Fingal waited for the doctor to finish examining Emily, pacing outside her room. The sun sank towards west as his thoughts raced in a jam of memories and musings.

He must be the most stupid man in the world to have succumbed to that lethally delicious kiss. The only one to drive him into the most deranged state of delectation and need he had ever experienced. One minute he was carrying her, and on the next, they were pressed against a stone wall devouring each other as if it was the last kiss in the history of humanity. The white-hot ball of fire that took him by assault shut down any lucid, sensible thought and drowned him in a desire so uncontrollable he felt lost.

And he needed more

No, he did not need more.

He needed it again and again and again. Until this unexpected, inconvenient fever abated. Relieved. Disappeared.

He was on the brink of getting married, for pity’s sake. There was no chance of entangling himself in this kind of situation.

For two things became clear. She did not have a husband. The evidence lay in the fact she had never been kissed before, leading to the consideration that she must be untouched. If so, she did not come here running from a scandal in London—which made him conclude she travelled to the Highlands simply due to the advertisement he put in the paper. No convoluted reason; she was not lying. It proved her an innocent, and one he held the responsibility to protect, guard. Not ravish.

That he had been the first to kiss her only threw him in a hellish pit of fire. That he could be her first man drove him to the verge of a feverish carnality. That she must remain untouched to get properly married made him mad with possessiveness. 

The prompt interruption by Craig had saved him even if the impulse to punch the stable master for tearing him from her at the gatehouse assaulted him. Luckily, he had heard the hooves in time to get outside and cool down his rampant condition.

At that instant, the door to her chamber opened, and the doctor came to talk to him. “She has only a small bruise on her backside. Nothing to worry.” He sported a balding head, a spine curved by his advanced years, and benevolent eyes. “I gave her a jar of salve for it.”

Satisfied, Fingal paid the doctor, and the old man took his leave.

An image stormed into his head of her spreading the oily unguent on that delectable pert backside of hers, enough to get him hard to the point of shedding all decency. It’s a bruise, you pervert! The admonishment held no dampening effect, however. He clattered down the stairs to his study pursued by the fantasy of his big hands rubbing the salve on her.

 

Catriona weaved her way to the back entrance of the manor in search of the back garden and fresh air soon after the doctor left. There had been no reason for the blasted laird to make such a fuss. Nothing had happened to her, but she had lay on her bed suffering the examination, trying with all her might to shut down what transpired mere hours before it.

She wrenched the door-knob when the very source of her torment appeared in the hall. Their stares crashed, and reaction exploded in every fibre of her. Her breath hitched while her heart gunned into a frantic speed, sweat blooming on her skin.

He stood a few feet from her in his tartan, shirt blessedly on again, tall, broad, and with eyes fixed on her like a big cat on its prey. But she did not feel like prey; she felt like a huntress who would pounce on him the moment he did on her, until the hunter became the prey and the huntress sated herself.

This house did not have an excessive number of servants, which meant it did not display that flurry of activity one would see in a townhouse in London. A refreshing thing, this sense of peace. However, the unfortunate consequence being the surrounding quietness.

“The doctor said there’s nothing serious.” Such banality of the comment came with a deep rumble that resonated in the very core of her.

Her spine locked to stifle the reaction. “A waste of time and money,” she stated, seeking steadiness, but issuing a silky remark. “I said there was no need.”

“I wanted to be sure.” His broad frame became solid, immovable.

“Now you are,” she blurted.

“You’d better follow the instructions.” The command sent the blood buzzing in her veins.

As she had used the salve after the doctor left, she had imagined Fingal doing it for her. The unwanted thought had put her in that state she had been in during the agonisingly insufficient kiss all over again, the ache so unbearable it had exasperated her. Its recollection now made a tide of vermillion invade her cheeks.

Those luminous eyes of his narrowed, jaw ticking restless.

“I already have,” she informed him.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his strong neck, gaze sliding to her hips. “I see.” Coarse, his voice came lower, too.

A spell thrummed in the space between them. It caged her, made her stand in the hall, bound by his stare and that raw masculinity of his. The prey and the hunter, the hunted and the huntress. The unsaid words, those forbidden desires, unconfessed fantasies—everything vibrated in the air.

Her mind shunned the imminent shutdown; her body fought that threatening melting sensation that would get her pliant and receptive. With a slight shake of her head in a dire attempt to dispel the atmosphere, she forced herself to sober. “If you will excuse me,” she clipped out and rushed outside, uncaring if it looked too much like a retreat.

 

“We will try again.” Catriona turned to see Fingal hanging a blanket over the fence.

They had started early this morning, and she desperately sought to act normal the whole time. As appearances went, she believed she succeeded. Inside, though, she was a mass of yearning, confusion, and ragged thoughts.

“Fine,” she answered.

With the stallion, sensible must be the word of order. The horse needed care and a gentle hand. An attachment for him began to flourish in her.

“If he does anything to you, discipline will be necessary.” A determined glint came to his eyes.

Positioning herself in front of the poor beast, she shielded him. “I won’t allow it.”

“You are the only one he seems to like. If he disrespects you, I’m afraid we’ll have to let go.”

Sadness came to her; such a marvellous animal to cast aside this quick. With a pivot to Fiadhaich, she caressed his flank wistfully. This new friend deserved so much more. Her hands caressed him tenderly. Her palm registered irregular patches on the coat. Her head bent lower as she noticed imperfections on him. Most of it was covered, but a closer inspection showed differently. “He was mercilessly beaten,” she said more to herself.

“Come again?” Fingal neared the horse.

Twisting to him, eyes pensive, she repeated, “I suspect he received cruel beatings.”

His features crumpled quizzically. “A fine Arab stallion like him?” His tone indicated he found the idea ridiculous.

“Look here.” She pointed out the faded flaws on his flank.

As Fingal raised his hand, the horse snorted and paced restlessly. “Go to the fence,” he instructed for her safety. Weary of men, the horse might have an unpredictable behaviour.

The stallion moved nervously, but allowed the man to touch him. The laird turned to her with a harsh expletive. “For the coat to be like that after this long, he must have endured cruelty on a daily basis,” he pondered.

“No doubt,” she agreed. “Who owned him before you?” Her disgust was evident on her face.

Fingal raked his hand through his hair, expelling air forcefully. “A man in Aberdeen. But I’m sure he wasn’t the only owner.”

“What about the paperwork?” she inquired.

“Only from this man. We have no way of tracking anyone else down, as it is.”

Catriona nodded in understanding. “He is hurt, weary, and suspicious,” she clarified. “Discipline will surely make it worse.”

Fingal jerked a nod. “You’re right, of course.” Hands going to tapered waist, he looked at her fiercely. “But if he tries to hurt you again, we call off the whole thing.”

“What will happen to him in that case?” Tears threatened to fall at the thought of this beautiful animal suffering what he had.

“I’ll give him sanctuary,” he answered. “We have a place in the estate for the old horses and cattle to enjoy their last years in peace.” After a pause, he continued. “Cows that had provided us with calves and milk, bulls that helped with calving and work, goats, sheep, and any other livestock that gave their lives to make the McKendricks wealthy obtain a humane treatment towards the end,” he explained.

Admiration swelled in her. “That’s reassuring.” Catriona gifted him with an approving look. “But I’m convinced our friend here deserves more time dedicated to his training. He might come around.”

“We do it your way, stubborn lass,” he compromised.

Without wasting time, she picked the blanket up under Fingal’s undivided watch and went to the horse. Talking to him, petting him, and soothing him, she put the blanket on his back. Fiadhaich displayed just a little restlessness but did not shake the blanket off him. Happy to the bubbling point, she produced a carrot from her riding habit pocket, which he promptly ate; she hugged his thick neck murmuring words of praise. This poor stallion needed love, a lot of love.

Meanwhile, Fingal had not torn his gaze from her for a single second. “Let’s see if he can trot with it,” he suggested hoarsely.

The blue-blooded beauty did not disappoint. Even if the blanket fell several times for lack of something to hold it, they put it back on and continued the training, at the end of which, he got more carrots and hugs.

 

Mid-afternoon, Fingal rode out to check on the livestock scattered through their lands to graze on the fresh summer grass, then returned to check on his thoroughbred in the stable. He did not see the lass walking around as she was wont to do; the woman enjoyed the outdoors, unlike some city-life lazy sods he had met.

“Did anybody see Miss Paddington?” he asked.

“Is out riding, my laird,” answered a stable hand who had come to take his horse.

Fingal’s rugged features made a scowl. “And you let her go alone?” She was not familiar with the terrain. Naturally, summer offered a pleasant ride, but one had to know where to go.

“Said there be no need,” came the answer.

“The woman is prouder than a queen! Of course she’d say that!” Quickly, he mounted again. “Which way did she go?”

“Seems she went ter the north track, my laird.”

“Never let her do this again, understand me?” he shouted before kneeing his mount into a gallop to zing like lightning through the fields.

Worry and anger duelled in him. The Sassenach was impossible. Too defiant, too independent, too outspoken. Too affectionate with his horse, too resilient—the woman drove him to the confines of hell!

He rode at breakneck speed, fearing what he might find, or how he might find her. More than half an hour later, he discerned her silhouette up a hill, standing beside her mare. Relief inundated him, closely followed by irritation at her insubordinate streak.

In a trot, he guided his horse through the track to climb up the hill. Her back to him, Debranua’s reins tied to a branch, she admired the view. Nearer, he saw a blanket spread under a tree and a small basket on it that must have been her luncheon.

Safe and sound, the stubborn lass.

The noise of his riding had alerted her, and she twisted to him, dark eyes startled.

Before his horse halted, he jumped to the ground with a thud. “Don’t you know you cannot ride alone on unknown terrain?” He tethered his horse.

 

Catriona had thought she would enjoy an afternoon of peace and quiet away from the unnerving man. But no. Here he stood in all his glory to unsettle the titbit of serenity she had mustered.

“I know it here!” she quipped, serenity vanishing in the air. “I’ve walked around the land.”

“Not miles and miles around, no.” He strode purposefully towards her.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she vented. His reaction was quite understandable as he had no idea this was her country, too. Did he have to be so…so…tempestuous? So deliciously tempestuous? “I’m alive and well, aren’t I?”

“Mere luck,” he countered, halting a few feet from her.

The crumpled tartan, the windblown hair, the irked scowl did nothing to alleviate the impact he never failed to have on her. Her heart skittered, her skin prickled, and her lips tingled with the too intense memory of that wretched kiss.

Her hands flew to her waist. “Wrong answer,” she defied. “I am a skilled rider.”

“In a strange country.” He did not give in to her argument.

Her chin lifted that half-inch telling of her defiance. “Not so strange now, is it?” A good argument as she had been there for weeks.

The afternoon sun glared on them. The heat had made her take off the riding habit’s coat to allow the warmth on her bared arms. They stood their ground in that battle of wills too full of undercurrents.

He measured her from her hatless, bun-coiled hair, down her coat-less riding habit to her boots. The bright cinnamon attention scalded every inch of her.

“Are you following the doctor’s recommendations?” His sudden change of subject had her eyes snapping on his.

Her mind reeled to get back on track with that onslaught of male energy tumbling down on her like a bucket of boiling tea. “Certainly.”

“How do you go about it?” he asked an octave lower.

Dark eyes widened on his, a furious tide of blush rising to her cheeks. “You mean for me to say—” She wished her high colour was due to embarrassment or even indignation, but it was something far baser, hotter. Unconfessed.

“Everything,” he clarified, looking down at her with a focus so intense it kept her enthralled.

Her lungs gulped rarefied air while her tongue darted out to moisten lips that had not been parched before he arrived.

Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. She breathed once more and tried anew. “I-I turn my back to the mirror.” she started hesitantly, her insides morphing into molten sensation.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Oh, yes, the mirror,” he rumbled, as if the piece of furniture held an inscrutable secret she could not fathom.

“I lift my-my—” If only this stammering was shame. She could not even use it as an excuse.

His stare became so fixed on hers that it felt almost hypnotic. “Your what?” he demanded.

“Chemise!” she was able to blurt out despite all the air clogged in her throat.

“You undress down to your chemise?” Silky and rough.

“And, well…and the unmentionables.”

At this, his stubble-lined jaw ticked frantically, his breath coming ragged. “So?”

“I take a portion of the salve, twist to the mirror.” She paused again because the effort to suppress her arousal took every inch of her rational process.

“After you have lowered your…unmentionables, I gather,” he added.

“Yes.” It came out as a breath and she had to moisten her lips again. “Next, I spread it over the…bruise.”

A strong, square hand raised to scatter the pins from her hair. It fell in glossy ebony waves down to her waist. His fiery inspection took in the length of it, absorbing the view as if he stood before a work of art.

 

“Do you fantasise about me doing it for you?” If he was going to allow her to torture him with the highest refinements of agony, she might as well do it completely, Fingal thought, not caring he was at the combustion point.

Her wide gaze came to his, magnificent hair all around her. “No.” And the dark orbs shuttered.

He breathed a disbelieving chuckle. “Liar.”

Her expressive eyes blinked several times before going back to his. “I am not.”

“Tell me,” he ordained.

Delicate brows pleated. “No.”

“Tell me, damn it!” The harsh command did not disguise his volcanic arousal.

“You make me lie on my belly.” Her posture stiffened..

“Clothed?” he taunted.

“No, down to those two pieces.” Her satiny cheeks painted vermillion.

He imagined her lying on the rumpled bedsheets, flimsy chemise covering her; she would look back at him, her reflection on the mirror sure to give him many angles to her pert buttocks.

Why on Earth had he asked about her fantasies? He was not going to hold it! “Go on.” His voice could not be any hoarser than this.

“You bunch my chemise.” The look she cast him dared him to withstand the ordeal. “Then lower my drawers.”

In his mind’s eye he saw her uncovering the round nether cheeks and himself lying on her, cradling his near-bursting member on the crease and—

Damnation!

“I would have shredded the stupid thing in a million pieces,” he vented.

The torment could not get any worse, or…

“You dip your fingers on the oily salve.”

Blasting hell!

“And apply it to the bruise.” Her perfect face flushed, and he could see her breasts peaked under the fabric.

“What else do I do with my oily fingers, Sassenach?” he drawled, going fairly mad with the images she evoked.

“With your fingers, nothing, but—”

How unlucky.

“You kiss the bruise.”

The quip came so unexpected that it threw him in an ocean of lava. “Have pity on me, woman!”

And he let the reins loose. His palms covered the body part in question and pulled her to him, cradling his pulsing erection in the softness of her. She moaned before he pressed his mouth on hers in a desperate kiss. Her arms came around his bunched shoulders to glue them even more together.

He did not plunder her mouth. No. That would be too simple an action where this fiery woman was concerned. They plundered each other’s mouth with such famish, disintegration was a very real threat. A veritable combat in search of pleasure, she gave as good as she got, without knowing he would most certainly shame himself in a question of seconds.

Who cared?

They kissed deeper, hungrier. More explicitly.

Of course it was not enough. Would it ever be?

His open mouth slid down her neck, savouring the delicate skin as her head fell back, allowing him more access.

Impatient hands yanked down her sleeves, making her breasts spill out gloriously. “Beautiful,” he rasped as his mouth fell on one straining nipple, fingers teasing its twin.

“Fingal,” she uttered as her hands held his head there. He filled his mouth with the sweet mound.

His name on her lips got him just that bit more in danger.

 

If anyone asked Catriona how she had ended up plastered against a tree trunk, with the giant pressed on her, she might try at varied answers, none correct.

Why did she idealise that lost serenity when this unbridled passion felt so much more worth it? The surrounding reality vanished as he transformed her into a starved woman, shameless. Daring. The yearning had transformed into something raw, mindless. Instinctive.

She forgot her name, her manners, an entire education devoted to suppressing anything remotely womanly, sensuous. Free. It flew out in the sultry air of this uncommon summer. Like the threadbare peel of an onion, it crackled away to uncover someone she would not have recognised even a week ago. This rearing passion smeared its inevitability in Catriona’s face, and she welcomed it with all the openness of a recruit to the ranks of pleasure.

Those callused hands rucked up her skirts, throwing what had been left of her lucidity in the dirt. “I am going to show you what my fingers can do,” he growled.

In a second, those fingers found the spot she had never taken notice of, but ached so much now she would sell her soul for the relief. As he touched the swollen, drenching centre of her, relief seemed the furthest, most unattainable redemption on the planet.

“So wet!” he rumbled. “The oily salve would have been superfluous.”

The experienced hand leafed through her, and the ache morphed into pure, hopeless agony.

“Wrap one leg around me,” the dark voice commanded.

As she did it, his tragic fingers got more room to take her to despair. “Fingal, I need…I need, please…!”

“I know, I know. I’ll make it better.” The promise did ring untrue.

But he teased, he circled, explored, insisted.

When she thought she could not take it any longer, his mouth suckled on one breast.

And the world exploded in billions of tiny shards as she screamed to the point of causing the birds to fly for their life. He never stopped, and she burned to ashes time and again. After the storm, she fell back against the tree, breathless and sated.

A long time elapsed before her breath calmed down and she descended back to earth. Fingal held her against the tree trunk, stroking her with his hands and lips in a soothing way.

But the hardness of him still imprinted on her.

“I want to do it for you,” she stated, looking at him.

He braced his hands on the sides of her head, intent glare on her. “Better leave it be.”

Her hands were already sneaking under his tented tartan, though. A palm rested on a hair-roughened thigh and climbed tantalisingly up, revelling in the texture of his skin.

His gaze went up to the blue sky in an attempt not to feel what he must be feeling. “Lass—” he warned.

Catriona had no intention of heeding anyone’s warning in the hazy state she found herself at that moment. She continued the journey up the muscled limb.

Fingal closed his eyes, head falling forward, almost meeting her forehead. “Don’t—” Her curious fingers reached the base of him. “You cannot—” and closed around the thick, hard base. “Bluidy hell!”

Eager, she explored the new territory in a rather clumsy caress to the tip of him. “Goodness me! This is big,” she exclaimed in low tones.

“And it can get messy, too.” Her caress ripped a grunt from him.

The thumb strolled over the tip to encounter its slit flowing with moisture. “Wet, just like me.” Her thumb kept at it.

His serrated breathing told her he might be enjoying it. “Damn it, Sassenach!” And he gave up, as one large hand covered hers to teach it what he liked.

She followed like a good pupil, and in a minute, he let that hand fall limp by his side, his hips moving back and forth.

His thick lashes lifted, orbs fixed on her still uncovered full breasts, bouncing with her strokes. Midnight hair fell down her back and over her shoulders, surrounding the mounds. The sight of her made him speed up his thrusts, both arms bracing her.

“This enormous thing would never fit,” she said, admiring him with her hands.

More grunts saw the light of day while she perfected her learning. “I wish I could surprise you.”

“And I wish I could see it.” It seemed to have gone harder and even bigger.

His arms trembled with the tension in his body, his breath coming in short puffs.

“Faster!” He directed with urgency. She did it, never taking her gaze from his contorted features. “Don’t stop, don’t…ah-ah.” His head fell back with a raw grunt. And then he soaked her hand with something hot and sticky. He kept on thrusting in her fisted palm a few more times until he fell on her.

Catriona retrieved her hand from under the wool to see it covered in that white liquid. She brought her hand to her nose to inhale a spicy scent. The tip of her tongue touched it.

“Hell, Emily!” he said, looking at her. “Do you want me to go hard again?” He seemed enthralled with her tasting of his seed.

A mischievous glint came over her face. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Impossible lass!” His tall frame rolled to lean on the trunk, sated and vanquished.

 

Catriona and Fingal returned to the manor in a calm canter. She had galloped with Debranua for a long time before choosing a spot for her luncheon. The stable hands had exercised the mare in the stockyard in the days she had not time to ride her, so she had missed the dear mare. The ride through woods and meadows dotted with lochs and brooks had been invigorating and soothed the longing for her land a little more.

After a lengthy while under that tree, Catriona had sprung into activity, putting herself to rights, gathering her things to mount and return, mirrored by Fingal.

She blushed anew at the memory of what had transpired on that hill. No sign of embarrassment or shame so far, and she wondered if they would ever make an appearance. They should, for her reputation and for the role Fingal would play in her future.

There were too many complications in said future. Eventually, they would meet as clans, and no one could predict his reaction when he discovered who she was. Knowing him as she did now, not very smooth. They would have a story by then, a secret.

Anna had not the remotest wish to marry a highlander. But their father had stipulated as much, and, despite her sister’s lack of enthusiasm, Catriona doubted she would go against their father’s edict. Too much was at stake in this. Added to that fact, Anna always gave utter importance to alliances, status, and position. This marriage agreement, though not to her satisfaction, meant she would have a place, and a high one, in the McKendrick clan.

Guilt came to her at the thought, at last. The passion that mushroomed every time the blasted laird touched her had been stronger than any resistance. Catriona wondered if she should have tried harder to stop it. She was discovering in herself a woman she had never imagined she would ever be. She knew her desires to be wrong; she regretted them, but found it extremely hard to keep them at bay. How deflating to realise she possessed a passionate nature and that it would not be easily confined.

Perhaps she would be lucky enough to marry Lord Tremaine before Anne’s betrothal and live in the Earl’s seat, avoiding meeting her brother-in-law to be.

Not coward much. She reproached her gauche thought.

What she really must do was to avoid any further…interaction with the McKendrick god, leave here as fast as she could. And resurface in London to attend to her obligations before things got to the point of no return. Of no forgiveness. Or of no forgetting.

Should she manage not to allow the whole…debacle to go too far, she would be able to put everything down to some sort of summer madness and get along with her life.

“What’s her name?” the god in question asked with his sinful rumble.

Catriona rounded on his magnificent figure startled. Great! Now what must she answer? Her name is Debranua, you know, a Gaelic name. What a coincidence!

Yes, right.

Well, why not? The less she lied, the clearer would be her conscience. “I named her Debranua. I read she was the Celtic goddess of speed.”

He directed an appraising look at her. “At least you are not one of those English misses who believes England is the centre of the universe.”

A self-deriding half-smile drew her full lips, swollen by his kisses. “I would never think that.” If he only knew.

“You surely seem to have no problem living away from London,” he commented. His countenance looked less rigid, less tense, his body with more relaxed muscles.

“London bores me. I prefer the country.” They rode through a copse of trees where fresh air and the scent of grass invaded her nostrils. She wished she could stay in the Highlands for life.

“You do surprise me.” His strong hands guided his horse around a big oak tree.

“I’ve always thrived in my family’s country seat.” It seemed right to tell the truth. “My mother prefers London though, so I’m forced to live in the city most of the year.”

He nodded in agreement. “You’re not happy with the arrangement.” She must give points to his perception.

“No, not really.” Her attention flew to the distant green hills.

“Consider yourself invited to visit whenever you want,” he said.

She turned a wistful smile to him. “Thank you dearly, but I’m afraid it’s rather unfeasible.” Not only because of distance. It had to be the worst idea in all the geological eras. “I might be able to live in the country in the future.”

In a blink, his chiselled features crumpled, like a sunny day snapping into a storm. “You mean by marrying.”

“Who knows?” The vague answer intended to avoid the rough territory.

Fortunately, they neared the stables, which put an end to the muddy conversation.