by Lisa Torquay
Said brother’s brow crumpled. “You what?”
“Married Catriona McTavish in Gretna Green,” the groom informed him, unruffled by Drostan’s restless stance. A smug smile pulled his lips. “Now she’s Catriona McKendrick, of course.”
“Have you gone crazy?” the laird threw.
“I’m speaking coherently, so, no, I don’t think I have.” Unless a certain lass was involved, then yes, he got crazy for her—and with her—in between the sheets.
“Angus stormed here the other day, throwing his wife’s letter in my face,” he started, turning a hard stare on his brother. “And I said I would wait for you to hear the facts.”
“There you have them, at last,” Fingal said.
“Bluidy hell, Fingal!” His jaw twitched tense. “Her father almost ate my liver.”
“The poor sod would be poisoned,” he jested.
“Why didn’t you wait until you came to the McKendrick?” the laird asked as if it was the most obvious thing to do.
At that, Fingal went stony serious. “Because I compromised her to a point of no return.”
Drostan flung an ugly expletive, restarting to pace with fists on his hips. “McTavish will want reparation.”
“What difference does it make for him, one daughter or the other?” For Fingal it made all the difference in the world.
“Apparently, it does,” Drostan replied, expelling forceful air through his nostrils in frustration.
The study door opened and Wallace and Lachlan joined them.
Fingal looked at the two newcomers and opened his arms. “Congratulations are in order,” he said.
“For…?” Lachlan crossed his arms over his considerable chest.
“I’ve become a married man.”
“You brought Anna from London?” Wallace asked.
“No, he brought her sister,” Drostan supplied.
Lachlan and their father eyed him quizzically.
“Turns out Emily Paddington is Catriona McTavish. Or was before she married this scoundrel,” the eldest brother stated.
“Buidy hell!” Wallace exclaimed.
“What now?” Lachlan posed with an amused look.
“We gather everyone and try to sort this mess out,” Drostan vented.
“There’s no mess. I got married to a McTavish, full stop.” Fingal’s firm words echoed in the room.
“Did I catch the word married?” Freya came into the study and walked to her husband to wind her arms around his waist, promptly corresponded by him.
Funny how Fingal used to think their demonstrations of affection disgusting. But today, such displays seemed quite normal, endearing even.
“Fingal got leg-shackled to the wrong McTavish lass,” mocked Lachlan.
“Dear me!” Freya quipped. “I don’t think I remember her.”
“You do,” Wallace volunteered. “It’s the Emily lass.”
“You don’t say!” A look of surprise came over her face. But then she smiled at her brother-in-law. “Are you happy?”
“He looks really…relaxed,” Lachlan needled.
Fingal did not strive to answer her intriguing question and let it go. He would not know what to say, anyway.
“I heard you work well together,” Freya commented.
“Those damned stable hands cannot keep their thoughts to themselves,” he answered simply.
Next day, Fingal sat at breakfast when his wife entered. It had rained during the night, but the sun had already appeared this early.
Their eyes clasped, and the lass went all blushing, the simple view igniting his blood once again.
Had the night not been enough for pity’s sake! He could not get his fill of her. It scared the life out of him. Desire, yes, but something else consumed him that trespassed beyond his body. The suspicion he would have married her even if she had been a commoner confounded him like hell. He, who was always so mindful of his clan’s duties, would have thrown everything to the blazes for her.
And he could not give a hoot about it.
“Your father does not seem too happy with the…turn of events,” Fingal broached. He left the conversation for this morning simply because he had been incapable of getting a grip on his lust previously.
A footman served her tea and left.
Her delicate fingers were taking a piece of toast to that maddening mouth of hers. But she stopped midway, dark gaze snapping to his with worry. “Did he come here?”
“No.” He rested his fork on the plate. “He talked to Drostan. Apparently, your mother sent him a letter while we travelled.”
One of her hands lifted to her temple. “Anna must let her know, naturally.”
“It’s done. He cannot do anything about it now,” Fingal dismissed.
“I’ll talk to him. Our family’s manor lay but a half-day’s ride from here. I could overnight there and be back the next day.”
“No, you won’t,” the command rose, unashamed. He would not let her bear the brunt of her father’s vexation alone.
“We have to. We’re risking a clans’ rift,” she pointed out.
“Your father is being unreasonable,” Fingal stated. “He sought an alliance with the McKendrick, and now he has it.”
“He does not deal well with unplanned circumstances,” Catriona revealed. “And one of his daughters disobeyed him.”
A side-smirk drew his lips. “Why am I not surprised?” His wife showed she possessed a mind of her own. “In any case, Drostan will call him here. We’re gathering in a few days.”
“I still think I should talk to him privately.” Her insistence in undertaking responsibility was laudable to be sure.
“We’re doing this together though clans’ issues must be discussed among men.”
At that, she placed both hands on the table and inclined her torso forward, intent stare on him. “Don’t you dare leave me out of this,” she stated firmly, and arousal thrummed through him all over again. This wife of his could turn him on with a flick of her lashes. “I am the one who started it.”
Not that he would say he was too sorry about it. Considering her sister would have made a poor Highlander’s bride, he became certain that, in creating this charade, she made things fall into place. At least, in his point of view.
Especially in his point of view.
“I won’t, Catriona. But now you abide by Clan McKendrick’s decisions.” He imprinted finality in that.
She gave a curt nod, surely understanding that she became a McKendrick by marriage, and as such, she owed loyalty to her husband and his clan.
Catriona led Debranua through the north track after breakfast. She strived to keep her morning rides though she knew her life had gone through alterations with her marriage and moving to Scotland. This, at least, she would preserve.
Fingal’s words in the morning got her mind whirling. She mused about her father’s reaction to the unfolding of her decisions. There was no opportunity to talk to him properly due to the distance. Her new husband had just whisked her to Gretna Green, and the swiftness of the changes in her life had been too high for any other formality.
Her husband had the right of it, though. It had been her father who proposed an alliance with the McKendricks, and it still stood despite the swapping of names of the bride. Since very early in life, she realised daughters assumed the roles not of leaders, but of cards to be played in clan politics. Never did she have any objection about that until Papa determined she must marry Tremaine. The daunting task got her questioning the alliance-making role she had in her family. Little room did she find for contestation, though, with her father constantly travelling between London and the Highlands.
The McTavish was the least who could claim a usual lifestyle. Angus and Marie did not build an exactly conventional marriage. Her mother had obtained his permission to educate the girls in England when they became old enough for such. This implied a marriage where he spent part of the year in Scotland and part with his family in town. Not that her parents did n
ot love each other; they did, in their own way. Theirs had no doubt been an arranged match, where her mother’s family took a stand in a clan of vast lands, and his a foot in English nobility. But it grew clear that Marie McTavish did not relish her husband’s birthplace that much as she had not tried to come back here in years. The result was Catriona’s unfulfilling life in a city she did not care for, distance from the land she cherished and from her father. He had determined which husband she would take without her having the possibility of discussing it at length with him as they did not live in the same house all year round.
Her eyes lifted to the overcast sky, her cheeks registering the damp air forecasting rain for later.
Catriona had tried to accommodate her duties, but after meeting Fingal, it seemed much more difficult to do so. Particularly when she returned from the Highlands a few weeks ago. What would have happened if she met him after he married Anna? The speed at which her heart careened at the thought gave a good measure of it. If her reaction at seeing him for the first time was anything to go by, the inner struggle not to overstep the boundaries would have been herculean. Had the match gone forward, she would have needed to marry Tremaine post-haste and stay away from her brother-in-law, forever. She did not believe these messy reactions would have gone away at all. Even if she did not fathom his feelings for her or hers for him, the present situation proved to be much less anguishing than the alternative.
And the alternative was unthinkable.
Catriona stepped into the McKendrick manor on Fingal’s arm as Baxter, the butler, led them into the drawing room where their meeting would take place. Inside, the first person she saw was a hulking man with black hair and green eyes, holding a toddler of about two. He wore the McDougal black, white, and red tartan, so she assumed he was the Laird McDougal. By his side, stood a woman who bore resemblance with the McKendricks and must be his wife Aileen. With a stunning beauty, she dressed in an underdress and a spencer in her husband’s plaid.
“I remember you,” the latter said. “We met at several festivals,” she completed.
Catriona could not decide if not meeting with Aileen when she arrived earlier this summer should be counted as lucky or not. Lady McDougal would have given her away in a trice. The disclosure would have been unlucky, she mused, for it would have rendered it impossible to work with Fiadhaich.
Although Lady McDougal must be at least three years her senior, Catriona also held memories of her. “My Lady McDougal.” Approaching, she curtsied. Her own attire displayed the same pattern she wore at her wedding, with an underdress and Fingal’s plaid draped around her waist and up to her shoulders. The other women looked at her with approval.
Aileen smiled. “You must be Catriona,” she ventured. “We are family now,” she continued. “It’s Aileen. I don’t think it practical to keep all these titles.”
“I remember you, too, Aileen,” she agreed.
“Come meet my son, Rory.” Aileen took him from her husband, and the boy hugged his mother, already sleepy. The mother had no choice but to send for the nanny to take him for a nap.
“He’s so sweet,” Catriona commented.
“We need no reinforcements,” taunted Fingal to his brother-in-law.
“You got yourself in a bit of a tangle, I hear,” the chief said by way of greeting.
“Nothing that the McKendricks cannot easily kick out of the way,” her husband boasted.
Farther in the room, Catriona saw Wallace and Lachlan talking to Freya. Drostan stood by the fireplace. Her father seemed to be late.
All the McKendrick men dressed formally in crisp shirts and their tartan. Freya wore an underdress, an outer black bodice, and an ample skirt in her husband’s plaid. The composition flattered the lady.
Footmen served the guests with whisky or tea.
“We’re taking no chances,” the McKendrick warned.
“My father isn’t the monster you’re painting,” she defended.
“Surely not!” Freya neared with the diplomatic quip. “But he was fairly displeased the last Drostan saw him.”
“This is no reinforcement at all,” Aileen countered her brother. “We planned to visit before summer’s end.”
“But Drostan suggested they take part, anyway,” Lachlan added. “Just in case.”
“Well, Mrs McKendrick,” Wallace intervened sarcastically, “you certainly caused a spin in the plans.”
“I assure you it wasn’t my intention,” Catriona devolved.
“Hell is full of the proverbial good intentions,” he mocked lightly. The patriarch did not seem too worried with this new development.
Catriona had no time to answer because the butler announced her father.
The man who emerged through the threshold made Catriona’s heart constrict. In the McTavish black and white plaid, he seemed to have aged several years since she last saw him in late spring. He had never been very tall, but the man before her with his fallen shoulders gave the impression to have shrunk. The tired look in his dark eyes, which she had inherited, denounced a man taking too much on those shoulders. His expression, though, evinced distaste for the episode they were here to discuss.
“Papa!” She went to hug him, but he did not even lift his stare to her.
She stalled midway.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Catriona.” The crumpled brow said enough.
Not that he had been an effusive father. Far from that. But he always had a tender word for her. They shared their love for the Highlands, and this had made them close despite his constant travelling.
This open rejection saddened her more than she would like to admit. But she swallowed it for now. More pressing matters took precedence.
Fingal did not like the way his father-in-law was treating his wife one bit. Naturally, no one would ever understand fully the relationship of a parent with their child. They went back years and years with all the happiness and mistakes such an amount of time implied. Nonetheless, Catriona must have missed him after this long time away. And the old goat did not have a positive word for her, in spite of the situation.
“First, there’s the fact you used your second name,” he started.
Alright, so Fingal could not disagree with the man in this particular issue.
She clasped her hands in front of her tensely, thick lashes lowering. “I admit it was a mistake.” She then looked directly at the surrounding faces. “I hope you all forgive me.”
Everyone’s nod granted her wish.
“Second, you lowered yourself to a servant’s level and accepted employment,” he threw. “You, a lady from one of the most prestigious families in Scotland.” His tone and stance did not hide his disgust.
The pompous wretch! Fingal cursed. He surveyed his kin and saw they possessed the same opinion, though they listened in silence.
Before his very eyes, she transformed into the amazon he knew her for, spine straightening, chin elevating, eyes burning on her parent. “I’m sorry, but I cannot apologise for that. Anyone will tell you how successful Fingal and I were with the poor horse.”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he retorted. “It gave him the chance to debauch you!”
Fury mushroomed in him. That he had antique views, Fingal could understand, but insulting his own daughter would not be tolerated. “This is my wife you’re addressing.” His low voice aired contained.
“You bastard!” Lachlan fumed and advanced towards the McTavish for a good thrashing, no doubt.
Freya’s eyes widened, and she made to intervene.
Never taking her eyes from her sire, Catriona lifted a hand to stay Lachlan. If possible, she became even straighter, more in possession of herself. Regal. “You never gave me a choice, so I took it into my hands.”
At her words, Fingal neared and posted right behind his wife, his taut arm going around her in a sign of protection. She put her hand on it in acknowledgement.
Drostan exchanged a glance with his father. Lachlan looked disgusted wit
h their display while Aileen seemed surprised.
“You were destined to English nobility,” he spat.
“I never wanted a feeble sod,” she flung.
“You tell Tremaine that and bear the consequences.” The older man paused for a second. “The shame you’re putting us through.”
Oh, there lay the crux of the matter: his self-importance, Fingal took note.
“Your misplaced pride counts for nothing here,” Drostan intervened. “In the McKendrick, nobody gives a penny for those useless dandies.”
Angus eyed the McKendrick as if he had just fled a madhouse. “Several of those dandies are Catriona’s relatives, with a Duke for a grand-uncle.” The boast fell on deaf ears.
“I’m shaking in my boots,” Taran McDougal derided.
Her father turned to her. “You should have talked to me before you married him.” He pointed behind her. “Why did you do it in such haste?”
“Because if any hint of a scandal came out, Anna would get the brunt of it,” she answered promptly.
Fingal’s muscles clenched to the point of turning him into a cold statue. Her reason for having married him hit like a rock plummeting full-speed down a mountain. No wonder she issued little protest when he fairly dragged her back to Scotland for the wedding. She stated he did not need to do it, that she could have got away with their…story. But having taken her from her house in London to spend a week bumping on the roads unchaperoned had ripped the decision from her hands yet again. Just like her own father did. The realisation did not make him proud; it made him feel like the lowest villain on the planet.
She had acted not like a spoiled ninny going after her sole self-satisfaction. The responsibility and consequences of her choices she carried with not an ounce of hesitation. Added to what he already witnessed about her—the empathy for those who needed help, her courage to face challenges, the wherewithal to change the fate others chose for her, to stand for what she believed worth the effort—gave him pause. Something exploded inside him, hot, ineluctable, inevitable. A feeling so deep and encompassing no name for it occurred to him. But it made him want to bury his face in the mass of her glossy, dark hair, and hold her to the end of every galaxy ever present in this universe. Inhale her, rain kisses on every inch of her satiny skin. He had this urge to express the tremendous sentiment physically, to communicate with her through each channel available to him.
