by Lisa Torquay
“He’s ready for the bridle.” Catriona watched as Fingal led Fiadhaich around the stockyard. So far, the horse had been using a simple rope tied loosely around his neck.
The laird clasped his luminous eyes to her, and the inevitable flush of heat cut through her insides as it had done for the past three days.
Three. Torturous. Days.
Three normal days, an outsider would say. With even a little rain, despite the continuing of the warmth. Such an outsider would not want to be inside her skin. Feverish skin, that is.
“I’ll go get it,” he volunteered to walk to an adjoining shed where he kept part of the riding gear.
As he left in that large, purposeful stride of his, she inhaled a relieved gulp of air. For hours they had been working with the stallion, and tension vibrated in the air as if another person was present. Or as if they stood enclosed in a dome full of lightning. Pure lightning fizzed whenever they must look at each other.
Too shortly he came back. Extending her hand, she motioned to take the bridle to fit it on the horse herself, since the darling beast was weary of men.
“Better if I do it,” he countered, nearing the horse.
For three long days, they had been avoiding disagreement like one avoided putting their fingers in the fire. Any quarrel might ignite a conflagration, and neither risked it.
“Not very sensible,” she argued for the horse’s sake. “He’s more accepting of me.”
He presented her with a crumpled forehead. “What if he becomes aggressive?”
“He won’t,” she answered, even though she could not be certain.
Peeved air escaped forcefully through his nostrils, but he nodded curtly.
Slowly, with the utmost care, Catriona approached the Arab beauty, speaking softly. The horse did not move, but she sensed the sight of the bridle ruffled him. He kept quiet, too quiet, while she talked and fitted the riding gear to his head.
No sooner had she finished and taken her hands off his neck than he sprinted across the dusty place, shaking his head furiously, reins flying in the air. Angry snorts signalled his opinion about the novelty.
“Emily!” Fingal yelled as he charged towards her, laced her by the waist with one arm, and ran with her out of the gate. Catriona had no choice other than to hold his muscled shoulders so as not to fall. His being clad in his white shirt made nothing easier. The impact of his steel-hot frame against her seemed to be a disaster more serious than a spitting-fire stallion. And instead of fear, completely different and absurd feelings took her by assault.
Normally, the stable area swarmed with activity as stable lads with water buckets, brushes, oat boxes, or riding gear treaded back and forth at their busy tasks. But at that time, it was strangely deserted.
Once outside, Fingal quickly closed the gate, letting her slide down his taut body with deliberate slowness. The sedate movement bellied the swift rush of bushfire coursing through her veins.
The strong arm around her did not loosen.
And she did not step back.
His head lowered to her, sculpted lips almost touching her forehead. “Are you alright?” The hoarse rumble merely threw wood to the fire.
She nodded, still holding his shoulders. “Thanks to your prompt reaction.”
Fiadhaich’s high-pitched neigh cut through her foggy mind, and her eyes darted to the horse.
In annoyed movements, Fingal let her go. “He needs to be controlled.” The firm tone announced equal conviction.
A feminine hand rested on his strong forearm and stayed him. “No, please.” Instinct told her to wait. “He needs breathing room.”
Fingal raked an exasperated hand through his luxuriant brown hair. “You’re too patient with his whims.”
“It’s not a whim and you know it,” she said and leaned on the fence, watching the horse’s display of power. Black coat gleaming in the sun, mane fluttering in the air, heavy thuds on the ground—he was splendid.
By her side, the blasted laird said, “If you say it.”
In a few minutes, Fiadhaich seemed to have spent his steam and stopped mid run, going utterly quiet.
Catriona could not help the rather smug stretch of her lips. “He just needed time to put up with it.” And she motioned towards the gate.
He blocked her way. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Her head tilted up, daring him to prevent her from doing what she thought right. “I do believe he deserves a treat.” She stepped to the side.
A strong hand closed around her upper arm. “I’ll give it.”
Did the impossible man think she was made from plume and would not be able to handle the poor beast? Blasting protective streak, he possessed. “Be my guest,” She invited as she fished a carrot from her pocket. Mrs Thomson had been a darling to provide as many as the training required.
But as soon as the horse ate the vegetable, he cantered to where she leaned on the fence, nuzzling the palm she offered him. “Good boy.” Smiling, she caressed his nose.
Fingal huffed. “Why am I not surprised at his preference?”
She offered him a slight grin. “Shall we teach him how to use his new toy?”
Next day, a Sunday, Fingal gave the lass the day free. He sat in the morning room alone, certain she would be asleep.
Helping himself to eggs at the sideboard, he looked through the window and saw Lachlan in a neat green, white, and black tartan. Fingal strode out to greet his brother.
“Lachlan,” he greeted. “What are you doing there? Come in and have breakfast.”
“Good morning, brother mine,” he said in that mocking way of his. “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.” He glanced expectantly at the entrance. “Miss Paddington and I are going riding.”
Fingal went still, stone features, while a fireball of something that resembled inadmissibly like jealousy burned in his guts. “No, you’re not,” he contradicted without even thinking.
Lachlan eyed him quizzically. “Why, is she ill? She’s just waved at me from her window.” He directed his gaze at the second floor of the tower.
“I’ll not allow it.” The older man crossed his bunched arms over muscled chest. Also dressed with care, he had had a mind of inviting her himself.
His brother studied him, intrigued. “What are you about, Fingal?”
“I know you,” he said. “Always in search of a conquest you ditch as soon as they fall for you.”
A playful side-smile came to Lachlan’s perfectly symmetrical face. “Well, not that soon. We usually have—”
“Miss Paddington is under my protection, and you will not dishonour her.”
Lachlan’s features morphed into seriousness at that. “Sounds very much like you are getting ideas in this regard.”
As Fingal’s features crumpled with the other man’s taunt, it also showed it to be true. “Stay away from her.”
“Why, Fingal, you’re about to stumble through the aisle.” Lachlan’s fists came to his waist. He was merely an inch or two shorter than his brother, and as muscular. “I heard it’s normal to have those pre-nuptial doubts.”
“I am very sure of my responsibilities,” he said in a stony voice.
“But very much in need of getting laid. It’ll fry up your brain,” the other McKendrick baited.
Quick as wind, Fingal neared his brother to grab his collar, and both battled with unyielding glares. “Now look here, you—”
“Will someone explain what’s going on there?” He registered his Sassenach asking the question from behind him.
Letting Lachlan go, he turned his scowl to the lass. She was dressed in the finest riding habit he had ever seen her in; it was a midnight blue, rivalling her usually coiled black hair. The memory of him tearing her locks free from the eternal simple bun was enough to shred his control.
Lachlan bowed gallantly to her. “Miss Paddington. A lovely morning.”
She smiled at him, and Fingal felt a need to growl at Lachlan to mark his territory. “Perfect for
a ride, Mr McKendrick,” she replied.
“So it is,” the younger McKendrick agreed.
“But you’re not going,” Fingal told the woman who was veritably frying his brain.
She twisted to him, defiance all over her. And he wanted to kiss her senseless. “Says who?”
“You are under my protection,” he repeated, even though he would like her to be under— Damn it!
“How commendable, but I can take care of myself, thank you.” Giving her back to him, she lifted her hat to her head.
“Alright, I’m coming, too.” He turned to walk to the gate.
“I don’t think so,” she rebutted.
Lachlan looked at them alternately, like watching a tennis match, very popular with the Scots. “If you’re finished, we’d like to go,” he told his older brother.
“Stay out of this,” came Fingal’s answer.
“You’ll not fight with your brother,” she stated, chin up, straight spine. A queen before her subjects. “Have a nice day, my lord.” With a saccharine smile, she gave an exaggerated curtsy and turned to go.
“Mary, Queen of Scots much,” admired Lachlan.
“You touch a hair on her head and you’re a dead man,” Fingal said through his teeth.
“I heard that, Mr McKendrick,” admonished the stubborn lass.
All Fingal could do was look daggers at their backs as they walked down to the stables.
The hours spent with Lachlan and his light jests offered Catriona a much-needed reprieve from his blasted brother, she celebrated as they rode back to the stables. She had dreaded the day off and the possibility of having to endure Fingal’s stirring presence. Though she had decided to go for a long ride anyway, alone her thoughts would have diverted to undesired routes, or people. Or man, more specifically.
So far, she could not stop this yearning for him; the effort to stay away, to do the right thing, was tearing her insides apart. Near him, it all threatened to burst into a thousand pieces, tempting her to send everything to the devil. She held back just that necessary inch to stick to decency. In the end of the day, exhaustion, exasperation, and frustration were the rewards she took to her chambers.
“Hullo! Is anyone there?” Lachlan intruded into her musings.
They were leisurely riding back to the stables. The sun had warmed but the air kept its coolness which made the morning even more pleasant. Birds’ song and greenery all around had a soothing effect on Catriona.
Dark eyes rounded on him. “Sorry, you were saying—?
“That I had a lovely ride,” he repeated.
“So did I,” she agreed truthfully.
“We can repeat it as many times as you wish,” he offered out of friendship, she knew. He had been nothing but an irreproachable gentleman this morning, talking about the estate, the climate in the Highlands, or the festivals he enjoyed. His company helped her take her mind off her recent fretting.
A little grin breathed out of her lips. “Your fame precedes you, sir.” Meaning she should not be seen with him too often to avoid spots on her reputation.
“Unjust most of the times,” he defended with a side-smile.
“Is it?” she teased.
“What can I do if the lasses seek my attention?” He gave an amused shrug.
Catriona did not blame them. The third McKendrick brother possessed less rugged features, with a classical cut that must enthral the girls. “And you give it to them, I assume.”
“I can’t be rude now, can I?” A mischievous glint came to his eyes.
“A true gentleman,” she played along with a smile.
She wished to be able to join their team; it would have been less shameful. Problem was that once had she set eyes on the blasted second brother, every other male on the planet disappeared from her mind.
“The best you’ll find,” he mocked.
They left their horses with the stable lad and went their separate ways. Soon it would be luncheon, and Catriona planned to take it and sit with a book.
“What did he do to you?” Catriona had just reached the entrance hall and was taking off her hat as Fingal’s rasp came from behind her.
She swivelled to him, a frown coming to her brows. He stood in the middle of the entrance hall, legs braced, powerful arms crossed over the broad chest. The memory of the feel of him against her, the feel of him in her hand, had flames spreading through her. “What he did or did not is none of your business.”
His hard stare seared her with anger. “Did he do anything improper?”
The man was a prying blackguard. “Define improper?” she procrastinated with a tad of taunting delight.
“Answer me!” He prowled to her.
She lifted her chin, spine stiffening, eyes clashing with his. “I will not answer.”
“Damn your defiance, Sassenach!” His tall frame halted mere feet from her.
“You have no right to nose into my life.” The argument sounded sensible on the surface, but he was doing things to her underneath. And it had nothing to do with vexation.
“No, but I’m doing it anyway.” His glare lowered to hers and she battled it with her whole might.
No, she did not battle his anger. If only… The impulse to bunch his pristine shirt with both her hands and pull him to her to sate this damned hunger once and for all nearly undid her. “Good luck with that,” she threw out and moved round him to leave.
“Did you enjoy his kiss more than mine?” he asked her back.
Her feet froze mid-step. Her breath froze, too. And her heart—that skipped into a wild race a second later. A wave of something scorching mingling with arousal and fury mushroomed in her. The mention of their kiss, kisses, came as a potent aphrodisiac. Potent and inescapable.
She twisted to him, dark eyes shooting fire. “How dare you?” How dare he put it in a loud voice when she was wrenching so much effort to forget the darned kiss, avoid it? And now to remember it, savour it in her head as if there would be no other like it in her entire life.
Despite the scoff he directed at her, his stance conveyed the same scorching sparks as hers. “I dare because I know my brother.”
Without thinking of what she did, she paced to him, stanching less than a foot from his steel frame. “But you don’t know me!” she spat hotly. How could she even think of kissing any other man when he had spoiled it for her?
Those sparks in him shifted subtly, anger falling to second place as his luminous attention descended to her mouth, making the poor body part tingle with anticipation. Worse, her gaze fell to his sculpted lips, with her insubordinate tongue darting out to moisten hers. Only for his cinnamon weapons to darken on it.
“Oh, but I want to. You have no idea how much.” The heated rejoinder left no doubt as to the biblical sense of his statement.
Pure, feverish steam escaped her every pore at this, colouring her cheeks vivid red. Her lips parted to intake that gulp of oxygen she had forgotten she needed. His scrutiny followed her every move.
She sneered, sneered, mind you—a lady with the highest English education, given by the best governesses, best etiquette teachers, dance instructors, finishing school. “How nobly sincere of you, kind sir.” The sarcasm seemed to put him even more on edge.
His smirk stretched those appetising, sculpted pieces of sin she could do very well without, thank you. “You should act as noble, fair dame,” he devolved in kind. “Except we don’t need it, do we, after the day on the hill.”
The mention of the most explosively delicious day of her life did it for her. She snapped, lost it. The fever of fury mixed with the one of explicit craving made her neglect her determination to walk the line.
Her hands did bunch his flawless shirt then, ruining it with wrinkles, and yanked him to her, their chests bumping in tragic provocation. “Stop it. Stop it, you scoundrel!” Catriona did not decide if it was a command or a supplication. Maybe both, maybe neither, or maybe a plea for him to stop talking and do something, instead of stop tempting her. A plea for h
im to cease devouring her with his eyes and start devouring her with his mouth, his arms, everything. A plea for him to stop this ache, this lawless starvation, and do something, for blast’s sake!
His head bent to her, putting them mere inches apart, square hands holding her upper arms. His breath blew as ragged as hers, meeting in the narrow space between them in equal fashion as they desired their mouths to do. “I could stop it with my mouth the same way I stopped it with my fingers,” he rumbled almost inaudibly, but the images he evoked in her mind were blindingly clear and impossibly tantalising.
And she saw her weak, wanton self lying somewhere, anywhere, even on this floor and letting him do that, feel his stubble tickle the spot where she hungered for him the most. Because if he kissed her there the same way he kissed her, it would be—
Blasting depths of hell!
Her centre flowed with so much molten heat, she feared it would show through her skirts.
“Damn you!” Her words swore, but her tone aired a pleasured, long moan, as if he were at it already.
His response registered with a hard imprint on her belly. “If you want a man, I can be one for you,” he murmured, taking the torture up one notch. One desperate notch.
The blasted man did not need to offer—she would have asked herself. Offered herself. She did not want a man. She craved him. Only him.
The worst. The most wrong. The most indecorous. The most clandestinely delicious man in the world.
Their stares clasped on one another. Neither moved, neither dared. One simple flutter of lashes might make fragile resistance crumble in an unpredictable mess. Even their ragged breaths stalled. Her fingers tightened on the crisp fabric of his shirt, the muscles of her arms quivering with the conflict her will raged of either pushing or pulling him to her. And then slap her mouth to his to end the torment. Or start it, who knew.
A sudden image of Anna weaved its way into her foggy mind, throwing virtual cold water on her senses. Catriona must resist for the love she held for her sister. Nothing here helped her. Even less the giant now glued to her. Hot, big and hard. Everywhere.
