She must tell him her full name. Catriona sat on the back-entrance steps late that night, unable to conjure sleep. It was only fair to do it.

This afternoon in the loch had been delectable, although she had no business allowing it. She held no regrets about the…interlude itself. But he would be the man her sister must marry and she, well, would do the same with another man, now with a full education on what might transpire in the chamber. Or wherever the mood took it, for that matter.

Darn it! She had gone far, too far. Had he granted her wish, she would be completely initiated in the arts of the, say, alcove. And still she would have no regrets about the occurrence itself, unless it brought consequences, then she would be out of her depth.

Having gone to this length, she got a clear idea she owed him an explanation. She did not know him that well yet, but there remained no doubt that, should he sniff out knowledge of her parentage, he would waste no time in talking to her father. Fingal would take her to the McTavish manor in chains if she refused to go. The entire Highland would get word of it, her reputation torn and thrashed. She would break her mother’s heart and make her father bitter.

You should have thought of this before you travelled, you ninny! The admonishment served for nothing. Who would have thought she would get these ragged feelings for the very man her father had designated for her sister? All she had wanted was to see her beloved Highlands after being away for so long.

On the other hand, if she continued incognito, the whole thing would remain a secret that would probably lose importance in time. No one would get hurt and everything would go to plan. Naturally, she would have to count on her ability to keep it quiet.

She tightened the wrap she had thrown over her nightgown. Despite the day’s warm temperature, the night became cool. Inhaling the fresh air, her dark gaze lifted up to the limpid night and its waning crescent moon.

Perhaps, at this point, less damage would befall everyone involved if she did not come clean at all. Her sister would take time to get married. The blasted laird had taken no interest in his intended, had not written, visited, or started any form of communication. This lack of communication was readily mimicked by Anne, who did not relish the idea of leaving London. It might be a few years before this came to fruition. Until then, he would become a yellowed memory for Catriona. And he would surely not even remember her name. She got a fair notion of how men went about collecting trysts. They said Lachlan was the clan’s Casanova, but every man kept skeletons in his closet. Or former paramours, in this case.

Why should she not? Have one skeleton in her closet, that is. At the very least, she would not dread her wedding night. Though she would dearly lament the groom. The washed-down, pale-in-comparison groom.

Steps sounded behind her, then a tall figure sat at her back, one strong leg at each of her sides. The scent of green woods and man was already familiar. He wrapped powerful arms around her, and she leaned on his broad chest.

“Can’t sleep either?” he rasped in her ear as he traced the organ with feathery lips.

She sighed with the pleasure of his presence. “No.” Her head fell back on his shoulder, the long midnight tresses appearing from under the wrap.

The dark sky blinked with billions of stars she had not taken notice of until that moment.

“We may as well sit here and watch the planets journey the universe.”

For years and years, she contemplated.

“In London, it’s impossible to see this sky, with the fog and light,” she commented.

“Dreadful place, I’d say.” The deep voice was a caress to her ears.

Catriona merely nodded in agreement.

“Did you know we can see the Aurora Borealis here?” He asked, referring to the Northern Lights.

Of course she did; she had seen them countless times. “Can we?” she replied.

“They are the most beautiful in autumn, though.”

“Pity I won’t be here to see them.” This was true.

“Once, I sat here and suddenly the sky tinted with green, purple, yellow. A feast of colours.”

“Waxing poetic, Mr McKendrick?” she teased.

He rumbled a chuckle. “Call me this one more time and see what happens.”

“What?” she challenged. The idea evoked all kinds of wicked thoughts in her; she shivered, imagining the delight.

He must have thought she was cold because he rolled his tartan around them, cocooning both.

“Wait and see.” His arms tightened around her.

The heat of him, his scent, the strength emanating from his frame lulled her and infiltrated that traitorous wish for longer with him. It felt as if they had formed a bond of some sort, or she held a connection with him that had no chance to go any further. She forced her mind to dispel the notion.

“You like it here,” he murmured, lips just below her lobe.

It was more statement than question. “Nobody in their right mind wouldn’t.”

“Maybe you could stay,” he said.

Her eyes snapped to him at a loss of what to answer.  She did not need to be a genius to understand what he meant—for her to stay as his paramour. Work together and…sleep together. And the worst was, she could not even feel offended, for she would grab the opportunity with both her hands, had she the chance. The possibility of letting herself be consumed by him and this yearning caused a ripple of heat to bloom in her middle.

“There’s always a place for a good horse trainer,” he continued.

Dark gaze flew farther than the galaxies out there. “I can’t. I need to go back to my family.”

“Go, then come back,” he insisted.

Her lips breathed a little laugh. “If it were that easy...” Under the tartan, their hands entwined without even noticing. “A woman is not so free as a man.”

“Hm,” he acknowledged. “Should you change your mind, you’ll have a place here.”

“I’ll remember that.” She would, with sorrow and more longing than when she arrived, for the man and for the land. Another sigh escaped her as she burrowed further against him.

They stayed like this for long minutes, letting the night envelop them as if they were celestial bodies, too.

“Come here,” he murmured, turning her to him.

Her shoulder met his chest as he placed her legs over one of his, a strong arm supporting her spine. Their gazes interlaced in the dim light before he kissed her. It was not a kiss of passion; he made this one a sea of tenderness, containing more unspoken words than the stars. Cradled in his arms, hers lifted to circle his neck. They clung on and on for what seemed hours, hands roaming each other’s torsos.

Coming up for air, he looked at her. “I can’t keep my hands off you, Sassenach.”

A faint smile came to her swollen lips. “Same here, Highlander.”

His brow lowered to touch hers, one of his thumbs appreciated her cheek, their eyes meshed.

Warm, soft feelings bloomed in her, spreading their light inside like a torch. Something in his expression made every pore glow with a sense of closeness so intense, she just wanted to sit there the whole night, the whole year, the entire eternity. Holding him, absorbing his heat, his scent, and all those words they did not say but swelled so clear in the narrow space between their bodies. Her heart filled with these bright emotions. So much, she ached with the need for him, his proximity, to never let go.

They had known each other for such a short time. They had strong personalities, fierce points of views, but all of it composed those emotions. Because in these short—too short—weeks, she came to admire his care for animals, his integrity, the commitment he showed for his clan, the bond with his brothers and father. Her admiration and respect for him only grew. Dangerous, so dangerous. Coupled with the sizzling attraction, these emotions announced something deep and consistent she should not acknowledge for the life of her. This awareness almost brought tears to her eyes. To hide what coursed within, she pressed her nose to the wool of his tartan and inhaled his manly essence as if to engrave it in her sensorial memory. If only she could engrave more, everything.

If she did not leave now, they would end up somewhere improper, like his bed. Or hers. Her insides gathered the utmost courage. “I’d better go.” Her voice meant anything but sensible.

His nostrils sucked in air as he took long moments to finally jerk a nod and release her.

Her voice was enough only to mumble a good night and go into the manor before she faltered, weakened, gave in, threw everything into the wind.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Fingal asked days later in the stockyard.

The memory of the night under the stars would not leave him. It lingered, and lingered. Then lingered some more, with that insidious wish to do the same countless times, have her here indefinitely. That she refused his proposal did nothing to weaken such a wish.

He would like to think he was a good man, that he would follow through with his marriage arrangement. Become a staid husband, and carry on with his life in the clan. But he realised he was not that good man, and he could not care less. He wanted her despite everything, and it grew increasingly difficult to bear in mind his duties to his clan. Because her presence here took all his energies to deflect what she provoked in him, body, mind, and soul. And he was going out of his mind. With the added exasperation that he did not have the slightest idea of what to do about it.

“Mounting him,” she said and moved to vault up Fiadhaich, who stayed put, against all expectation.

Astride, by the looks of it. He nearly burst up in flames at the images that stormed in his head of her riding him astride. Devil take his sorry hide, but there was no avoiding these thoughts when he came near her.

In these last training sessions, they had been using the bridle and the saddle, to which the stallion got progressively used. He had not displayed signs of rebellion since the day they put the saddle on him. It should be only sensible to conclude the horse was ready for a rider.

“No, you’re not,” he answered.

The mere possibility that the horse might throw and hurt her made nausea curl in him. Never mind a lass mounting a stallion that large and unsuitable for her. She had to be either too bold or too daft. Since her intelligence seemed alright, it left him with her temerity. And his own awe at her skill and single-mindedness in carrying this out without hesitation.

“I got my foot on the stirrup and he hasn’t moved.” Her coiled midnight hair evoked in him the desire to go there and loose every pin that held it. Destroy them, destroy each pin in the world so she would not keep her beautiful mane from him. “He seems to be letting me upon him.”

“Get down, Sassenach.” The Arab beast had protested every new element they introduced to him; the chance of him rebelling now loomed too high.

Her magnificent dark eyes attacked him with vexation for several seconds before she defied his order by taking impulse and climbing up her equine friend. Her wide riding habit skirts allowed it, bunching slightly to show her boots.

Fingal froze, the wrenching fear of losing her—should the horse spring and cause her to fall and break her neck—almost suffocated him. He did not allow panic to dominate him though; he strived to stay alert, in case he needed to stop the beast even if with his bare hands.

Fiadhaich did not move. Neither did Fingal, lest the animal react badly to a sudden rush.

The impossible lass smiled and caressed the strong neck as she coaxed him to go with slow, small pulls on the reins and knees. Miracle of miracles, before the laird’s own eyes, the horse started on a walk as if he was the sweetest gelding ever to roam the Earth.

The stable lads stopped what they were doing. Craig, who was passing by, stood outside the fences, jaw dropped. Fingal lifted an imperious hand ordaining everyone to continue quiet.

No one seemed to think it weird her riding astride, marvelling instead at the horse whose name made a mild description of his indomitable nature.

Emily did not cease to talk to the stallion, treating him with care and handling him with utter thoughtfulness. Under her competent tutelage, the horse trotted, cantered, and even galloped for a few minutes.

First frozen from fear, Fingal morphed into mesmerised by the image of his brave amazon on the purebred. A myriad of tangled impressions crossed him, tying him in a million knots. Amazement at her accomplishment, admiration for her resilience, satisfaction to see his horse so happy for the first time in months. And the hottest desire that had ever collided with him. It came on so boiling his mind almost stopped functioning.

But it still worked enough for him to see the other men looking at her with equal coveting.

And then he burned with murderous jealousy.

At that second, the lass halted the horse and dismounted in graceful movements. When she landed safely, the men exploded in applause and cheers, eliciting a smile from her. “It’s not me,” she said. “He is a darling,” she praised the horse as she gifted him with a carrot.

Still, the bastards coveted.

They were treated to a lethal scowl as Fingal gave a curt wave with his hand, dismissing them summarily. They left none too content.

His attention returned to her as her brows pleated at his curtness with his employees. Those confounding impressions blinded him too much to care. His strong fingers grabbed hers, and in large strides he took her to the adjoining shed and banged the door shut. Pressing her to the wooden wall, his large hand lined her nape. “If my men watch you riding astride ever again, I’ll kill them all!” he growled before he pillaged her mouth.

A moan stuck in her throat while her arms circled his shoulder, fingers merging in his hair.

Oh, yeah.

He buried his instantly raging erection on her soft belly and deepened the kiss as if his life depended on it. It did because he might die from his lust for her.

Wide skirts and all, she looped one leg around his and pulled him even closer. He had never imagined he would find such a fiery woman in his entire life. The simple gesture drove him close to undoing for the simple fact it showed how much she wanted him, too. Earthy and sensuous, his amazon.

Frantic, breath ragged, he unbuttoned the riding habit’s tailored jacket and scraped his stubbled mouth down the low neckline it revealed. He inhaled the woman scent on her satiny skin, desperate for more. Her sigh was response enough to fuel his out-of-control self.

“I’d give ten years of my life to be inside you,” he groaned on her sensitive skin.

“Yes,” she breathed in agreement.

Fingal clasped his mouth to hers again as if it would quench a thirst the likes of which he had never seen in his life. It would not quench it. Nothing would.

But they tried.

And failed miserably.

A soft neigh out in the stockyard took Fingal out of his hazy craving and dissatisfied state. He lifted his head to her, to find the same haze in her eyes, flushed skin, and ragged breath. He put distance between them to register his tented tartan.

Forceful air escaped through his nostrils, and he raked his hand through his luxuriant hair. “You’d better go before someone happens on us.”

Eyes wide on him, they drank on each other for long moments as she nodded and buttoned the tailored jacket, leaving the cramped space.

 

The day had come when they would risk Fingal mounting Fiadhaich. Catriona’s heart beat with blistering speed at the mere idea. That the horse took her did not appear so out of sorts, seeing how he accepted a female better than a male. But a man was something else.

She had ridden the stallion several times in the last few days, but exclusively in the fenced space. It would not do to get him used to her taking him around the estate when she would not be the one to ride him on a daily basis. Her intention had been to check if the horse would accommodate a rider and pave the way for a man to do it.

Now that it was happening, dread mixed with anxiety and restlessness. The powerful stallion’s response might very well be unpredictable and utterly dangerous. If Fingal got hurt, she did not know what she would do, how she would react. Badly, no doubt.

Catriona remembered how the Arab beauty had become rebellious when they first bridled and then saddled him. The poor darling had suffered too much.

That morning, ready for a ride, they had exercised him for a long hour. There was no delaying it any longer.

“I’ll soothe him, while you mount.” she offered when Fingal approached Fiadhaich.

“You will do no such thing.” Why the blasted laird insisted in ordering her about was a mystery since she almost never heeded him.

“He might react badly otherwise,” she debated.

“Exactly because of that, I want you safely out of the way,” he insisted.

The stable staff wandered about at their tasks but seemed attentive to what took place in the stockyard.

“And precisely because of that, I want to stay here and see if I can avoid it.”

They faced each other stubbornly with a few feet between them while the stallion stood by their sides.

“Damn you, Sassenach!” he said under his breath.

She grinned at that. “Ready?”

“Yes, but promise me to get outside as soon as I’m mounted.” Fists on his hips, he looked directly down at her.

Catriona made a show of sighing with aggravation. “Agreed.”

Despite her bravado, her fear for his safety increased—not a positive thing when animals could sense your mood. With a deep inhale, she tried to calm herself.

As Fingal put his foot in the stirrup, Catriona talked with Fiadhaich in soft tones. When the laird sat on the saddle, she gave him a carrot. The man’s other foot was placed in the other stirrup, as well.

“Leave,” he said curtly.

With no other choice, she did after caressing her equine friend on the nose.

Out of the fence, she held on to it tensely. Surely, the stallion had been mounted before, or he would not have accepted her so promptly. Yet, his past plight might get in the way.

Wide-eyed, she willed the darling beast to take care of Fingal as she would.

Fiadhaich’s front feet dug on the ground as he snorted his impatience, shaking his head. From where she stood, she talked to him as she usually did in calm soft tones.

Cautious, Fingal pulled the reins and kneed the flanks slightly. At first, the horse did not budge. It was the precise point he might follow or rebel. The horseman waited, and she continued her soothing from afar.

What felt like an eternity hung over them. The horse moved a foot. Then another. One pace, a second, and he was trotting around the yard. Catriona exhaled in pure relief at the horse’s yielding but kept her watch.

For half an hour, Fingal rode in varied speeds. Next, he stopped, dismounted, caught a carrot from Catriona, and offered it to the purebred.

And went on to try again. By then, the surrounding fence had filled with people as the stallion and rider made progress.

Naturally, it was merely the first time Fingal rode him. The training would finish when Fiadhaich showed to be amenable to riding around the estate.

Fingal dismounted, gave the horse to one of the lads and exited the yard. “Well, Sassenach, you seem to have made it,” he praised as he neared her.

Their eyes clasped with much more meaning than that platitude. “It was not me,” she emphasised. “He did it because he received love and care.”

“Yes, but your soft guidance and understanding were essential,” he insisted.

 

In the days that followed, Fingal rode Fiadhaich in the stockyard several times with her as an observer. Then they took the horse by the reins to other parts of the grounds for him to make his recognition.

Finally, they tried a ride through the estate. Catriona rode Debranua by Fingal and Fiadhaich, stopping many times for the stallion to rest, eat, or drink from the lochs or brooks along the way. The ride proved uneventful.

Catriona’s time in the McKendrick had come to an end.

Not that she became too happy about it. Not at all. For more reasons than one. She would have to leave Scotland, to start with, without knowing when or whether she would return. And leave the man—the most wrong, improper, maddening man she had ever met.

Melancholy feelings mixed with a certain relief that her life would go back to its watery normality without anyone being the wiser. Not even this obliterated the certainty that whatever ‘normal’ life she attained, it would pale in comparison to what she dreamed for herself. Her beloved Highlands eternally far away. And this man, well, this man would remain a memory of what could never be.

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” she informed him as they returned from the ride. She would send word to Flora and Peter before she packed.

Fingal rounded on her, a frown between his luminous eyes. “Stay a day more.”

Her head shook slightly. “I can’t. It’s been too long.” No point postponing the inevitable.

Staring directly ahead, he gave a curt nod.

They did not speak until they returned to the stables. The stallion stayed in the smallest one of the complex where no stable hand slept so the Arab beauty could rest properly after his intense training.

 

Catriona prepared for her trip the next day. After bathing, she packed her things in her trunk, separating the practical dress she would wear for the trip that would last for several days, if the weather held. Or more, if not.

She retired to bed early to start refreshed in the morning.

But sleep eluded her.

Thousands of agitated thoughts crossed her mind in gnarled succession like a wheel that never stopped. Tired of tossing and turning, she got up, threw her cloak over the nightgown and left her tower room with a lantern.

She exited through the back door and roamed aimless in the fresh night. Deep silence greeted her, broken only by the occasional cricket. Without consciously knowing where she was going, she neared the stable where Fiadhaich stayed. Maybe unconsciously she wished to say a last good bye to the courageous horse who succeeded in overcoming his sad story.

Hanging the lantern on a nearby peg, she headed to his stall. The horse put his head over the low door to welcome her. Long minutes passed as she talked to and stroked him.

The poor beast needed rest, so she hugged him a last time. “I’ll miss you, darling boy,” she murmured.

“Will you miss me too?” a deep voice said from the entrance.