by Lisa Torquay
Blasted sodding man! she cursed.
Did he have to tempt her nearly to surrender? How in the whole universe would she forget him when he had travelled all the way south to find her and tear her down with a marriage proposal?
Fortunately, they had met in a place that did not denounce her real status. Or everything would crumble to dust.
She would have to find another place to do her riding until she made sure he left town. If she met him once more, she would not be able to stand her ground. Worse, she would beg him to take her with or without marriage.
He could not very well marry the McTavish chit if he dared ask another.
To be refused. He never thought any lass would ever refuse a McKendrick. Except this one did, certainly because clans and Scotland meant nothing to her. The rejection did not go down smoothly, he must confess. He was still ruminating the bitter mouthful.
That was why he made his way to Mayfair next morning, where he found out his intended lived. At least that was easy to do. He just mentioned that he looked for Angus McTavish’s townhouse to receive its directions.
Going up the front steps, he knocked. The door opened to present a starched butler whose poise made him look like the owner himself. The servant measured Fingal from his ruffled hair, down his white shirt, carefully wrapped tartan, hose, and black shoes. And sniffed.
What the—? The man worked for a Scot, for pity’s sake! That nose in the air number did not recommend him.
“How can I help you, sir?” he asked in a self-important nasal tone.
Fingal thumped his displeasure and answered as if he did this every day. “I’m here to see Miss Anna McTavish.”
“I am sorry to say these are not visiting hours, sir.” The man clasped his hands behind him and lifted his prominent nose even more.
These Sassenach sought to ritualise every single hour of the day. It showed they had nothing better to do but to bore themselves with endless etiquette. “And I am sorry to say I don’t care,” he quipped.
The butler must have sensed the laird’s determination. “I could see if the lady is home. Do you have a card?”
The man was testing his patience. These past days did not go according to plan, and his tolerance hung by a thread. Fingal must have made a fearful scowl, for the servant gave a step back. “You bring the lass right away, or I will go fetch her myself,” he threatened.
With a weary bow, the man widened the entrance and let him into the parlour before leading him to a luxurious drawing room next to it. “If you will wait here, sir. Whom should I announce?”
“Laird Fingal McKendrick,” he answered curtly.
Impatient, he paced the drawing room for what seemed like two days before he heard a noise at the threshold. He swivelled and set eyes on a young woman of twenty-one that was the very furthest from what he had expected.
Wheat-blonde hair artfully pinned, pale blue eyes focused on him, an absolutely impeccable dress of some costly fabric in some costly colour, sapphire earrings dripping from porcelain skin. Petite, no curves to speak of, nor expression on her completely symmetrical, doll-like features.
Naturally, Fingal would not be able to tell what lay beyond her appearance—her personality, wishes, or dreams. But what met the eye was a woman that would not fit in Highland life even if she tried hard. This was a city-bred, city-loving, city-dependant person. If he placed a bet, he would say she was more like a hothouse flower who would not survive in the rugged environment he called home, even though she had been born there and lived in it for the first years of her life.
This was no Highlander’s wife material by any stretch of imagination.
In the same way he measured her, she had been doing the same to him, making it evident that her opinion of him did not differ much from his of her.
“To what do I owe your unexpected visit, my lord?” she asked in a flawless, cultured accent, not leaving any doubt of her opinion about his non-visiting hours.
Fingal looked for something seemingly polite to answer, but before he did, the front door opened and the more-English-than-the-English butler’s voice uttered, “My lady.” Rustling of hats and gloves reached his ears through the room’s entrance, which Anna had not shut.
The hothouse flower’s attention turned to where the sounds came. Boots clicked along the hallway, nearing.
“Catriona!” Anna called in a more enthusiastic tone than the one she had used with him. “Come see! There is,” in her favour, he should say he heard hesitance before she continued, “a barbarian in our drawing room.” He could not even blame her because the perception was perfectly attuned to her perfect London standards.
“A barb—?” That voice!
Then the woman herself came in to blow his world to pieces.
“You,” was all he managed to say for his guts descended into an explosively messy overdrive.
“Oh, let me introduce you to my sister,” the blonde said from very far away to his ears. “Catriona Emily McTavish.”
The room fell into a graveyard silence as their eyes met with all the noise found in London. Twice over.
“Mr McKendrick.” Her saying his formal, wrong title took him out of his silent rage into a very vocal one.
“What the deuce in happening here?” The growl came accompanied with a crumpled stance.
“Catriona?” Anna asked with a rather worried look at her sister.
The name brought a random realisation. He had never understood why he thought the missish Emily did not fit the woman. Catriona suited her immensely: strong, bold. And Scottish.
“I believe I have…reacquainted with the gentleman during this last trip to Scotland,” she informed the blonde, her sister, without tearing her dark gaze from him.
Reacquainted? The damned woman did more, much more, than reacquaint! She had explored every inch of him, hands, mouth, and tongue. She knew him. Intimately, beyond the flesh, further than any other person aside from his family, or even them.
“You never told me anything,” Anna complained.
“I was going to,” the impossible lass paused briefly, “at a more convenient time.” Those marvellous dark eyes were still on him, doing things he preferred not to put into words. He remembered none to describe the jumbled emotions sloshing in him at this second.
Surprise, exhilaration, confusion. Lividity.
And that never-dousing craving to pick her up and carry her somewhere quiet to—
“You are a McTavish!” he barked, his control slipping fast.
“Well, of course she is,” Anna ventured. “She’s my sister,” the girl completed.
This made the woman turn to her. “Anna, do you think I could talk to our visitor for a moment?”
Anna’s blue eyes shifted from her to him and back with quizzical silence for several moments before answering. “Certainly.” She left in elegant steps, closing the door behind her.
“You lied,” he accused as soon as they found themselves alone.
Her chin lifted in that defiance which annoyed and aroused him in the same breath. “I did not.” Her riding habit clad bosom expanded in an inhale. “My second name is Emily, as you heard Anna say. And my mother was a Paddington.”
His nostrils flared. “But you omitted the fact that you are Scottish and a McTavish!”
“What would you have done had I informed you of it?” she asked.
For an instant there, he did not conjure anything to reply. Good question. What, really? “I would have taken you to your father faster than a hundred horses.” Would he? The insidious question popped in his mind. He had wanted her form the start; would he have given her up that quickly?
“That’s what I imagined.” The comment came filled with that awareness of women who had no say in their destinies.
“It’s what I’d be required to do.” He braced his legs and crossed his arms over his chest, daring her to contest him. Required, yes, but whether he would in reality do, he would never know.
“And what about Fiadh
aich?” she asked.
His mind was full of unanswered questions. She did not need to add one more. “I would have managed.”
“Like you had when I arrived?”
Curse it all!
“Damn it, Catriona!” Her name felt delicious in his mouth, like the woman herself. “The things we did.” Every one of which he wanted to repeat. His hand raked his hair in exasperation.
Fingal’s words originated steam from deep inside her.
Catriona had just come from her morning ride, to have Anna put her face to face with the man she did not stop thinking about for a single instant. Her heart reacted faster than Fiadhaich with the bridle for the first time, kicking and pounding, and trying to jump out through her mouth.
Now she must suffer through this conversation in a complete state of inappropriate response to him. She must keep her head above water to carry this to term.
“You did nothing! I did,” she declared firmly. “I take full responsibility for it.”
“I did nothing?” The question came dripping in the absurdity of it. “I took you in a stable, for pity’s sake!” He paced as if his words evoked more than indignation.
“You took nothing.” He swivelled to her and flayed her with his furious glare. “I gave it of my free will.” Their eyes clashed and held in battle.
“Together with your virginity.” The crudeness of his words was not lost on her. “The first born of a laird!”
Her hands flew to her waist. “What? It would be alright to take my virginity if I was not the daughter of a laird?” she questioned bluntly.
Besides not having the chance of deciding her own trips, she had no say about the choices for her own body. How sad.
“I did not mean it like that, and you know it,” he defended. And she remembered he proposed to her when he thought she was a simple miss. “You shouldn’t have omitted your name,” he insisted.
Dark eyes fulminated him. “Oh, so righteous, are we?” she threw. “If I lied, you did, too!”
“I did not. My name and clan were clear all along.”
“But you never told me you were practically betrothed for all intents and purposes.” In his mind, she was a woman who had no information about their clans’ arrangements, and yet he said nothing.
At that, his glare narrowed to slits. “I said I could not offer marriage.” His voice was low and hard.
“An extensive explanation, to be sure,” she mocked. “Omission, if I’m not wrong.”
A long, tense silence befell them. Their dirty laundry seemed done, and Catriona found nothing else to say. To break from the man’s too penetrating gaze, she walked towards the door to call her sister.
Before she could reach it, he caught her arm. His warm fingers on her through the fabric caused a jolt of sensations and a flood of memories. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.
She looked pointedly at his hand on her, but he did not move. “We’re finished here. I’ll call—”
“No, we’re not,” he stated with that overbearing way of his. “We must decide what to do.”
A self-deprecating scoff escaped her. “I don’t think so.” Despite this charade, she still must go through with her father’s designs. “I’m to marry an English lord.”
A ferocious look came to his burning eyes, but his sculpted lips pulled a sardonic smirk. “An English sod can never abate your passion!”
His hand did not leave her arm, and he loomed close enough for her to sense the heat of his body and breathe in his scent of green woods and man. Said passion surfaced with a force threatening to choke her. She had to struggle with it to make clarity prevail and produce an answer.
Catriona forced her shoulders to give a shrug. “No matter, he’ll just lift my—”
Fingal pulled her to him, and she clashed with muscles of steel. “Nobody touches what’s mine,” he hissed hotly.
“I’m not—”
His mouth dived to plunder hers. Just like that, they clutched at each other, no resistance, no reservations. No guilt.
That, oh, that was all she yearned for from the minute she saw him standing in this very room in the heart of London, in his full glory. With a moan in her throat, her arms circled him while his laced her, every inch of them touching. In seconds, the kiss turned into something erotic, their mouths devouring one another with unbridled carnality.
“Say you’re not mine, Catriona,” he drawled, nibbling her lower lip.
At that instant, she was in no condition to say anything whatsoever. Even less such a lie. So, she took control of the kiss and plunged her tongue between his sculpted lips. With a groan he let her, only to take it to explicit levels.
Suddenly, he lifted her in his powerful arms, one under her back, the other under her knees.
The haze of the kiss prevented her from protesting when he detached their mouths.
“Miss McTavish,” he called.
Immediately, Anna came in, her huge eyes taking in the scene.
He turned to her, Catriona’s skirts billowing around them. “I believe we both agree we don’t match,” he started. Whether the girl had heard anything of what they said or not did not occur to Catriona.
“Indeed,” her sister blurted.
Before Catriona understood what he was doing, he prowled out, her sister giving way to his natural predominance.
“Put me down, Fingal,” she demanded uselessly as her mind strived to clear.
“Send Catriona’s trunks and Debranua to my manor,” he directed to the younger woman. “I’m taking this lass.” Anna nodded, jaw dropped, eyes almost wider than her face.
“Stop, you arrogant scoundrel!” She started thrashing her legs, but he held her tighter.
The more-English-than-the-English butler stood in front of the entrance in an amusing gladiator’s pose, big, more-English-than-the-English nose in the air.
Fingal did not back down an inch. “Out of the way, you buffoon, or I’ll smash you and the door.”
Intimidated, not only did he obey, but he also opened it and bowed as laird and lass passed.
Days later, Drostan sat in his study with piles of ledgers to update when the door burst open and Laird McTavish stormed in, brandishing a letter.
“Your brother compromised my daughter!” he accused.
“Lachlan?” It was the only possibility that came to mind though he did not fathom how his younger brother could have done that if both were in different countries.
“Not Lachlan. Fingal!” The louder voice did not make it easier to understand his claim.
His middle brother had travelled to London as far as Drostan knew. Perhaps Fingal had a sudden change of heart towards the chit. “He’s bound to marry her, anyway,” the McKendrick tried to soothe the older laird.
“Not Anna, man!” he shouted. “Catriona.”
At Drostan’s blank stare, Angus paced the room even more impatient. “Tall, dark hair.”
“The only woman with this description I can think of is one called Emily Paddington,” he said, confused with the McTavish’s antics.
The older man grilled him with a threatening look. “What are you saying?”
“That if your information was true, Fingal would have to have done that by letter.”
The McTavish seemed even angrier. “Do you take me for a fool? My daughter spent the last few weeks here.”
The whole conversation was getting just a tad crazy, Drostan deemed. “Then she did not visit with anyone.” There had been no word around of her arrival. “As I said, the only woman—”
But the other man got too displeased to let him finish. “Emily is Catriona’s second name, Paddington is her mother’s maiden name,” he spat.
Bluidy Hell!
The offended father threw a letter on the massive desk—the one Drostan had smashed once, when news of the disappearance of his wife and son reached him. The piece of furniture had been skilfully mended.
He picked up the letter signed by Lady McTavish. “Fingal took
Miss McTavish from London and ordered her things to be sent here,” he interpreted the rather frantic missive.
“You’re going to pay for this, McKendrick!” The older man pointed his finger at Drostan.
“I’m doing nothing before I hear from Fingal what happened.” By now, he had stood up to his full, impressive height.
“He compromised the wrong daughter, that’s what happened!” McTavish devolved.
Wrong being a very relative concept here, Drostan pondered as he remembered the lass and his brother working together with the Arab horse.
Circling his desk, Drostan came to stand right in front of Angus. The half-bald, rounding-middle man had to bend his head back to look at him.
“I’ll wait for them. When I have the facts, I’ll send for you,” he determined.
The other man huffed in apparent agreement, turned and left, pounding his feet and banging the door.
Drostan’s thumb and index fingers pressed the bridge of his nose. That was all he needed at the moment, he thought, another clan quibble.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“We’re stopping at Gretna Green to get married before we proceed to my manor,” Fingal informed her.
Catriona looked at him and wondered why she did not rebel when he took her from her townhouse, plonked her on his horse, rode her to his lodgings, and put her in this carriage. And then had told the driver to set off northwards.
Probably because she did not really want to, she must admit. But marriage? “I don’t think I want to marry you,” she answered. They sat on opposite seats in the comfortable vehicle he had brought with him.
She was still dressed in the riding-habit she wore when she had come home from riding. Fingal bought her several pieces of undergarments in the villages they passed by, but too few assortments of dresses led her to stick to her own garment. In the inns they overnighted—in separate rooms—a bath had been available, and she had aired her dress as she slept in her chemise.
It had been like this for the last four days. Sometimes, he rode his thoroughbred, whose name she did not know. He also kept his distance, frustratingly so. During the trip, they talked about several things, none too personal, mostly about childhood in the Highlands, governesses, education, their families.