by Lisa Torquay
“I heard you’re working magic around here,” Drostan said.
A pretty blush tinted her satin cheeks. “Thank you, my lord. But we’re just trying to respect Fiadhaich’s pace.” The perfect, demure English lady. Perfect, demure, and infuriating.
A random thought crossed Fingal’s mind. She pronounced the horse’s Gaelic name with flawless accuracy, as if she was born speaking it. The lass heard him say it several times; maybe she had a good ear for languages.
“Sensible lass,” his brother praised.
“Now that you got the report on our progress, you can go back to your wife and children.” Fingal did not care that his words rang unpleasant.
The Sassenach’s dark eyes shot daggers at him. Drostan looked at him, turned and looked at her, then back at him, a question in his eyes.
Bluidy hell!
Drostan crumpled his brows at the younger man. “What’s the matter?” he asked in Gaelic.
“Nothing,” Fingal answered in the same language.
“Is she doing something wrong?” the laird insisted.
“No. She’s very skilled with the horse.”
“But you don’t like her.”
Fingal raked his hand through his hair. “I’ve known her for too little time to like or dislike her.”
“Lachlan seems to have developed a case of worship for the lass,” Drostan taunted.
The furious look on Fingal did not escape his brother. “Lachlan is a Casanova.”
“Hm,” came Drostan’s grunt. “Invite her for dinner at the main manor in a day or two.”
The main manor had been built a half mile from the old one. The fact that Fingal’s assigned home lay close to the stables counted as an advantage for the McKendrick who took charge of the clan’s livestock.
“Fine,” devolved Fingal.
In English, the McKendrick addressed the lass. “Miss Paddington.” He bowed slightly and turned to leave.
“What did he say?” the Sassenach asked.
“He wants us to go for dinner sometime this week,” Fingal summarised.
“That’ll be nice,” she agreed.
Catriona alit from the carriage Fingal insisted on using for such a short distance and lifted her head to the building before her. If anyone held any doubt as to the standing of the McKendrick clan, this manor house would clearly indicate their elevated position in the Highlands.
Built soon after Culloden, architecture made full justice to the place. It fascinated Catriona at first glance. She had never been here. Although she took part in the festivals and social life of the Highlands as a girl, they all took place in the open fields. Too young to accompany her parents to more formal functions, she had visited few houses.
One of the most beautiful women she had ever met surged through the massive entrance door to greet them. Her auburn hair was coiled in an elaborate bun, and hazel eyes smiled at them.
“Fingal,” she greeted. And turning to her, “And you must be Emily.”
“Yes, my lady.” Catriona curtsied.
“Please, call me Freya.” The Lady McKendrick extended her hands to her.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Freya.” Catriona remembered the lady vaguely from those festivals, and wondered if the other woman would recognise her. However, the woman gave no signs of having done so.
They were shown to a cosy drawing room where the other McKendrick men already waited for them.
“Here’s my lucky brother with the sweet Miss Paddington,” Lachlan greeted.
“Hello, Lachlan.” She smiled at him.
“Come meet my father, Wallace McKendrick.” The young man motioned to her.
Her eyes found the oldest man in the room and she crossed it to near him. The McKendrick tartan looked solemn on him, but he held an affable stance.
“Lord McKendrick.” She curtsied. She did remember him from when he was much younger, but the boys had already been chasing skirts and she had met none of them formally.
The elderly McKendrick had retired from his duties as the clan chief a few years ago when his eldest son took over the clan.
“Lass,” the elderly man greeted. He still spoke with the heavily-accented English of someone accustomed to speaking Gaelic.
Suddenly, she wished she could speak in that language with Fingal’s father. It had been a tad difficult to refrain from participating in the conversation between Fingal and Drostan the other morning. She so missed these small daily life uses from her home country. But she would not risk revealing her identity. Moreover, they spoke about her, which made her want to smack Fingal even more after he said those rude words to his own brother. But she had settled to asking what their conversation had been about to divert from her angry thoughts.
A boy of about six, the very duplicate of the McKendrick, burst through the door. “Mama, can you read a story for me?” he said in a loud voice, and froze, looking at the stranger in the room.
Moments passed before he paced to Catriona, looking up at her. “Hello, I am Emily,” Catriona said, smiling.
The boy bowed dutifully. “Ewan McKendrick.”
“A pleasure, Master McKendrick,” she answered.
But Ewan continued to stare. “You’re pretty,” he said in that child’s innocent tone.
“The shameless brat!” Fingal interposed.
“Took after his irresistible uncle, no doubt,” Lachlan jested for everyone’s amusement.
Catriona smiled at the boy. “Thank you so much.”
At that moment, a nurse came in carrying a toddler girl of about one. Drostan promptly took his daughter in his arms.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the nanny apologised.
“It’s fine, Bess.” And to her son, “We have guests for dinner, Ewan. Can we leave the story for tomorrow?” Her voice was calm and full of maternal love.
“Papa can come, then,” Ewan tried.
“Not tonight, I’m afraid, mo bhalach, my son,” Drostan answered as he delicately took out a pin from Sorcha’s mouth, which she had picked from his tartan. The nanny came to his aid.
“Time to prepare for bed,” his mother said. “Say good night to our guests, my love.”
“Yes, mama,” the McKendrick heir said, none too glad. “Good night.” And he followed Bess out of the drawing room.
Baxter, the butler, came to announce dinner was ready.
Quick, Lachlan came to offer Catriona his arm. “Allow me,” he invited gallantly. Catriona took it, not paying heed to Fingal’s scowl.
Drostan neared his wife as they exchanged an intimate gaze and put her arm on his. Catriona warmed to them and to the clearly happy family life they shared.
Around a long table, the family sat in convivial atmosphere, enjoying the typical Highlander fare, which Catriona relished.
“How is it you became a horse whisperer?” Lady Freya asked Catriona.
“I did not so much become one. It just happened,” she answered, helping herself to the second course.
So far, the atmosphere had been pleasant, with conversation going from the unusually warm weather to the manor’s summer chores.
“You’ve been around horses for long, I gather.” The Lady took a sip of wine.
Catriona drew a wistful smile. “Indeed. I’ve always been fond of them.”
“Like Fingal,” Wallace contributed. “He wouldn’t leave the stables since he got his first pony.”
“Together with Aileen, who followed him everywhere,” supplied Lachlan.
“Any news from her?” Fingal inquired, seemingly eager to divert the conversation from his person.
“She’s due to visit with Taran and Rory in a few weeks,” Drostan informed.
“Do they live far from here?” Catriona asked, but she knew the McDougal’s land did not lie so far.
“A day’s ride,” Freya said.
“Your father’s got land too, I hear.” Wallace, this time.
“He does,” she replied.
“Near London?”
> Catriona’s heart ran wild as she got on guard. “More to the north,” she said vaguely, her spine tautened by tension. It was normal that others wanted to know about the people they allowed into their homes, only she could not disclose everything about her life. She sought for something to divert from this line of conversation. “I have not tried the famous McKendrick whisky yet,” she commented.
“Not only famous, but also the best,” boasted Drostan. And luckily for Catriona, the subject veered to the intricacies of the beverage’s production.
Fingal sat across from Emily in the carriage after they left the main manor. The infuriating woman charmed his whole family, showing an interest in their work and being affable to the children. She remained stubbornly reserved, though, which made him more intrigued by the day.
“Still unwilling to answer personal questions, are you?” he drawled, making her jerk her head to him.
“I am here to complete a task, not to display my life to anyone.” Firmness showed in her voice and in her eyes.
“People are bound to seek better acquaintance with each other.”
“I have the right to my privacy, regardless.” She crossed her arms, straight spine, as her posture defied him to go any further.
He would be damned if he would retreat from any lass, much less a Sassenach one. And especially because provoking her excited him to no end. “I am beginning to believe you got in trouble in London, and you are here hiding until things clear out there.”
A quizzical look came to her perfect countenance. Then she laughed, laughed in the very face of him. “How typical, Mr McKendrick!” Her mirth disappeared. “A woman has no right to be on her own and have independence, does she?”
Fingal refused to be ashamed by his own attitude. He had this need to know who she was, and he did not question it. He should, for the answer might veritably keel him. “Are you betrothed? Married? Widowed?”
A certain air of discomfort passed over her features, gone before he could read it better. “It’s none of your business!” she replied hotly. “I do not need a man by my side in order to receive my due respect.”
Stubborn lass, she gave no quarter, damn her! “You might not need a man, but what if you want one?” He would be that man. He wanted it—her. And it was becoming more and more difficult to wall up his desire. All he craved was to pounce on her and drown in the delights they could create together.
Her satiny cheeks tinted deep rose at his taunting. Ungentlemanly as it was, he got smug at her reaction.
“That man will certainly not be you!” she vented with a fiery gaze.
In the dim carriage, his heated eyes jaunted down her impeccable dress, the swell of her appetising breasts, the curve of her hips; and all the way up to her mouth-watering lips as her colour deepened. “Pity…” he mumbled.
“Deal with it,” she quipped, meaning she would never yearn for him.
“Pity it’s a lie,” he completed, only to gain an infuriated glare from her.
“What an arrogant piece of work!” Her voice alone could kill a lesser man but merely managed to burn fierce in Fingal’s blood.
Though his insides clamoured for her, irksome as it was, he made himself chuckle. “No complaints so far.” The boast aimed at disguising his threadbare control about to snap at any moment now.
Thinking on it, it had been several weeks he was last with a woman. The local pub serving lass came more than willingly to his bed. Or else, they used her own cot above the pub, for convenience’s sake. The tryst ended a few weeks ago on its own. Perhaps his…friend down there needed company. Said friend acquired a notorious enthusiasm for a certain very inappropriate lass, anyway, which made Fingal realise he—and the demanding friend—hungered for none other.
Bluidy hell!
The carriage lurched to a stop, interrupting their exchange, together with his unbidden thoughts.
No complaints so far.
Catriona remembered the quip, furious as she trudged towards the stockyard the next morning. Of course not! The deuced giant had the size of a god, the face of a fallen angel, the voice of a tenor. And the insidious tendency to make her hot with a single glance from those cinnamon orbs.
She wished fervently that the Arab beauty responded faster to the training. The whole thing was getting out of hand dangerously. Desperately.
Cramped in a carriage with the blasted laird had made nothing easy. The banter merely served to pull her even more to him. His renewed prying had been unnerving, but not so much as his proximity with the scent of green woods and man and his open scrutiny. Her replies snapped simply because her defences focused entirely on avoiding the scorching effect he bludgeoned on her. If she were not who she was, perhaps she might allow herself to let her yearning run free. But she had duties to her family, not to mention the role he would undertake in not so distant a future.
Hours later, under a hot sun, Fingal and Catriona stood in the fenced space, stuck in the same training routine with Fiadhaich. If she did not have this persistent streak in her, she would begin to lose heart. But it seemed too early for that.
“Maybe we should try something new,” she ventured.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
They did not interact the whole time. They had gone through the routine with the horse, speaking little and looking each other in the eye even less. There appeared to be an unspoken agreement to keep their distance.
“I’d like to put a blanket on him to see how he takes it.” It was the first thing to put on a horse before the saddle.
“About time, I suppose,” he agreed and dashed to the adjoining shed.
Emerging with it, he walked to the Arab stallion. Trouble was, with the heat of the sun, he had taken off his shirt and had his tartan thrown over one shoulder. The sight of his taut muscles nearly undid her. Why did the man have to go half-naked around her? The effort not to gape and gawk was difficult while trying to tear her eyes from him.
“Better if I do it first,” Catriona suggested.
Fingal handed the item to her and stepped aside.
Catriona spoke softly with the animal as she neared him and lifted her arms to place the blanket on his back. She had not finished doing it when, fast as the wind, Fiadhaich reared, knocking her to the ground. Her back hit the dusty surface, and she froze in surprise.
“No!” Fingal reacted promptly to grab the rope and limit the horse’s radius of movement.
Rope tied to the fence, he rushed to Catriona. “Are you all right?” His features crumpled with anger and worry.
Apart from her pride, the fall did nothing to her physically. “I’m fine,” she reassured him, though her buttocks felt a tad sore.
But the man had already bent to pick her up. “What are you doing?” her question came with a ludicrous ring to it.
“Taking you to the manor to check if everything is in place.” It came out as an order.
“But I don’t need—” Then he lifted her with his powerful arms and her body collided with his. She lost her voice and the ability to articulate any words.
Breath caught in her throat; heat spread all over her. To keep her balance, her hand went to hold his shoulder. The naked shoulder. The contact was a veritable collision. Her fingers registered smooth, warm skin and bunched muscles, while her nostrils took in the scent of him. It undermined her clear thought.
The manor stood about a hundred yards up a small hill. He marched as if she weighed like a plume. She wished he would put her down, then she wished he would not, their bodies bumping with the movement, her hand holding his shoulder with delighted insistence.
They were just passing the outer wall where the ruins of a gatehouse stood, when he paused to look directly at her. The first heated exchange of the day. “Sassenach.” The low silky voice caused her to lift her gaze to him. “What are you doing?” came his question.
“Doing what?” she asked, hazy with his nearness.
Only then did she realise her thumb was caressing his n
ipple, enjoying the silky feel in contrast with the dark-brown hair surrounding it.
By now, he had let her slip down along him with maddening slowness. Her booted feet landed right in the gatehouse. Eyes wide on him, her thumb froze mid-movement, her tingling lips drawing an ‘oh.’
A strong arm slipped around her. “Don’t stop, damn you!” he demanded in a murmur.
Without a second of hesitation, she restarted the mindless caress. That was when his sculpted mouth dived on hers, and everything went still.
Everything but them.
His lips brushed over hers as she lifted her head to take the most of what he bestowed on her. The stubble on his jaw prickled her skin and increased her hunger. She issued a sound in her throat when his tongue followed, caressing, tempting every single nerve.
That experienced tongue licked through the seam with repeated intent. “Open for me,” he instructed.
She did, and hell broke loose, allied with a vision of paradise. His tongue delved in her mouth, tangling with hers as a moan escaped her. Her skin heated, her heart was like a thousand horse-hooves pounding the ground, her body blindly seeking more.
His other hand lined her nape to keep her where he wanted her and savour her better. Vaguely, she realised her back leant on irregular stone. She did not care if he guided them far inside the gatehouse; she yearned to taste the banquet of him uninterrupted.
From her waist, his hand climbed up, spanning her ribs, pausing just under her breast. The incomplete trajectory had her pressing against him, in a plea for more. In response, the large, square appendage covered her swollen, peaked breast. The sensation sent her sky-high, driving her spine to arch against him.
But he made it so much worse when his thumb had the same bad idea of hers and grazed the poor peak. Lightning cut through her and melted in her very centre, where a sense of emptiness installed itself. Her throat emitted a sound totally foreign to her.
It made him lift his head just that little to look into her pleasure-drenched eyes. “Do you see what you did to me?” he breathed raggedly.