Summer 1811

 

Fiandhaich, Furious in Scottish Gaelic, the new stallion, stood in the centre of the stockyard, magnificent black fur gleaming in the sun. Fingal’s stable master held him by a rope, trying to get him used to being reined and saddled. So far, the stallion had refused to comply. For months now. No amount of apples or oats had produced any effect towards such goal.

Fingal had acquired him in an auction in Aberdeen and the animal came with all the paperwork in order. At a distance, he watched his stablemaster’s efforts; and wondered if he had struck a good bargain. His horseflesh made him proud as much as famous in all the Highlands for his expertise and love for his equestrian friends.

He should have asked the reason for the stallion’s name.

The unusually hot summer gifted them with a glaring sun which made him take off his sweated shirt and stand there in barely his tartan draped over his shoulder. His six feet four inches frame composed of pure steel became tanned with the exposure. Impossibly bright cinnamon eyes fringed with sooty long lashes stared at the stallion at a loss what to think, or what to do next.

What to do next had been taken care of as he had put an advertisement in The Times requiring horse experts to come have a look at Fiandhaich. Only a certain E. Paddington seemed willing to travel all the way from England to see the disobedient beast. McKendrick had chosen The Times for it had a broad circulation and would attract more specialised people.

Craig—an experienced horse trainer—attempted to pull the stallion into a trot around the fenced space. An idea the equestrian prince did not appreciate. Fiandhaich started digging his front hooves, neighing loud. Craig neared him and extended his arm to touch his fur in a soothing way. The horse burst in a fury launching his hooves in the air and pounding them on the dust uncontrollably. The stable master lost the rope as it whipped on the ground with the horse’s rebellion.

“Craig, get out of there!” Fingal shouted before the man got hurt.

But the furious animal jumped and back kicked between the man and the gate, the other sides of the stockyard too high fenced to climb quickly.

Fingal moved to run to the gate when a woman approached it. Delicate hands opened the it and small booted feet got inside, closing it.

“What the—” Fingal cursed unable to take his eyes from the lean figure.

Strait spine, she stood barely inches from where the front hooves pounded the ground, staring up at the blue-blood beast as if in fascination.

In a melodious voice, she talked to the horse as if they were old friends. He could not hear the words merely the musical rhythm of it. He did not know if it was her figure or her voice that froze him on the spot, causing him to be too speechless to call the nincompoop out of the stockyard.

The horse continued jumping up and hammering his hooves menacingly on the dust, but the lass did not back down or stop talking in that hypnotic tone.

A rush of wind ripped her hat down to reveal a mane of the blackest hair he had ever seen in his life. Made even blacker in contrast with her perfect alabaster skin, coiled up in a crown of glossy braids. He could see just her profile of small nose, rosy lips and a long elegant neck.

The lass extended her arms up as if to reach the stallion, her figure stretched leaner under the simple walking dress. But the sheer fabric moulded to her feminine attributes tantalizing his cinnamon attention.

Fingal lost his ability of taking his stare off her. She looked like a nymph, a woods’ creature, a Diana in her element.

The horse hammered his hooves on the floor again and she took the opportunity to rest her hand on his strong neck come to her level. Fingal was about to find his disappeared voice to shout her off the animal when the beast went still.

The crazy lass never stopped looking at the stallion or talking to him in that nymph’s voice of hers. She neared the stallion and touched the other long elegant fingers to him, caressing him fondly.

It felt as if her palms were on Fingal. Not just on any part of him. On his neck and chest. The sensation so real, he swore her fingertips traced his hair-peppered skin from his collar bone down to his— Heat and arousal slammed him as his eyes continued glued on the scene.

The lass smiled up to the beast. Even as he could see barely half of it, two blazing suns shone in the day. Her smile brighter than the incandescent star above their heads. It blinded Fingal to everything else. She made matters worse, this insane Diana. Closing the distance between her and the beast, she hugged him and rested her head on his thick neck, her spine arching into the shiny black fur, accentuating the feminine lines. The horse became as docile as a kitten.

Who would not?

It was as if she had fastened her irresistible shapely frame to Fingal and merged her fingers in his dark-brown luxuriant hair. His temper flared with his reaction though he thought he might go as docile had she done this to him.

This realisation sprung him into action. He stalked to the gate with an angry scowl. “What the hell do you think you are doing, you brainless lass?” His hoarse flinty tone helped very little.

The nymph gave her back to the horse without a second thought to her safety. “Oh, I am sorry, sir.” The cut-glass top-rank English accent unmistakable. It cut through his guts with none of its sharpness and all of its melting, seducing quality, aided by her musical voice. “I could not resist such a darling.” She completed to his unfortunate ears. Which Fiandhaich must have gotten addicted to for he never moved.

A darling? His hazy brain countered.

“A Sassenach?” Was the only thing his throat found itself capable of producing. Because now he saw her enormous eyes as dark as her glorious hair and became even more mesmerised. And her lips were not only pink which would have been easier to tackle. They were full in a damned suggestive way. In that suggestive way. 

A polite smile stretched those appetising lips while she curtsied with graceful elegance. “Emily Paddington, the horse-whisperer, at your service, sir.”

Fingal displayed an ugly frown. What the—

A horse-whisperer?

And a woman?

Bluidy hell!