by Lisa Torquay
“She’s right,” Lachlan said.
“Why would he be afraid of men, if we are the ones dealing with him?” Fingal questioned, rugged features crumpled.
“I couldn’t tell,” she answered. “But that’s what I am observing.”
“Thinking of it, the horse was never easy with any of us,” Craig commented.
“Did any of you mistreat him?” she inquired, knowing they did not.
“Nobody mistreats any animal in this clan,” Fingal stated firmly.
“So someone must have done it before he came here,” she said.
The men did not counter her.
“What do you suggest we do?” the elder McKendrick asked, raking his hand through his hair.
“We will need to get him used to being around men without weariness.” It seemed clear for her.
“Yes, but how?” Lachlan asked.
“A treat in the morning, to start with,” she said. “He needs to realise not every man is a threat. Each of you should offer it to him in turn.”
“Sounds sensible,” agreed Craig.
“And then?” Fingal demanded.
“Training here with one of you at a time,” she added. “This cannot be rushed. We respect Fiadhaich’s own time.”
“The lass is an angel!” Lachlan cheered.
His brother turned a scowl at him. “If only…”
Catriona cast the blasted laird an annoyed look before she redirected her attention to the stallion. She stroked him, murmuring words of praise. She extended the last carrot from her skirt pocket to Fingal.
He stared down at her, then lower to the carrot. A big, square hand took it and offered it to the stallion. Flaring nostrils sniffed as he shook his mane, looked at the vegetable, then at her, returned to the treat, and finally took it into his mouth. But the horse turned away from Fingal at once. Well, not so bad for a start, she thought.
She praised the beast again and lifted her head to clash with Fingal’s scrutiny on her. Something sizzling washed over her entire body as she sustained his stare. A million messages passed between them, though none she might translate into words. She did not even try. After what felt like an eternity, he nodded his approval and twisted to leave the stockyard.
Next morning, Fingal reached the stockyard to find the Sassenach already there, like the previous day. He must own up to his surprise at her diligence and hard work. He had expected a prissy miss used to lounge in bed far into the day as they were wont to do in London. But no, the woman was nothing if not focused.
And the way she treated Fiadhaich threatened to endear her to him. The care and thoughtfulness in her attitude towards the poor beast were positive signs. The moment she mentioned what might be happening with the horse, he recognized the wisdom in her words. Fingal knew nothing of the stallion’s life before that auction, but its skittishness spoke for itself. He saw the solution she presented as sensible and coming from someone that not only had experience with horses but also loved them.
This he could understand. Since very early in life, he realized he possessed an affinity with horses and every other animal. He had always been aversive to hunting and, in time, convinced his father and brothers to leave the game on their lands in peace. He was in charge of the livestock in their manor and made sure every individual in the herds got treated with utter humanity. So he valued her tender approach to the stallion’s ordeals. Pure approval came from him in this regard, despite the lass’s clear, strong personality.
He stifled a scoff at the memory of the wine dripping from him. Her stubbornness and upstanding were remarkable even if he deemed it difficult to deal with them. Her name did not suit her, by the way, too missish—and too English, truth be told. She should have been named after an amazon, a goddess or a Viking she-warrior. He hid a guffaw…when had he ever thought of a woman in such romantic terms? An obvious proof that his mind was getting messed up hugely.
“An early riser, I can see,” he commented by way of greeting. “You don’t enjoy the big city’s late hours?”
Her head tilted in that elegant, lady-like manner of hers. “I used to go riding first thing,” she provided.
“Let’s go get the worm then,” he answered.
Minutes later, a stable hand brought Fiadhaich and vanished, leaving them alone.
“Alright,” she said. “I’ll start with the training and we’ll put you in the scene little by little, shall we?”
And so he stood by the fence watching her with his most expensive horse. Her hand, one belonging to a skilled amazon, stroked Fiadhaich’s nose in greeting to lead him into a canter in a loose rope, giving him a choice and freedom of movement. The horse’s shiny coat gleamed in the rising sun as he followed her lead docilely. With praise, she coaxed him into a trot, his black mane flying as he moved graceful.
But Fingal was not looking at the horse. His attention concentrated wholly on the woman. Without a hat, her midnight strands were in a knot and gleamed in the morning light. Her dark eyes were soft on her charge, and a luminous smile drew her lips when the stallion responded to her coaxing. He was mesmerized, like on the first day. The world could have crumbled all around him and he would not have noticed. He drank in her every step, every word, every stroke on the beast. The riding habit made a poem of her breasts and a temptation of her pert bottom. Fingal had not a chance of avoiding the carnal images the attire sprouted in his head. Molten and traitorous. Those images were doing things to him, particularly his lower abdomen.
“Mr McKendrick.” Her melodious call tore him from his reveries at the same time it did more serious things with his already precarious state of craving. “Come hold the rope with me.”
He took a moment to be able to suppress whatever had been happening to him and then jerked into action. Slowly, he neared the pair of them and closed his finger by hers on the rope. Fiadhaich faltered for just a second before she talked him into continuing.
The Sassenach kept the black beauty going as she and Fingal fell silent to allow him to get used to the proximity of a human male. For a long time, the training continued unaltered.
Morning mist gave way to the sun, the fresh air warmed, the greenery around brightened while the three of them merged in the moment, the stillness broken only by the hooves on the ground and the birds in the trees.
When the horse started giving signs of fatigue, Emily made him stop, fished a carrot from her pocket, and gave it to Fingal. Horses did prefer apples but the fruit would not be available until autumn. Fingal neared him and, this time, Fiadhaich did not hesitate before snatching it from the strong hand.
Emily stroked his thick neck in praise. He had not put distance from Fingal, which must have encouraged her to take the laird’s hand and place it over hers on the horse so that the animal would get used to the touch of a male. Fiadhaich did not move, tolerating the contact.
But when his callused palm touched her silky skin the world stopped. Everything stilled. Disappeared. Their joined hands glided over the shiny coat, their arms almost connecting on the journey they made up and down the equine neck. She could never be called short, but her head barely reached his jaw. He inhaled her feminine scent of lavender and woman, and it spread through his insides until he must close his eyes and let it run with his blood. He did not notice the half step he gave forward, but now he could feel the warmth of her. His long lashes lifted as his gaze fell on her profile, her head slightly bent towards him. He bent his towards her, and mere inches separated them. There was nothing on this planet he wanted more than to lace her tiny waist with his other arm, pull her to him and taste the smoothness of the skin on her nape with his lips. Taste all of her, caress everywhere, worship her with his entire body.
“Very well-done, my sweet boy.” And just like that, she broke the spell.
He paced backwards, letting his hand fall from hers before he sent everything to the blazes, carried her somewhere quiet, and gave unrestrained rein to his need.
A sigh came from her while her head f
ell to the horse, both hands on Fiadhaich as if she sought support. As if her knees were not capable of sustaining her. But she did not look at him, not once.
With no reason to remain there, Fingal strode to the gate and left the stockyard, not looking at her either.
Catriona had gone for a walk after the session with Fiadhaich. Having explored the woods and the grounds, she hoped to muster some calm, which did not happen. She called herself an idiot for walking right into it. What was she thinking, bringing his hand to cover hers? The second he touched her, a veritable lightning stormed through her insides. She had done it for the poor horse, and in the end, she was the one burned.
Undiluted yearning dominated her, her body going pliant, eager. The strength of will she needed to use not to lean on his steel frame almost broke her. The warmth of him, the scent of him; the moment their heads nearly connected made her so thirsty, so wanton. And she had stuttered that silly praise in a desperate attempt to tear away from whatever clamoured inside her.
Catriona did not have an exact idea of what went on between a man and a woman, but she acquired a notion because of the horses. Naturally, there were enormous differences. Nonetheless, she guessed the principle of males and females surely applied. The mechanics, at least. Coupled with what she had seen in museums and noblemen’s art collections, she believed she had the basics of the whole thing.
How naive…
What she experienced in the stockyard had been completely beyond her imagination. She was not equipped to deal with the force of this attraction. To a man whom she should never, ever hold any thought remotely indecent. He was out of question. Off limits. For every possible reason under the sun, including the risk to her reputation.
Her only hope rested on finishing this task as fast as she could and head back home. Post-haste. Or have the blasted laird muddle her life in ways she could not—preferred not to—fathom.
Horse hooves sounded on the grass. Lifting her head, she saw the devil himself approaching on a thoroughbred, luxuriant hair mussed by the wind, square jaw darkened with stubble, strong legs flanking the mount. The only thought that crossed her foggy head was that she wanted him to take her. Take her despite the consequences, regardless of respectability, propriety. Take her and ease this…this thing raging in her, demanding satisfaction, fulfilment.
She filled her lungs to full capacity, schooled her features, and waited. As he dismounted, her mind raced for something to say. But she lost her voice altogether. Everything died in her throat, because this near she saw him shirtless, with his tartan draped over one broad shoulder. The need to run her hands over the expanse of steel and power came so palpable it stung. Did he not know proper gentlemen always dressed adequately?
The overbearing man did not possess an ounce of gentlemanliness in him! And she could not care less. She had had enough of it in London for two lifetimes. Her eyes ate up the rugged beauty of him, unconsciously delighting in his half-dressed state.
If only I could pull that tartan off his waist, a malicious voice whispered in her.
The uncalled-for thought sent her into fits of—
“We seem to have got a breakthrough today,” he said in a rough voice as he strode to her but halted at a safe distance.
Better for him to keep far away, for he had no idea how close he might be from being ravished, she speculated with a pinch of self-mockery.
Though she hoped none of this showed on her face. “Tomorrow we try with Lachlan,” she blurted.
That chiselled face of his crumpled into a scowl. “Fiadhaich will train only with me!”
Her delicate brow pleated in confusion. “We agreed to get him familiar with the three of you.”
“I changed my mind.” He crossed his muscled arms, bunching his pectorals.
Her hands flew to her waist. “Why?”
“Don’t worry with the reason,” he commanded.
Her spine straightened. “I do worry. It is not good for your horse. It’s better if he becomes confident with those around him.”
“I’ll do that myself afterwards.” The rumble held finality to it. But she did not heed it.
“There must be a fundament for this sudden decision.” What she strove to hide was that quivering excitement mingled with fear for the fact that they would work alone all this time.
The prospect should be daunting at best. If she nearly melted to a puddle in one single morning, what strength would she need to resist him day after day after day? She would not, that’s the point. The presence of others might hinder her from doing anything crazy, risky or…delicious! Tremendously, sinfully delicious.
“It’s faster.” His two steps forward felt like ten, with his cinnamon eyes trained on her, their expression making her whole skin go alive.
The information took the wind from her sails. Faster, yes. Was it not what she had been musing just now? The shorter the time she stayed here, the safer she would be. Faster… The blasted laird wanted her gone as soon as it could be done. He did not want to be near her either. Of course not, you silly! He had signed a marriage agreement with her sister’s name on it.
“Oh, I see,” she managed in a small voice.
On the tail of that thought, another came rushing. He certainly did not live like a monk. She sensed this man’s appetites would be…healthy. He would have trysts before the actual tying of the knot—if he did not have one going right now. Probably even after it. Marriages of convenience were not particularly…monogamous. He was too powerful, too vital to tame. No, this laird did not hold the marriageable sign to his forehead. The woman who took him to husband would need to either be indifferent to him or keep in mind that he would stray.
Neither of which applied to her.
She would not be able to be anything less than conspicuously possessive where he was concerned. Jealous of the attentions he might bestow on others, zealous of what she would view as her territory. In short, this man spelt trouble. Utter, undiluted trouble. And sensible people kept away from any hint of complication. Only ‘sensible’ had nothing to do with her where he was concerned.
“No, you don’t.” Catriona struggled to realise he answered her comment. “I believe it’ll be less straining to Fiadhaich.”
His point of view seemed pertinent, she understood. Less people around the horse meant the poor beast would have more time to adjust to his new life.
“As you wish,” was the only reply that occurred to her.
His sculpted lips lifted on one side as he breathed a smirk. “If you knew what I wish, you would run to London without a backward glance.”
The taunt, delivered in a deep rumble, washed down her spine like boiling water, making every wrong spot light up in the most insidious way. The blush blooming on her cheeks had little or nothing to do with shame or indignation. Not even embarrassment.
The blasted laird!
Said laird did not give her time to reply, pivoting instead, to remount and ride away, leaving her to deal with the flames burning inside her.
CHAPTER FOUR
That so-called breakthrough did not appear to have produced any further development. Not a significant one, at least. Fingal looked at the black stallion, wondering if his most recent acquisition would ever become amenable to allowing a human to ride it. A week had slipped by without him or the impossible Sassenach breaking the stalemate. Fiadhaich accepted Fingal’s lead around the stockyard, his proximity, the treats, but no more than this.
Not that the mood was, say, easy-going between the humans. Tension had been mounting at high speed. Like the rack in a mediaeval torture chamber, Fingal felt his guts stretch tauter by the day.
And he had only himself to blame.
He must have been demented to decide only he be present in the training with the Sassenach. And for all the wrong reasons. His insides twisted at the mere thought of another man enjoying her company for the whole day. Worse, his feverish imagination pictured her and Lachlan flirting and touching. And he nearly went mad! Those two got al
ong so nicely, it would not take long for them…
Hell!
What did this have to do with anything? They possessed no marriage agreement to take in consideration. They could…
No, they would not if he had a say in the matter. If she was to be anyone’s, she would be his. Exclusively his!
She’s an English miss, you pig-headed Highlander! he berated himself. Probably due to marry a baronet or some other.
Over his dead body!
But the excruciating thought would not vanish.
“You’re pulling the rope too tight,” came her siren’s voice.
He had a dire impulse to stop everything, throw her over his shoulder, and…
His scowl came from his frustration. “I don’t think so,” he countered, but the straining thoughts in his head made his hand heavy.
“No?” she defied, and it felt like waving a red kerchief at a bull. “Look and see if you’re not.”
The bull in question wanted to stride to her and quench his desert-like thirst. Preferably between her…
Goddamn it! If he did not stanch these fantasies, his flesh would harden under the tartan. A fully visible tented wool would be an abominable idea.
Fingal pressed the rope in his palm to remain where he stood even as he gave more freedom to the stallion.
“How’s it going?” He turned to see his eldest brother leaning on the fence.
“Drostan.” Well…that got better and better. His brother never missed a thing. Not if it affected any of his family members.
The Sassenach tuned to the newcomer with a smile. Why did she smile to his brothers and not to him?
With a graceful curtsy, she said, “My Lord McKendrick.”
With laugher in his eyes, his brother answered, “Miss Paddington, I presume.”
“You presume right, my lord.”
Since he was a toddler, Fingal had registered no murderous thought towards any of his siblings. But for the first time in his life—scratch that, second time, if he counted the one toward Lachlan when he made her laugh—he must suppress one.