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“And, well…and the unmentionables.”
At this, his stubble-lined jaw ticked frantically, his breath coming ragged. “So?”
“I take a portion of the salve, twist to the mirror.” She paused again because the effort to suppress her arousal took every inch of her rational process.
“After you have lowered your…unmentionables, I gather,” he added.
“Yes.” It came out as a breath and she had to moisten her lips again. “Next, I spread it over the…bruise.”
A strong, square hand raised to scatter the pins from her hair. It fell in glossy ebony waves down to her waist. His fiery inspection took in the length of it, absorbing the view as if he stood before a work of art.
CHAPTER ONE
London, late spring, 1811
There were two things that never failed to happen in Miss Catriona Emily McTavish’s life. The first was her early morning rides in Rotten Row. She loved riding—and horses for that matter—and those were the high moments in her day. She committed to her rides as a monk committed to his prayers, never letting up. Sun, rain, snow or wind, her beloved mare, Debranua, the Celtic goddess of speed, made a graceful appearance with her skilled amazon in the empty lanes of the park.
The second thing bored her to distraction. At least three times a week, her sister, Anna, insisted on dragging Catriona to Bond Street on dreadful shopping trips. Like now, for example. She sat at the milliner’s while her English rose sister chose between two unnecessary bonnets to add to her countless collection. Catriona’s dark eyes darted through the window to where their carriage stood with its two horses, one of them digging on the cobblestones in a sign of impatience. She did not blame the poor equine his need for dashing from the crowded, noisy, smoggy city. Catriona yearned for it, too. Had yearned for it for quite a long time, in reality. Something like the second day after arriving in London ten years ago. But her mother, Lady Marie McTavish, née Paddington, had deemed it a sensible decision to educate her daughters in a ‘civilised’ place with the best tutors the Laird McTavish could afford.
At twenty-four, Catriona’s initial impression of London, and England in general, had not changed. Trips to her father’s manor in the Highlands had been few and far between, which did nothing to quench her longing to live there for good. It was a longing so acute it brought tears to her eyes in the darkest hour of the night.
“Should I take the blue or the lavender one?” Anna turned her wheat-haired head and blue-eyed inquiry to her sister, interrupting the elder’s musings.
The sisters were like night and day, literally. While three years younger Anna had taken after their mother with her blonde looks, Catriona had followed in her father’s line with midnight hair and a lean, tall figure.
Catriona turned her attention from the window to petite, delicate Anna. “You already have both colours, I believe.”
&
nbsp; “But in a different model, silly,” the blonde girl taunted.
Despite their obvious dissimilarity in temperament, the McTavish sisters were best friends, strange as it might seem. Catriona loved her younger sibling with a devoted care, and this devotion was fully reciprocated by the other girl. Anna took ballrooms by storm with her beauty and gregarious nature, which Catriona admired but did not share. She preferred quiet nights, the smell of grass after rain and a placid lake that mirrors the sky, and preferably in the Highlands. She stifled a sigh at the intrusive thought.
“The lavender one, then, to go with your new dress,” the elder sister ventured.
Anna gifted her with a dazzling smile. “You’re right!” she exclaimed and turned to the milliner to have it delivered to their townhouse in Mayfair.
A long time later, they finally sat in the carriage and were on their way home.
“Mama received a letter from father,” Anna started, her eyes shading a little.
“Any news?” Catriona asked, already worried for her usually cheerful sister.
Angus McTavish divided his time between Scotland and London. Spring and autumn required his presence in the Scottish manor with its busy activities, but summer and winter offered a calmer period he used for staying with his family in London or in his wife’s family’s country seat.
“He signed a marriage agreement with the McKendrick. I am to marry the second brother, Fingal.” Her voice held none of the enthusiasm of a girl about to marry.
Catriona felt for her sister. Nothing could be further from her city-life loving sister than a match with a Highlander. But clan alliances must be considered, and they had no say in the matter.
“But this lies years in the future, I hope.” The elder sister tried to soothe the younger.
“I expect as much,” Anna said. “I don’t really want to marry a savage Highlander and live in a primitive manor at some forgotten corner of the country,” she vented.
Catriona could not agree with any of it, but she understood that her sister was not cut for country life. However, Angus McTavish had set his eyes on an English lord for his eldest daughter. Not that English lords were that keen on Scottish ladies, but her mother’s pedigree, a Duke for an uncle, and a fat dowry on the bride’s head made up for rather convincing arguments. Watery Lord Tremaine, Catriona’s supposed destiny, did not seem to mind giving her a try.
Catriona hated the ton, by the way.
Their bored stances, their superficial conversation, the cruel gossips, the meaningless etiquette. Every single thing had been annoying her since her debut at seventeen. Her contempt would not be suppressed, which did not do much for her marriage prospects, naturally.
