watch the blasted laird glowering at his younger brother. When his attention found her, a wave of warmth bloomed from the inside and tinted her cheeks.
“I was just making the lass’s acquaintance,” he said with a mischievous glint.
“If you are done, please go to the stables and call Craig.” He seemed none too happy at the sight of Catriona and Lachlan laughing together.
“Yes, my liege lord!” Lachlan mocked and headed there.
Only then did the blasted laird deign to acknowledge her. “Sassenach.”
“Good morning, Mr McKendrick.” She looked directly at him, unmoving face, and both engaged in a silent duel for several seconds.
“Call me Laird Fingal,” he ordained.
The overbearing scoundrel! “Yes, Mr McKendrick,” she insisted with a saccharine smile.
“Stubborn lass!” he said under his breath.
Craig and Lachlan approached, cutting their humourless exchange. In tow, they brought Fiadhaich. They led him inside the fenced space, followed by Catriona and Fingal.
The stockyard had a round shape, stretching in a diameter of at least ten yards with a dusty ground and an adjoining shed to keep gear at hand. The perfect place to train a horse, it boasted high fences for safety reasons.
“It would be best if the lass took him on a trot,” the stable master suggested.
Catriona approached the stallion and caressed his neck, whispering to him as she held the rope tied loosely around his neck so he could be led around the enclosed space. She coaxed the animal to move, and the stallion paced without complaint while the men stood on the sides. She kept the horse in tra
ining for a long, uneventful time. For a moment, she imagined Fiadhaich did not need help at all. That is, not until Lachlan moved nearer. At that point the horse halted and nickered, moving its legs restlessly. She thought it weird but said nothing.
“Might I try?” the younger McKendrick asked.
“Be my guest,” she replied and handed him the rope.
Fiadhaich jerked his head and did not move as Lachlan pulled the rope. The young man insisted, and only then did the horse go on a reluctant canter.
“I don’t blame him for preferring the lasses,” Lachlan jested, holding the rope while following the trot with attention.
But the blue-blood equine would not go into a canter. Lachlan tried for several minutes without success.
Fingal stepped forward. “Let’s see if I can do it.” His brother gave him the lead and he pulled. With that deep voice of his, he called and coaxed but did not convince the horse to do anything other than a canter.
Catriona drank in his tall frame and the gentle way he treated the animal, not once shouting or losing his patience. No wonder his horseflesh was so famous since the animals received good treatment and were in all probability happy. It caused her admiration.
Fingal stopped and paced to the horse. Fiadhaich became restless, nickering loudly, stamping his front hooves, and jerking his head.
Thinking of yesterday’s episode, Catriona ventured, “I think he is weary of men.” All three men looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “Every time one of you goes near him, he becomes nervous,” she defended.