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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.
