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She praised the beast again and lifted her head to clash with Fingal’s scrutiny on her. Something sizzling washed over her entire body as she sustained his stare. A million messages passed between them, though none she might translate into words. She did not even try. After what felt like an eternity, he nodded his approval and twisted to leave the stockyard.
Next morning, Fingal reached the stockyard to find the Sassenach already there, like the previous day. He must own up to his surprise at her diligence and hard work. He had expected a prissy miss used to lounge in bed far into the day as they were wont to do in London. But no, the woman was nothing if not focused.
And the way she treated Fiadhaich threatened to endear her to him. The care and thoughtfulness in her attitude towards the poor beast were positive signs. The moment she mentioned what might be happening with the horse, he recognized the wisdom in her words. Fingal knew nothing of the stallion’s life before that auction, but its skittishness spoke for itself. He saw the solution she presented as sensible and coming from someone that not only had experience with horses but also loved them.
This he could understand. Since very early in life, he realized he possessed an affinity with horses and every other animal. He had always been aversive to hunting and, in time, convinced his father and brothers to leave the game on their lands in peace. He was in charge of the livestock in their manor and made sure every individual in the herds got treated with utter humanity. So he valued her tender approach to the stallion’s ordeals. Pure approval came from him in this regard, despite the lass’s clear, strong personality.
He stifled a scoff at the memory of the wine dripping from him. Her stubbornness and upstanding were remarkable even if he deemed it difficult to deal with them. Her name did not suit her, by the way, too missish—and too English, truth be told. She should have been named after an amazon, a goddess or a Viking she-warrior. He hid a guffaw…when had he ever thought of a woman in such romantic terms? An obvious proof that his mind was getting messed up hugely.
“An early riser, I can see,” he commented by way of greeting. “You don’t enjoy the big city’s late hours?”
Her head tilted in that elegant, lady-like manner of hers. “I used to go riding first thing,” she provided.
“Let’s go get the worm then,” he answered.
Minutes later, a stable hand brought Fiadhaich and vanished, leaving them alone.
“Alright,” she said. “I’ll start with the training and we’ll put you in the scene little by little, shall we?”
And so he stood by the fence watching her with his most expensive horse. Her hand, one belonging to a skilled amazon, stroked Fiadhaich’s nose in greeting to lead him into a canter in a loose rope, giving him a choice and freedom of movement. The horse’s shiny coat gleamed in the rising sun as he followed her lead docilely. With praise, she coaxed him into a trot, his black mane flying as he moved graceful.
But Fingal was not looking at the horse. His attention concentrated wholly on the woman. Without a hat, her midnight strands were in a knot and gleamed in the morning light. Her dark eyes were soft on her charge, and a luminous smile drew her lips when the stallion responded to her coaxing. He was mesmerized, like on the first day. The world could have crumbled all around him and he would not have noticed. He drank in her every step, every word, every stroke on the beast. The riding habit made a poem of her breasts and a temptation of her pert bottom. Fingal had not a chance of avoiding the carnal images the attire sprouted in his head. Molten and traitorous. Those images were doing things to him, particularly his lower abdomen.
“Mr McKendrick.” Her melodious call tore him from his reveries at the same time it did more serious things with his already precarious state of craving. “Come hold the rope with me.”
He took a moment to be able to suppress whatever had been happening to him and then jerked into action. Slowly, he neared the pair of them and closed his finger by hers on the rope. Fiadhaich faltered for just a second before she talked him into continuing.
The Sassenach kept the black beauty going as she and Fingal fell silent to allow him to get used to the proximity of a human male. For a long time, the training continued unaltered.
Morning mist gave way to the sun, the fresh air warmed, the greenery around brightened while the three of them merged in the moment, the stillness broken only by the hooves on the ground and the birds in the trees.
When the horse started giving signs of fatigue, Emily made him stop, fished a carrot from her pocket, and gave it to Fingal. Horses did prefer apples but the fruit would not be available until autumn. Fingal neared him and, this time, Fiadhaich did not hesitate before snatching it from the strong hand.
Emily stroked his thick neck in praise. He had not put distance from Fingal, which must have encouraged her to take the laird’s hand and place it over hers on the horse so that the animal would get used to the touch of a male. Fiadhaich did not move, tolerating the contact.
But when his callused palm touched her silky skin the world stopped. Everything stilled. Disappeared. Their joined hands glided over the shiny coat, their arms almost connecting on the journey they made up and down the equine neck. She could never be called short, but her head barely reached his jaw. He inhaled her feminine scent of lavender and woman, and it spread through his insides until he must close his eyes and let it run with his blood. He did not notice the half step he gave forward, but now he could feel the warmth of her. His long lashes lifted as his gaze fell on her profile, her head slightly bent towards him. He bent his towards her, and mere inches separated them. There was nothing on this planet he wanted more than to lace her tiny waist with his other arm, pull her to him and taste the smoothness of the skin on her nape with his lips. Taste all of her, caress everywhere, worship her with his entire body.
“Very well-done, my sweet boy.” And just like that, she broke the spell.
He paced backwards, letting his hand fall from hers before he sent everything to the blazes, carried her somewhere quiet, and gave unrestrained rein to his need.
A sigh came from her while her head f
ell to the horse, both hands on Fiadhaich as if she sought support. As if her knees were not capable of sustaining her. But she did not look at him, not once.
With no reason to remain there, Fingal strode to the gate and left the stockyard, not looking at her either.
Catriona had gone for a walk after the session with Fiadhaich. Having explored the woods and the grounds, she hoped to muster some calm, which did not happen. She called herself an idiot for walking right into it. What was she thinking, bringing his hand to cover hers? The second he touched her, a veritable lightning stormed through her insides. She had done it for the poor horse, and in the end, she was the one burned.
Undiluted yearning dominated her, her body going pliant, eager. The strength of will she needed to use not to lean on his steel frame almost broke her. The warmth of him, the scent of him; the moment their heads nearly connected made her so thirsty, so wanton. And she had stuttered that silly praise in a desperate attempt to tear away from whatever clamoured inside her.
Catriona did not have an exact idea of what went on between a man and a woman, but she acquired a notion because of the horses. Naturally, there were enormous differences. Nonetheless, she guessed the principle of males and females surely applied. The mechanics, at least. Coupled with what she had seen in museums and noblemen’s art collections, she believed she had the basics of the whole thing.
How naive…
What she experienced in the stockyard had been completely beyond her imagination. She was not equipped to deal with the force of this attraction. To a man whom she should never, ever hold any thought remotely indecent. He was out of question. Off limits. For every possible reason under the sun, including the risk to her reputation.
Her only hope rested on finishing this task as fast as she could and head back home. Post-haste. Or have the blasted laird muddle her life in ways she could not—preferred not to—fathom.
