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CHAPTER FOUR
That so-called breakthrough did not appear to have produced any further development. Not a significant one, at least. Fingal looked at the black stallion, wondering if his most recent acquisition would ever become amenable to allowing a human to ride it. A week had slipped by without him or the impossible Sassenach breaking the stalemate. Fiadhaich accepted Fingal’s lead around the stockyard, his proximity, the treats, but no more than this.
Not that the mood was, say, easy-going between the humans. Tension had been mounting at high speed. Like the rack in a mediaeval torture chamber, Fingal felt his guts stretch tauter by the day.
And he had only himself to blame.
He must have been demented to decide only he be present in the training with the Sassenach. And for all the wrong reasons. His insides twisted at the mere thought of another man enjoying her company for the whole day. Worse, his feverish imagination pictured her and Lachlan flirting and touching. And he nearly went mad! Those two got al
ong so nicely, it would not take long for them…
Hell!
What did this have to do with anything? They possessed no marriage agreement to take in consideration. They could…
No, they would not if he had a say in the matter. If she was to be anyone’s, she would be his. Exclusively his!
She’s an English miss, you pig-headed Highlander! he berated himself. Probably due to marry a baronet or some other.
Over his dead body!
But the excruciating thought would not vanish.
“You’re pulling the rope too tight,” came her siren’s voice.
He had a dire impulse to stop everything, throw her over his shoulder, and…
His scowl came from his frustration. “I don’t think so,” he countered, but the straining thoughts in his head made his hand heavy.
“No?” she defied, and it felt like waving a red kerchief at a bull. “Look and see if you’re not.”
The bull in question wanted to stride to her and quench his desert-like thirst. Preferably between her…
Goddamn it! If he did not stanch these fantasies, his flesh would harden under the tartan. A fully visible tented wool would be an abominable idea.
Fingal pressed the rope in his palm to remain where he stood even as he gave more freedom to the stallion.
“How’s it going?” He turned to see his eldest brother leaning on the fence.
“Drostan.” Well…that got better and better. His brother never missed a thing. Not if it affected any of his family members.
The Sassenach tuned to the newcomer with a smile. Why did she smile to his brothers and not to him?
With a graceful curtsy, she said, “My Lord McKendrick.”
With laugher in his eyes, his brother answered, “Miss Paddington, I presume.”
“You presume right, my lord.”
Since he was a toddler, Fingal had registered no murderous thought towards any of his siblings. But for the first time in his life—scratch that, second time, if he counted the one toward Lachlan when he made her laugh—he must suppress one.
“I heard you’re working magic around here,” Drostan said.
A pretty blush tinted her satin cheeks. “Thank you, my lord. But we’re just trying to respect Fiadhaich’s pace.” The perfect, demure English lady. Perfect, demure, and infuriating.
A random thought crossed Fingal’s mind. She pronounced the horse’s Gaelic name with flawless accuracy, as if she was born speaking it. The lass heard him say it several times; maybe she had a good ear for languages.
“Sensible lass,” his brother praised.
