Sleep had been an unaffordable luxury for days, Fingal thought as he walked down to the stockyard that morning. Not even fisting himself several times in the night brought relief. He had gone beyond these palliatives, it seemed. His flesh clamoured for the real thing. The real woman. Her. The only one he should keep at arm’s length.

For all he held sacred in this world, the woman was a veritable shrew. The moment she clutched her dainty fingers on his shirt and pulled him to that curvy body of hers, he nearly came undone. He admitted, if only to himself, he had taunted her, baited her, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Or perhaps the right thing, at the right time. He pushed her, and got his just desserts. Dessert, that was definitely the term. Because it had all been sweet, her sweet breath on his jaw, her sweet middle cradling his unruly desire. That sweet moan she gave when he provoked her even farther.

Of course she had not kissed his brother. The manner she had come on to him spelt it in capital letters on her delicate brow. Still, he had baited. And was rewarded with the fiery woman doing fiery things to him. He should have avoided it, spared her. Kept a drop of decorum.

He would not have had it in any other way.

Even if, afterwards, he must rush to his chamber and try one of those ineffective palliatives.

He should taunt her more times. Because it aroused the hell out of him. She did, in reality.

“Alright, I’ll talk to him a little more and you try again.”

“Aye, miss.”

Her voice and one of the stable lad’s alerted Fingal. Rushing, he neared the stockyard to see Fiadhaich in the middle with the bridle on, the amazon caressing his nose. The lad had a saddle in his hand, lifting it to the horse. The latter was not cooperating much.

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Dave?” he asked his employee.

“Helping Miss Paddington, my laird.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr McKendrick,” the impossible lass said as if she did nothing more serious than jaunt in the park. In London.

If she called him that once more, he swore he would carry her somewhere quiet and make her scream his given name. Countless times.

“I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Dave.”

“Aye, my laird.” And the boy left.

Clad in her usual serviceable riding habit and ebony hair coiled in a simple bun, she held the power to keep him staring. “What was that?” he asked instead.

“You’re late,” she quipped, not an accusation, just an observation.

Inevitably so; sleepless nights tended to do that to him. An ailment she seemed not to be suffering from if her predictable early hours were anything to go by these days.

“I’m here now,” he answered unnecessarily.

“We need to try the saddle,” she said to a spot over his shoulder. The lass had not looked at him once since Sunday. He did not blame her. Should their eyes meet, it might cause a conflagration, given the edgy state of their interaction.

It appeared a wonder they managed to train the Arab stallion in this condition. “Your call,” he compromised.

“I’d like to saddle him myself, but it’s better he gets used to a man doing it.”

“Fine, but run to the gate if he shows aggressive behaviour,” Fingal advised, picking up the saddle and approaching the horse.

He worked on the horse while she attempted to calm her Arab friend. Fiadhaich did not show much complacence. His front hooves dug the dirt, his head shook up and down, he paced and snorted. The whole time, the lass stayed with him and soothed his discomfort.

After they finished, Fingal motioned her to the gate. Fiadhaich did nothing at first, and they did not waste time to go out of the enclosed space.

The poor beast became really angry this time. He neighed, reared his front legs, kicked back, sprinted everywhere, trying to shake off his new burden. They were using an average English saddle weighing seventeen pounds, which was light compared with the stallion’s thirteen hundred. Fingal followed her lead, and they stood outside to see if Fiadhaich’s steam would wear off eventually.

It took the better part of an hour, but the horse accepted the saddle at last. He received his usual fare of praise, strokes, and carrots. Emily showed genuine happiness for the horse’s progress.

“Let’s leave him by himself for an hour more to give him time to come to terms with this new element,” the lass said sensibly.

“And what do you suggest after that?” he asked.

“Give him the day off and try again tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Fingal agreed.

His admiration for her soared. When he remembered the stallion soon after he brought him from Aberdeen and compared him to now, the improvement was undeniable. Her perseverance and dedication had been instrumental in the change. A lucky thing she answered the advertisement and came to Scotland. She proved to be the best choice for Fiadhaich. Especially because of the painful past the beast endured, a woman was exactly what the horse required.

The synchronicity of Fingal also needing a woman in his life did not cross his mind, naturally.

He would have a woman in his life in due time. One he had agreed with perhaps too soon.

No one had forced him to accept the match with the McTavish chit. But Emily was merely a miss that would not bring any alliance with her, and Fingal gave too much importance to his clan’s affairs to skip his obligations. He should forget he ever met her and put it past him as soon as she left.

While she remained, however, he could not take her out of his head. Day or night, she sat in a place inside him and refused to vacate it. Deep into the small hours, his thoughts roamed, imagining what life would be like with her by his side. Working together with the horses, sleeping together every night, squabbling over daily impasses, attending festivals. And children. A midnight-haired feisty little girl, for example. In the morning, he would scold his stupid reveries, telling himself to get real, the lass did not even like him. Though she enjoyed his kisses; that showed. And he liked to kiss her too much, truth be told.

He shook his head to clear his mind. He must go see to his livestock and not stand here staring at nothing, thinking of unrealistic matters.

 

“What do you make of Miss Paddington?” Drostan asked Lachlan as they sat in the laird’s study late afternoon.

“Nicer than the average Sassenach.” Lachlan sipped his whisky.

“No one would counter you on that,” agreed Drostan.

The lass intrigued him though. He had met her only twice, enough merely to be acquainted with her, and she did not volunteer a lot about her life in England. Still…

“Quarrels a lot with Fingal, it seems.” Sprawled on an armchair, Lachlan looked nonchalant, but his eldest brother knew better.

The McKendrick drank his whisky and waited. Silence made people want to fill it. He would know. He’d spent four years looking for a wife who had been right under his nose in the confines of the estate.

“We almost got into a punching spell when I took her riding.”

Well, that was interesting. “Sexual tension, you’d say?”

“Most likely,” the younger man said.

Despite his gallantry with the ladies, Lachlan was the hot-headed one of the family, not Fingal. But Drostan needed only to remember how his second brother had treated him the day he went to the stockyard to see the lass in action. Fingal had looked very much…jealous. “Should I tell her to stay here, you think?”

At that, Lachlan snapped his eyes to the laird. “She holds her own quite easily.”

She would; she seemed the strong-willed type. Question was if Fingal would hold his own, seeing as he’d got to the punching point with his younger brother. Not that he blamed any man for wanting a woman. He was in no position to judge as he could not keep his hands from Freya even after years of marriage.

“No one is pressing him with the McTavish chit,” Drostan mused. “We could delay the affair.”

“Said he’s sure of his decision,” the younger man informed him.

So Lachlan must have taunted Fingal, if he understood his brothers the way he thought he did. No wonder Fingal lost his temper.

“What about you?” Drostan asked. “Any lass with whom I should help you make a match?”

“Ha, too soon,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

“Soon? You’re thirty!”

“Aye, time flies,” Lachlan jested.

“There are a few proposals on the table, should you care to look into them,” the laird told him.

“I might,” the younger man agreed. “But I’d like to enjoy my freedom a little longer.”

“Take your time.” The McKendrick finished his whisky. “Just don’t wait until you’re old enough to be a grandpa.” And he stood up to go get ready for dinner.

“Not a bad idea,” Lachlan said under his breath.

 

After luncheon, Catriona took Debranua for a ride. Another day with a warm sun and blue sky made her contemplate how it was a good decision to come to Scotland this summer. She veered through a track leading east and let her eyes drank in the green land around her.

Rides in the country always held the power to calm her but would not give back these sleepless nights staring at the embroidered canopy above her head. Should the blasted laird think her punctuality was due to a restoring night, he would be in for a fall. She started early exactly because she got exasperated waiting for sleep and jumped out of the fluffy bed as soon as she could.

She must leave and would if Fiadhaich was ready to do everything she knew him to be capable of. She possessed no doubt he approached that point. In the last weeks his progress had been steady as he became more confident and realised people here would not mistreat him. Catriona sensed him close to bearing a rider. Her happiness flowed so intensely that tears came to her eyes. The horse had suffered too much and deserved a second chance, poor thing. After that, she would be done and free to leave. The horse came first; he was the reason she had come here, after all.

It did not take long until mare and amazon came across a loch. It must be the one she saw from her window though it sat amidst high trees. The placid water reflected the blue above, the soothing silence broken only by numerous birds. Dismounting, she let the mare drink from the fresh water while she stood on the grass, sighing at the view.

If only the blasted laird did not stir these feelings, this would have been the perfect reprieve from unattractive London. Not that she was complaining. The chance to come to the Highlands had been a precious one. But the strain to keep the man at arm’s length took its toll. She felt emotionally drained, like she was using her last resources. She just hoped she did not snap before she reached the grey, sooty city. The mere thought of their exchange in the entrance hall on Sunday got her skin feverish. The awareness of emptiness in her core rose to an unbearable point.

Her eyes darted to the loch. Its inviting water gave her the urge to swim. Memories of her girlhood flitted in her head. Anna and she used to go swimming in the lake near their manor on sunny days like this. Her father had taught them to swim before they had even learned to count. It became second nature to Catriona.

She did not hesitate. Her hat had already been discarded on the grass under the tree where the mare stood tethered. Boots and stockings followed the same route. Her hands lifted her ample skirts before she submerged her feet in the loch. Oh, it was deliciously fresh! Her eyes peered into the surrounding woods, but there was not a soul in the vicinity. Dare she swim? After undressing, that is. No waste of time thinking twice. In rapid movements she undressed and piled the clothes neatly under the tree. In her flimsy chemise and nothing else, she entered the water at a point hidden by the foliage. It soothed her overheated skin like paradise. Practised arms and legs swam from right to left and back again, her chemise floating with her movements. Better not stay long lest someone come, she warned herself, but she continued to revel in the water a while longer. Five minutes more and she would leave.

Not even a minute had elapsed when she heard horse hooves pounding on the earth. Her body lowered deeper into the water, garment glued to her curves, and she turned to the shore.

Tall, broad, and compelling, the giant stood on the shore, gazing straight at her. “Well, well, never thought a stifled Sassenach miss would shed her precious garments and enjoy a dip.”

She looked at him, trying not to stare too much, her heart at high speed with surprise and—sod it—anticipation. “What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“Hot day is it?” he said as if he met with her half-naked person every day. “Had the same idea, you know, cold water and all.”

“Alright. Give me a moment to dress and leave,” she said as though she did this every single afternoon, winter included. “Then you can have the lake for yourself.”

“Oh, no!” His square hand raised to the pin fixing the tartan on his shoulder. “I have you exactly where I never dreamed I would.” He undid the pin, and the tartan fell. “Stay right where you are,” he commanded.

Dark eyes bulged on his upper body clad in the white shirt. “What are you doing?” Pleated brows, she lamented the rather high-pitched tone.

“Undressing to join you, of course.” He was already unbuttoning the shirt.

If she snagged her gaze to his naked torso ever again, she would disintegrate, for sure. The water that had been fresh a minute ago, seemed to boil all of a sudden.

A million things came to her mind. She wanted to beg him not to do this, for she had to be the weakest woman in this whole island. But she also wanted to tell him to undress faster to feast on his disclosed magnificence. Then it crossed her mind she might leave the water anyway, dress, and dash away with Debranua. And she would hide behind a tree to watch him swim before she left—like an English miss through and through. Which she was not, so she did not run. She had to do something. Had to! Despair joined surprise and anticipation, literally mudding the waters.

But then, in one economical move, he took off his shirt. And she froze, not even caring if she stood in the water or not. She froze, mesmerised by the view of him. The sun illuminated the tanned skin peppered with brown sparse hair cradling those irresistible nipples and descending in a thread leading somewhere below the leather belt, the only thing holding his tartan around his tapered waist.

Fingal thwarted her eagerness when he bent to get rid of his boots and socks first. And made her wait while strong calves and blunt toes saw the light of day.

She lost her voice, so those millions of things would probably not leave her head. His cinnamon weapons arrowed on her at the precise second his hand caught the belt. Her breath arrested. The clink of the buckle on the grass preceded his tartan by a millisecond, dishing up the full view of what she had merely wrapped with her fingers under the wool.

Her jaw dropped. This or something else, because she could not find her lower lip, much less her tongue. Oh, she found them as the second licked the first as if staring at a steamy dish from the Olympus. Or Valhalla. Or Nirvana. Hades, more like.

The wide glare she directed at that must have done something to him, for that…that…glorious part of him started to become…become…even more glorious. Immeasurably more glorious!

Beautiful, manly feet strode into the water, in her direction, without an ounce of inhibition, or of fat, for that matter. She followed his progress into the crystalline lake, feet immersed, those delectable calves next; his solid thighs disappeared, and then his hips, to her utter disappointment. He pulled water to wet his unyielding torso as he stanched close enough for her to register his delicious scent. How unfortunate that the water hid those strong legs and the glory between them. But she still had his torso as consolation.

Fingal halted less than three feet from her. Fixed stare found his, intent on her. “To hell with everything, Sassenach,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse.

Yes, ‘hell’ was a very good choice of image. Scorching, tempting. And free of guilt. Especially free of guilt. The one place she would surely bump into soon enough with thoughts like these.

At a continual loss of speech, she gave in to her desire. Both her hands rested on his bunched biceps as her head bent, and she allowed her lips to close around his nipple, thirsty, eager. The expletive he released was dirty and arousing at the same time. She opened her mouth wider and took in more of his skin. She wantonly savoured the salty tang of the dusky, hardened peak mixed with its rough haired surrounding. More expletives came, added to grunts.

He held back no longer. He pulled her by the waist, and she collided with the whole of him as his mouth dived to plunder hers. Her moan seized in her throat while she opened for him to take everything he wanted. And give everything she needed.

The water splashed around them, her chemise glued to her torso above the surface, floating under it.

Two strong hands pressed her buttocks to a fully aroused member as her breasts turned to hardened points under wet, gone see-through fabric. Watery hands banded his neck when his open lips slipped down her throat to suck the sensitive curve of her shoulder before going on to repay her favour and closing on her breast over the soaked garment. Her hand pressed his head to her, incapable of silencing the moan that accompanied his torment. A torment so sweet it made her forget anything else, branding her with sensorial memories that would burn long after this crazy summer.

Agile, strong fingers rucked up her garment and pulled her legs to wrap around his hips, pressing her centre to his rock-hard stem, right where she needed him. As it collided with her swollen, molten core, that sensation he had unleashed at the hill teased her again. Dark head fell back as her hips instinctively met his in search of that same conflagration.

Her arched spine offered him more access to her breast, at which he ate with unbridled avidity.

“Fingal,” she pleaded as their friction built tension in her, her hips accelerating in a frantic rhythm.

“Yes, Emily,” he rasped on her chemise. “Yell my name and lose that nonsense of mister.”

And she did, after he pressed his hardness tighter to her, and she went up in shards of pleasure, screaming up to the canopies. His muscled hips rode her quivering flesh in the aftermath, holding her to him the whole time.

He walked to the shore with her still wrapped around him and lay with her on his tartan, the sun warming their dripping skin. Strong arms braced at her sides, his head lowered to catch her lips once again with a deeper, more carnal kiss. Their wide mouths devoured each other with urgency.

They came up for air, their gazes meshing. An expression of undiluted greed on his rugged features, he plucked the pins from her hair, making the midnight strands spread over the green, white, and black plaid.

“I should forbid you to hide this beautiful hair from me,” he drawled.

And she thought she should forbid him to wear any clothes. But she said nothing because his strong fingers grabbed the neckline of her undergarment and, in a determined move, tore it from her. A ripple of intense arousal bloomed in her centre, melting it all over again. It was exactly as she knew he would do as soon as her eyes had found him on that first day. The flimsy clothing fell to her sides while his heated scrutiny looked his fill, only for him to ravish one breast with a hungry mouth. His stubble rasped on the sensitive mound, multiplying the sensation a thousand times. She pressed it on him at the same time her hands bunched his luxuriant hair, asking for more.

When he lavished her other breast, his erection twitched close to her swollen centre, igniting such a famished ache as she moved her pelvis in search of relief. But the blasted man paid no heed. His sculpted lips trailed down her dewed body, through the dark triangle, to clasp unceremoniously to the drenching, slippery inner lips with gusto.

His tongue opened all of her, followed by his mouth full on the spot, licking, suckling, the movement abrading his stubble in her sensitised flesh. Causing an eruption worthy of a volcano, he did not relent, the torment making her see stars in broad daylight.

Her strained fingers grabbed his hair. “Fingal, come fill me.” Feminine pelvis seeking his wicked caress. “Please!”

Who cared about the rest? Her conscience had just shut down. That punishing emptiness he was mining her with filled her mind with thousands of images of how devastatingly delicious it would be if he used his body to bring her the so coveted relief.

“You know we cannot,” he growled on her, the vibration driving her to desperation.

His denial filled her with despair. The undiluted lust claimed satisfaction; his refusal made the ache unforgiving, her body roaring for his aid.

“Take me, Fingal,” she pleaded.

But he merely used an unsatisfactory finger, the merciless scoundrel! On the brink of exploding, she yanked him by his hair, only he never budged from his calamitous task.

And then it was too late, because the explosion he conflagrated was a veritable earthquake, more poignant, more acute than anything that came before in her life. Her screams echoed for the second time that afternoon. The whole world quieted when he came to lie by her side, wrapping her as her head rested on a bunched shoulder.

A long time passed before she could exact her revenge. Without warning, her head lowered to where his erect member rested on his belly, her dark strands waving around her.

Cinnamon eyes looked down at her. “Sassenach,” the rumble alerted. “Don’t even think—" Her lips closed around the reddened glans. “Blasted, bluidy hell!” With a hiss, his head fell back, revelling in her tongue exploring the tip. “Hold the stem,” he instructed. She did, and his breath faltered. “Suck me deep.” As she followed the directive, that obscene expletive escaped from him again. “Move your hand up and down.” He groaned, panting and moving his pelvis to enjoy her suckling to full extent.

He allowed her to work on his distended penis as she registered the spicy scent of him, the steel hardness covered in smooth skin until he got harder and bigger.

“Emily,” he grated, his hand trying to pull her off him. “Let go.” She paid no heed to him as he had done to her. “I’m going to—” Something undulated in his member, his hips erratic now. “Ah!” he rasped at the same time her mouth filled with his release, and she had the chance to taste it, salty and creamy, at last.

 

They lay entwined in the sun, Fingal rasping his stubble on her nape, her hair all over him. A sense of peace, of rightness, invaded him. It could be the warm weather, the still surroundings, the aftermath of the most blinding, mindless release that had ever wrenched out of him. But it was the woman.

Any rational thought he might have had evaporated the minute he saw her in the water. Dusky breasts showing through the soaked fabric of her chemise that now heaped like rags not far from the tartan. Savage starvation dominated him. The way her pupils dilated as he undressed had rocketed his temperature sky high.

And he sent the whole damned thing to the devil.

He would have sold his very soul for this moment. And did, naturally. He had no idea of the price his conscience would extract from him for this. And he did not care a bit.

Only for everything to turn tragic at her pleading. Damn it all! He had been an inch from granting it and plunging in her wet, hot channel. The unbearable pleasure would have torn him in so many pieces, he would have forgotten his own name.

He resisted with a dark resolve hard to explain, so she would leave at least with that intact, if nothing else. She had bestowed her reward soon enough, though, with a mouth that was a fantasy come true. And she tore him to pieces all the same with her willingness to give as much as to receive and single-minded fast learning.

It was getting hard again, for pity’s sake.

“Hm,” she moaned, wriggling her delectable backside. “Shall we do it again?”

The insatiable lass! He jumped up before things became serious. “Time to go,” he commanded.

The sun tilted to the west anyway.

His woman turned to look up at him, languid and inviting on his tartan. He hardened. The wretched flesh had a mind of its own.

Talk about insatiable.

Would he ever stop wanting her?

Probably not.

She got up too and stood before him in her dazzling beauty, full breasts, tiny waist, shapely hips and legs.

Call him weak, call him a scoundrel, call him mad, but he grabbed her by the waist once more and kissed her as if this afternoon had never existed. Her lithe shape clutched to his arms and legs, hair flying in the breeze, unreserved.

Clawing to a shred of self-control, he untangled their bodies. “We’re playing with fire, Sassenach,” he said and put distance between them.

“It does feel rather hot, yes.” Those molten dark eyes travelled over him.

It was a challenge to rip his gaze from her but he did, picking up his tartan and dressing before they headed back to the manor in the day’s waning light.