“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.

“You chose to marry me that night in the stable,” he said, eyes fixed on her.

“On the contrary,” she reminded him. “I agreed that you could not offer for me.”

“I’m not talking about the words, but the deed.” He crossed his thick arms over his impressive chest, and she gained a misplaced yearning to change her seat and go touch him.

“You haven’t even asked,” she pointed out.

Marriage to him might be heaven or hell. Or both. Catriona admitted she and Fingal listed a lot in common, especially when it came to horses and riding. But living with him would make her turn to melted butter every time her gaze fell on him, or his on her. She would become a ninny, a pea-brain famished for his attentions. That would not do. He held too much power over her body, for one. If she was honest with herself, she must own that he had a domain over her mind, too.  Because she did not succeed in stopping thinking about him from day one.

The carriage jolted and rattled over the uneven road, but they did not notice it.

A side smirk adorned his sculpted lips. “I consider it superfluous, but—” He placed a mocking hand over his heart. “Would you do me the honour of being my wife?”

She placed her own hand over her heart. “Sorry, but no,” she replied with a false, regretful look on her.

He shrugged those bunched shoulders. “Alright. We reach Gretna Green tonight.”

“You need not to do this,” she insisted.

His eyes burned on her. “Oh, no?” She felt the heat on every pore. “I deflower the McTavish’s first born and leave it at that?”

“No one would ever know,” she asserted.

“That’s one question I wanted to ask.” He frowned at her. “What would you have done, knowing you had lain with your future brother-in-law?”

The man did not have mercy on her, did he? Deep colour tinted her cheeks. Put this way, it seemed crude, but she had not meant it like this. “I’d hoped to keep it a secret.”

“And when we met?”

“I reckoned we wouldn’t meet so soon. Neither you nor Anna were exactly rushing the whole thing. By the time we met, you’d probably not even remember my name,” she risked.

“Your other name, that is.” An angry scowl marred his chiselled features. “You see me as that superficial?”

“Not really. Just that men have trysts and care little for the consequences.” Her brows arched as if this proved to be a plain truth.

“This man does!” he answered stonily.

“Lucky me,” she mocked.

 

Not even remember her name? Fingal questioned inwardly. He had not been able to rip the woman from his mind, his body, and she believed he would forget anything about her? Problem was, she did have the right of it. The trysts from his past blurred in one mass of faceless lasses in his memory. But Catriona drew from him a whole new range of steaming responses which he had no wish to consider. Not to mention she had been the woman who brought his Arab stallion to his full splendour.

“I’m still struggling to understand why you travelled incognito,” he inquired.

An annoyed expression covered Catriona’s beautiful face. Fingal observed the string of emotions playing on it.

“I wanted to see my homeland, ok?” Wistfulness came to her remarkable eyes. “I had been years away. I longed for the Highlands, and my parents would never bring me. My mother wanted us to have the best education, and for this, we must stay in London.” Her words poured out, and they rang as nothing but authentic. Her sadness reached out to him, making him wish to hold her and offer support.

“But you could have travelled to the McTavish and stayed there.” If he touched her, he would not be able to stop until they both were sated. Thoroughly, pantingly sated.

That she affirmed she did not wish to marry him chafed. That he had brought her with him without even asking whether she agreed, chafed, too. But he had travelled to London to find her, and he did. He found a Scotswoman, member of a considerable clan, whom he had— No choice other than marriage, right?

He dared not consider the alternative. Dared not even question why he spent the effort to drag her north.

“And miss the opportunity to see the fabled McKendrick’s horseflesh?” A tilt of her head and a brief grin told of temptations not resisted. “When I saw that advertisement, I could think of nothing else. I nagged my mother until she yielded.” Her eyes flew to the cool drizzle outside the carriage.

“But your mother allowed you to go home to the McTavish,” he emphasised.

“A small white lie that would have been meaningless if we—if I—” Embarrassed, her gaze lowered to her hands on her lap.

“If summer hadn’t been so hot,” he helped with a mischievous glint.

The double entendre did not escape his wife-to-be. Her delectable mouth twitched. “That, too.”

His greedy eyes drank her in, his wife-to-be, yes. And why the fact caused his chest to puff, he did not fathom. Did not even admit it. “Come here, Catriona,” he commanded in a hoarse tone, the determination not to touch her flying into the drizzle.

That appetising tongue of hers darted to moisten her lips as pink washed her satiny skin. The woman was turning him inside out and not for the first time.

Several seconds elapsed with their gazes fixed on one another. At last, she moved, aided by his strong arms that brought her to straddle him; he thanked her wide skirts for the favour. She came willing, twining her arms around his shoulders, merging her fingers in his hair, rubbing her face lightly on his firm jaw.

“Your stubble really is…hm,” she delighted in a murmur.

“You like it?” he rasped, and cooperated, grazing it along her throat.

“Oh, yes.” Her head bent to give him ampler access.

“Where?” Unfortunately, the skin exposed by her tailored jacket was insufficient.

“You have no idea.” One of her hands slid down and pried entrance through his neckline.

“Try me.” He nibbled at the pulse on her neck.

“That day in the loch…”

“Ah, there!” And he did not mean the picturesque place, but a certain spot on her person. The image of her exploding with his caresses got him on the edge.

He raised his head and captured her ripe mouth. They kissed with days’ worth of craving. It spread in them like wildfire as she rubbed on him from chest to pubic bone. Her eager fingers infiltrated through the buttons of his shirt to tease him.

“I missed you, Catriona,” he drawled.

Their mouths fused anew, hungrier, while his hands palmed her buttocks.

“Fingal,” she moaned and moved to collect her skirts.

He careened fast into the point of no return. With immense strength of will, he caught her waist and put her at arm’s length.

“You can have me after the wedding.” he declared to her as much as to himself.

Looking at him with irksome eyes, she returned to her seat. “Blasted man!”

“After the ceremony, we’ll find the nearest bed,” he promised in hoarse tones, heated eyes roaming over her, “and stay there until we forget our own names.”

Her cheeks scalded with the intense colour of arousal.

 

Next morning, Catriona entered the inn where they had found rooms in Gretna Green. She had been to the village for a few necessaries. The weather gave a reprieve and a pale sun made its appearance.

Though full of doubts and reservations, she reckoned there would be no choice but to carry this through to its conclusion. She had been days away from her family; anything but this shroud of decency would taint their reputation in London, Anna included. She did not wish to make things difficult for her sister. Marriage to the blasted laird was the only way to straighten it. She had no right to choose otherwise after she had been caught practically red-handed.

A letter to her sibling might clear the whole charade, but a hunch told her Anna did not mind much this turn of events. Did she, Catriona, mind it? She wondered. That it would not be necessary to continue in unpleasant London counted a huge point. That she did not need to marry one of those watery lords, counted another. Live in the Highlands, one more. Be able to appreciate the best horseflesh she ever gained the opportunity to set eyes on, still one more. Marry the McKendrick giant.

Question mark.

Before answering this, she must define her feelings for him. Problem was, those were so entangled, she could make no sense of them. Her body held no objections, that was for sure. But this craving for him addled her mind and added fuel to her emotions. These changes in her life were happening so fast, it became difficult to separate the wheat from the proverbial chaff about what was real and what was not.

“Did you find what you needed?” Her husband-to-be’s husky voice poured into her ears like warm honey.

Snapping her gaze to him clad in his usual shirt and tartan, she mused if she would ever be immune to him. “Yes.” She showed the parcel she carried. “I’d just like to borrow one of your tartans, if you can spare it.”

Luminous cinnamon eyes raked her up and down as he nodded. “Come with me.” And he turned to climb up the stairs from which he had been descending.

The inn proved to be cosy and not too crowded as expected. He had hired two rooms so that she could use one to get dressed.

Catriona waited in the hallway while he picked up the garment. It usually had almost eight yards by about thirty inches, so it should do for what she intended. “Meet me in the taproom in an hour,” he instructed when he handed it to her.

With a gesture of agreement, she entered her room next door.

 

Dressed the most formally he could—crisp white shirt, jacket, carefully pinned tartan, belt, sporran, fresh hose, and shod in impeccable ghillie brogues—Fingal waited for his bride in the taproom where the blacksmith agreed to do the ceremony.

He did not stand there for long before he heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. His eyes alighted on her, and he simply forgot about everything else. In a snowy long-sleeved underdress buttoned to her throat, she had pinned his tartan in pleats around the waist and pulled it up to drape it around her shoulders, fixing both sides with a brooch over her bosom. The wool fell to her slippered feet in an elegant skirt. The green, black, and white plaid formed a perfect background for the midnight braid falling down one shoulder. She was the most dazzling bride he had ever seen in his entire life. And she would be his, officially his, in a few minutes, because she had become his in every other possible way.

A square hand extended to her, and hers rested on his when she neared him. “You look beautiful,” he said huskily.

A smile rewarded him as she placed her hand on the crook of his arm before turning to the blacksmith. “You too,” she murmured.

He signalled for it to begin, and they turned to one another. Gazes merged, holding hands, they said their vows with serious and solemn demeanour. Fingal produced a ring he had bought earlier and put it on her finger. When he received permission, he held her cheeks and kissed her possessively, making her blush gracefully. Fingal took and kept the certificate after the innkeeper and his wife signed as witnesses.

It was done.

Mrs Catriona McKendrick put her hand on his arm as he led her to the wedding breakfast.

.

The chamber door closed with an expectant click when Fingal pulled it. Catriona’s gaze darted to her husband, colour blooming in her face. Silence fell in the enclosed room while their eyes communicated at an entirely different level.

“I hope you didn’t think it too simple a wedding,” he said in that deep voice that always unleashed things in her.

She tried for a smile that resulted faint. “No. It was cosy, to tell the truth,” she admitted, striving to hide the sudden bashfulness that shrouded her.

He prowled a few feet towards her, and she fairly absorbed the view of him. “Didn’t you miss your family?”

Wide dark irises rounded on him. “Yes.” Her nostrils inhaled forgotten air. “But we can invite yours and mine over at a more convenient time.”

Fingal inspected her rigid spine, her restless eyes, and breathless state with a frown. “What’s the matter?”

The nearness of his steel frame, his attention on her, added sensation to bashfulness. She strived to emit coherent words which seemed to have fled the mind. “I-I—” Her throat swallowed the nervous lump that had lodged there. “I feel a little shy.” Dark head tilted, waving the braid slightly. “You know…I’ve never been married before.” The attempt to lighten the air seemed to have amused him because he drew a side-smile.

He stepped inches from the plaid skirt. “It makes two of us.” Blunt fingers lifted to her hair to pull down the ribbon and let it plume to the carpet. He proceeded to undo the confined style.

Her skin under the clothes heated where he brushed on it, and yearning started to override the shyness. The bathed scent of him and the familiar effect it induced sang in her insides.

Strong fingers unclasped the brooch, and one end of the plaid fell from a shoulder, the movement making it fall from the other as well, reaching the carpet. Her wide gaze raised to meet his in the light coming from the fireplace. He aimed at the underdress buttons while her breath caught, and when his palm covered one breast under the fabric, the shyness became history.

Her arms circled him as she glued feminine body to him with not a vestige of shame. “I have only to touch you, and you turn to pure fire,” he rasped in wonder before he took her mouth.

It was the first kiss of their marriage, the real one, if she did not count the speck at the ceremony, but it contained nothing mild. They kissed fully, their passion igniting like wildfire. Somehow, the underdress had the same fate as the ribbon as she stood in drawers and stockings and the molten heat that always accompanied his touch.

In a swift move, he caught her up in his arms and strode to the bed where he placed her and leaned over to bombard her with more kisses and caresses.

By now she had undone his shirt and pulled it down muscled shoulders. Her legs shackled him, and she went into a rage of need as his mouth closed on her breast. “Fingal,” she breathed in between moans. “I can’t wait.” And she arched into him.

He shifted to the other mound. “Oh, but you will, Catriona,” he growled. “You’ll pay me for a whole month of famish.”

As if it had been easy for her. He disentangled from his bride and shed his clothes to tempt her with his magnificence and the fully aroused spectacle he revealed. Damn, she wanted him so much it ached.

And it ached unbearably when he dived that sculpted mouth of his directly in the slit of her drawers in a full-blown attack on her sanity. His raunchy tongue jaunted over every single inch to take her to the extremes of need. He went on and on, making her arch her spine, the tension building fast and relentless. That wet, warm tongue made it worse when it flicked on just the right part of her. The storm hit with such force that it rattled everything inside as a long moan escaped her lips.

But he left her still hungry for him. In a sudden move, she came over him, expecting to ride his delectable erection and sate them both once and for all. Her legs succeeded in striding him, their eyes clashed with an inferno of want. He seemed to yield when he pulled the string that held the drawers for them to bunch around her thighs.

“Not yet, wife,” he declared, flipping her again to lie on her back.

He pulled the underwear down, leaving her merely in stockings and garters. And then he hawk-dived on her flesh anew, this time with nothing in the way. He flayed her sensitised core, intent on her not-too-far demise.

“Please,” she begged.

Her plea served simply for him to take her further into that heightened state as he used a finger to provoke her. It had time to move only once before she fell off an edge twice as intense as the first. The orgasm was so abrasive it robbed even her scream, and no sound left her except for a ragged gasp.

He braced his strong arms by her sides, eyes filled with urgency in the reddish firelight. “I do think you might be ready for me now,” he taunted.

She gave him no time for delays though. With her legs, she pulled him, and their bodies joined in a delicious deep slide. Both groaned with the absolute pleasure of it. A mischievous smile came to her lips. “Indeed, husband!”

Their words died as wild rawness engulfed them in the earthy delight they made together. She wrapped herself like a vice around him, arms, legs and all. They moved in tandem, each lunge more desperate than the last. Her body had missed him with such poignancy it seemed to meld with his hardness as he thrust again and again.

Their gazes met and held, adding a whole universe of unspoken feelings to their carnal joining. “What are you doing to me, Catriona?” he asked, panting and moving erratically.

She had no chance of answering as he drove the deepest yet and dissolved her in an endless turmoil of tremors. “Fingal!” she called when she splintered.

He quickened, grunts going frantic in shorter, broken lunges until he held back no more and poured all he had in her. His taut body collapsed on hers, and they lay entwined for a long time.

Bunched arms rolled them to snuggle her to him. When he took her again, it was slow, suave and maddeningly sweet.