The Highlands, Summer, 1811

 

Fiadhaich, 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. For months now, the stallion had refused to comply. No amount of apples or oats had produced any progress towards such a 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 stable master’s efforts and wondered if he had struck a good bargain. His horseflesh made him proud, and he was equally as famous in all the Highlands for his expertise and love for his equine 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 sweaty shirt and stand there in just 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.

Though what to do next had been taken care of as he had put an advertisement in The Times requesting horse experts to come have a look at Fiadhaich. 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 equine prince did not appreciate. Fiadhaich started digging his front hooves, neighing loudly. Craig approached him and extended his arm to touch his fur in a soothing way. The horse burst into 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, and the other sides of the stockyard were too high-fenced to climb quickly.

Fingal moved to run to the gate but stopped when a woman approached it. Delicate hands opened it and small booted feet went inside the enclosure, closing it behind her.

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

With her spine straight, she stood barely inches from where the front hooves pounded the ground, staring up at the blue-blooded 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 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, and coiled up in a crown of glossy braids. He could just see her profile of small nose, rosy lips and a long, elegant neck.

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

Fingal still could not take 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 once it came down to her level. Fingal was about to shout for her to back away from 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 Fiadhaich even more and touched the long, elegant fingers of her other hand 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 was so real, he swore her fingertips traced his hair-peppered skin from his collarbone down to his— Heat and arousal slammed into him as his eyes remained glued on the scene.

The lass smiled up to the beast. Even though he could barely see half of her smile, to Fingal two blazing suns shone in the daylight. Her smile was even 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 horse, she hugged him and rested her head on his thick neck, her spine arching into the shiny black fur, accentuating her feminine lines. Fiadhaich became as docile as a kitten.

Who would not?

It was as if she had fastened her irresistible, shapely frame to Fingal and stroked her fingers through his dark-brown luxuriant hair. His temper flared with his reaction, though he thought he might go as docile as his horse had she done the same 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 turned her back to the horse without a second thought to her safety. “Oh, I am sorry, sir.” The cut-glass, top-rank, English accent was 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 incredulous ears, but in a voice which Fiadhaich must have become addicted for he never moved even a muscle.

A darling? his hazy brain countered.

“A Sassenach?” was the only thing his throat was 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, but they were also 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!

 

Catriona hoped she had been able to hide the impact that the man bludgeoned on her. He must be the most gorgeous specimen alive on the planet, in a state of dishabille completely foreign to someone used to the formality of the ton. She kept her mouth from falling open at the bunched muscles, the imposing height and the eyes that glittered in the sun. Those bright orbs measured her from hatless head to booted toes, sowing heat and goose-bumps in their wake. She had no idea who he was; all the men there were dressed in the McKendrick’s plaid. He could as well be the stable master. Whoever he was, she would never be able to forget the rugged beauty of him. The giant god was scowling at her, which did nothing to diminish the veritable steam climbing up her skin.

Her breath caught as a random thought assailed her fogged head. There would be no polite lifting of nightgowns with this one, no. He would tear it from his woman and plunge both in a furnace of unbidden delights. The image darted in her head to soar the temperature of a place in her she did not even have a name to, but now knew its exact location—in the very centre of her. Catriona gulped air in search of a modicum of self-control.

“He isnna a ‘sir,’” a middle-aged man said from the other side of the temperamental horse. Her head turned to him, grateful to eliminate the god’s frame from her sight. “He is Laird Fingal.”

And just like that, everything that had been red-hot inside her went cold. Frigid. This spectacular specimen would become her brother-in-law. How unlucky was that?

“There will be no woman horse-whisperer around here.” Her ears registered his deep, commanding voice before it did the meaning. “You can head right home, Sassenach.”

Catriona’s attention rounded on him and collided with those cinnamon eyes attacking her with contrariety and something else she could not read but warmed her up all over again. Her face morphed into pure rebellion. Who did this…this scoundrel think he was to treat her like that? He might be impressive, but he needed dire work on his social skills.

Delicate chin inched up in defiance. “You allowed me to come all the way to this god-forsaken hole only to send me back?” Clearly, she did not believe his stables to be a hole, even less forsaken. At first sight, they were fascinating, to say the least. The rogue got to her temper, though.

“You did not sign your female name on your letter,” he threw out, fists going to his tapered waist, legs bracing apart. His disagreement with her words could not be more blatant.

The movement displayed his overgrown biceps and lifted his chest even higher, half of it uncovered by his tartan and glaring their hair-peppered bronzed magnificence for her to feast on shamelessly. And a dusky nipple. For pity’s sake, she had never thought of male nipples before, let alone seen one. Its display was a cruel act when it induced the most lamentable wish for a tactile experience. A very tactile and very…extended experience.

Her eyes darted back to his suddenly—she had not noticed that they had strayed in the first place. Her cheeks flushed the brightest red. A side-smile on that sculpted mouth said he did not miss it.

“You have a need for a horse expert. I am one. Names and genders don’t signify,” she countered, happy to be able to formulate at least one coherent line.

Laird Fingal scoffed. “So, if I said in the advertisement that I had a problem with a mare instead of a stallion, it would not have signified?”

Now it was her turn to place her hands on her waist and look daggers at him. The man annoyed the blazes out of her, which made her even more defiant. “The problem with a horse would have been the same,” she cast back, because the real issue here was what they did not put into words, was it not? This unease straining between them.

His glare narrowed, and she guessed it might be because he owned no answer to that. His gaze faltered, too, lowering to her uplifted bosom, only to slowly come back to her eyes. Heated. A heat to which her insides responded in kind.

“My laird,” the middle-aged man spoke again. “Begging yer pardon.”

“Craig,” came the deep answer.

“The lass seems to have a gift.” One of his hands raised and scratched his forehead. “And ye’ve been trying long and hard.” The hand fell to his side. “We canna afford ter let the chance escape.”

Fingal’s scrutiny clasped with her again. “How experienced are you with horses?”

That the giant dignified to ask counted as a small victory. “My father has a modest stable, and I have been dealing in it since I was a toddler, Mr McKendrick.” She would not call him my laird for the life of her. Such deference would inflate the scoundrel’s ego even more.

 

Fingal dragged on glaring at the Sassenach—as if he had even a tiny chance of doing anything else. She spelt trouble. Sheer, incandescent trouble. From her defiant eyes, to her full, delectable breasts, to her firmly planted feet. Men lost their heads for much less. He did not usually think with his…lower parts, but he had a feeling she would mess up all his parts given the opportunity. The secret was not to give her such an opportunity.

Craig got it right. They needed someone with her ability; she had proven it in a mere five minutes. It would be safer to send her on her way, he knew. The circumstances did not allow for that, though--the solution being to let her do her trick as fast as she could and then send her well on her way.

“Fine,” he emitted to distract from nonsense. “Send someone to pick her things up from wherever she’s staying.” His men stood on alert. “She’s to move to my manor post-haste.”

The others scrambled into action while the lass moved to go.

“And Miss Paddington.” She turned those enormous eyes on him, and he almost lost his speech. “We start tomorrow at dawn.” If she proved to be the lazy kind, she would be in for a hard time here.

“I’ll be here,” she answered without giving signs of disgust at the early hours.

Drostan got him with a foot down the aisle, with his full cooperation. Fingal did not have the choice to veer from this track.  So, in the last year, he renovated the old manor Drostan had turned over to him. It took time, but he owned a presentable home now. One he was glad to go back to at the end of an exhausting day. Like today.

Except that today there would be a guest in residence.

An intriguing guest.

One he would make sure to forget all about in three seconds.

Three, two, one…

Nope, not happening, my laird.

 

Catriona looked up at the construction before her and her lungs released air in a gasp. A splendid manor stood before her all erected in grey stone, probably from the seventeenth century. A round tower with battlements on one side, elongated in the shape of a tall house on the other. She counted four floors in the tower and three on the roof-topped house. The stones showed the marks of time, which added to their charm. As she stepped inside, it took her breath away. It had clearly received recent attention with new panelled walls and polished floor boards. Impeccable drapes decorated the diamond-shaped windows and the huge fireplace in the main room looked inviting and cosy, though not yet lit.

The elderly housekeeper, Mrs Thomson, showed her to a guest chamber on the second floor of the tower. The room looked recently decorated, but kept a somewhat mediaeval atmosphere with its round shape and diamond-shaped window. The velvet drapes, the polished fireplace, and the four-poster bed completed the decoration. The latter included a fluffy mattress and pillows, and the counterpane had a very feminine embroidery on it. Mrs Thomson told her to make herself at home and that she would bring a tray of tea before she left the room.

As soon as she was alone, Catriona crossed the room. A peer through the window got her sighing wistfully. Green woods with a lake in the distance, as clouds in the horizon gave a touch of movement to the scene. Catriona had missed this so much. Her land, her country. How did she stay away for so long? Why did she not insist on more trips here? Because of that, few people would recognise her in the Highlands, this being the reason Laird Fingal did not. Her absence spoke of unrooting. Her parents were allowing her and Anna to forget their traditions and their origins. It felt sad, and it made Catriona pensive to realise she would marry an English lord and remain away from everything that defined her—everything she loved so deeply. She tore herself away from the view before tears pricked her eyes. No use bringing this about now. The opportunity to enjoy this summer in her homeland presented itself, and she would make the most of it.

Mrs Thomson entered with the tea and said dinner would be served in the main room. While she took her tea, she wrote to her mother.

 

Footmen brought the one trunk she carried for this trip into her chambers early in the afternoon. Presumably, dinner would be in the company of the manor’s owner, the impossible god, which would require her to dress accordingly. She was happy that she usually chose discreet and refined but muted apparels. The one in a celestial blue shimmering silk with a discreet neckline seemed proper. No need of a maid either as her clothing could slide on with ease.

The prospect of spending the evening with the man who would become her brother-in-law caused her insides to quiver a little bit without plain reason, though denying it would be a deplorable case of self-delusion. If there was one thing Catriona did not suffer from, it was self-delusion.

Taking a deep breath, she descended the round stairs and ambled ramrod straight to the main room. As she entered it, her heart somersaulted. Fingal stood there, a glass of wine in his big square hand, his hawkish profile cut against the fire in the fireplace, his gaze on the cool twilight outside the window panes.

Catriona had imagined, hoped—even concluded—that the initial impression he made on her was erroneous somehow. How irksome to find out she had been wrong. Irrevocably, dishearteningly wrong. His tall, broad frame was clad in a pristine shirt with a green, black, and white tartan wrapped around him, making him look like a warrior of old. A hot flush ran over her, followed by an icy one. She was not supposed to eye him with anything but that kind of casual familiarity one reserved for their in-laws. Tearing her eager gawk from him, she looked anywhere else, only vaguely noticing the renovated, comfortable furniture placed carefully around her.

“Mr McKendrick.” She made her presence known, training her eyes somewhere over his bunched shoulder.

He pivoted to her and cannoned her with a stare that seemed to see exclusively her. “Miss Paddington,” the deep rumble greeted.

Weak, earthly creature that she pitifully was, she directed a glance at him, defeating her determination not to succumb. And nearly melted at the sight of damp, luxuriant dark-brown hair, the shadow of an evening stubble on tanned skin, transforming him from warrior to pirate, to outlaw, a bandit, a burglar of her composure and strength of will.

The concept she had formed of herself had been of a woman unaffected by male attraction. Up to this moment, no member of the opposite sex had ever caught her…not attention, that word did not begin to describe it…her breath, yes breath; her lungs burned from lack of air. And she did not appear capable of drawing air in any time soon. No English lord had ever done anything for her, not so far.

It had taken one week travelling through precarious roads, from a longing to revisit her birthplace, for a highlander to overcome such a false assumption. And the most inappropriate highlander, in the most inappropriate manner.

“Mrs Thomson said I should attend dinner,” she blurted, her brain too dysfunctional for anything else.

His glare sauntered down her silhouette and before starting back up again, lingering on the swell of her breasts and her mouth before snagging back at her. It felt like an unbridled caress, sowing goose-bumps on every inch of her skin.

“It’s about to be served,” he assured her.

If these first minutes were a sample of what dinner would be like, it might be wise to retrace her steps. For the life of her, though, she would not act coward.

“Allow me,” he continued, motioning to one of the set places on a long table sitting to one side of the hearth.

In three large strides he neared to help her to a chair, and Catriona captured a faint scent of him, green woods and a touch of horse mingled with another subtle essence that made her want to press her nose to his taut muscles to inhale deeper. As she took her seat, he pushed her chair closer to the table from behind her. His breath fanned the nape of her neck, the sensation reflecting directly on her plucked breasts. The novelty of it did not diminish its intensity, and she took a few seconds to suppress it.

In economical movements, he moved to the other side of the table and sat across from her. Her gaze snagged to the candelabra with flickering candles because darting it to him would be disastrous.

The silence thickened with all the things unsaid, unsayable; she strove to break it. “It is a charming house you have here.” Neutral territory, and the safest.

His stance showed he understood what she was doing. “It sat in shambles until a year ago, when my brother assigned it to me.” A footman came to serve the wine.  “The refurbishing started then.”

She took a sip of the excellent Burgundy. “With remarkable success, I must say.” In between the lines it became clear the McKendrick gave him a place where he could house his future wife. Her sister, she reminded herself doggedly.

“This used to be the McKendrick dwelling before my grand-father built the newer one.” His focus trained on where the glass touched her lips. They tingled from his gaze.

“You have a big family, I understand.” She helped herself to the first course, though her hunger had disappeared. The hunger for food, that is, as for other types…

“Two brothers, one sister, and the next generation is already coming.” He lowered his head to his food, giving her the opportunity to appreciate him.

To be frank, she preferred him without the shirt, like the lairds who came before him. The broad expanse of his pectorals would not leave her memory in haste. And the nipple. Dear me, would she not let it go? The dusky skin planted amidst the dark hair had her hands itching to test its texture. Naturally, it proved to be much less risky with him all covered up in his flawless tartan and shirt.

“Nieces and nephews, I presume.” She dabbed her lips with the napkin, which was promptly followed by his focus.

“Two nephews and one niece,” he provided. Catriona had heard Aileen, his sister, had a son, Rory; and Drostan had Ewan and recently, Sorcha.

 

Fingal sat there feeding this inane conversation, struggling not to burst from his chair and do something about this rising heat that threatened to explode any minute. When the glass or the napkin touched her lush lips, indecent thoughts crossed his uncensored mind. The impossibility of following the impulse built inside him.

Nothing in her composure suggested the least inappropriate action. The fashionable blue of her dress might be labelled diluted, the neckline came just three inches below her collarbone, the sleeves reached her elbows, and her midnight hair was in a simple bun. But all of this added to his torture, for he imagined himself yanking the dress away, scattering the pins from her hair to reveal her dramatic beauty and the woman behind her sheer armour.

“Enough of me,” he declared. “Tell me about you.”

Her head tilted gracefully. “Parents alive, one sister.”

“That was a succinct description,” he mocked.

”There’s not much to say, I should admit.” She did not drink a lot of her wine, but he felt her thumb caressing the crystal glass as if it were right on him.

“It’s clear you come from a family of means,” he added. Her manners and clothing made that an understatement.

“My father owns land,” she summarised as her long lashes veiled her eyes.

This reluctance to disclose her background got him intrigued. Another piece of information flashed in his memory. The return address on her letter had been a postal box. Too mysterious for his taste.

“You earn your living with horse-whispering,” he probed. Though she surely did not need the money. What would a Sassenach lady be doing in the confines of the Highlands? he wondered.

“When the opportunity arises.” Again, she lowered her face to her plate.

He did not like her evasiveness one bit. She came from London because the stamp indicated as much. More than that? Difficult to fathom.

“Not an open book, I see,” he provoked.

Her brilliant dark eyes clasped on him and the contents of his brain almost vanished. “It’s just that there’s nothing unusual about me, not many things to talk about,” she emphasised, but he did not count himself reassured.

Nothing unusual about her? A young—presumably single—lady, traveling alone to this place, no maid, no chaperone, no one answering for her. What if it was revealed that she’s a fallen woman running from a mistake?

“Going from property to property to aid horses must make for a nomadic life.” His insistence would never be called polite, but who said he was a gentleman anyway? Far from it—and he was unwilling to fix the issue.

Her irises focused on him, sharp intelligence showing in them. “I do not do it so often.” The sip she took from her wine had an awkward drop to it.

“Many occasions to collect…adventures, perhaps.” His needling came from the desire to know who this intriguing woman really was.

Her whole posture turned rigid as she cast him a furious look. “What do you mean by that?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. He used to be nothing if not blunt in every dealing. There was no reason not to be so at this instant. “That you seem to be a worldly woman.” Fingal did not mean this in a positive way, and he did not care if his taunting rang presumptuous. He had met the chit mere hours ago, and she meddled with his lucidity without even trying. Which may explain—but not justify—the unpleasant comment.

Quick as a feline, she sprang up from her screeching chair, grabbed her glass and dumped its contents on him. “You will treat me with respect!” Even faster, she darted to the closed door, delicate hand wrapping on the door knob.

Red liquid dripped down his chiselled face but he paid no heed, still sprawled in his chair as if nothing abnormal had happened. “Sassenach,” he called silkily. After such an elegant meal, there remained no point in keeping with formal addressing.

The haughty miss froze without turning to him, waiting for what he would say.

“It should have been icy water, aimed a little lower,” he said to her straight spine.

“That can be arranged.” She yanked the door open and left, head held high.