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“Why, Fingal, you’re about to stumble through the aisle.” Lachlan’s fists came to his waist. He was merely an inch or two shorter than his brother, and as muscular. “I heard it’s normal to have those pre-nuptial doubts.”
“I am very sure of my responsibilities,” he said in a stony voice.
“But very much in need of getting laid. It’ll fry up your brain,” the other McKendrick baited.
Quick as wind, Fingal neared his brother to grab his collar, and both battled with unyielding glares. “Now look here, you—”
“Will someone explain what’s going on there?” He registered his Sassenach asking the question from behind him.
Letting Lachlan go, he turned his scowl to the lass. She was dressed in the finest riding habit he had ever seen her in; it was a midnight blue, rivalling her usually coiled black hair. The memory of him tearing her locks free from the eternal simple bun was enough to shred his control.
Lachlan bowed gallantly to her. “Miss Paddington. A lovely morning.”
She smiled at him, and Fingal felt a need to growl at Lachlan to mark his territory. “Perfect for
a ride, Mr McKendrick,” she replied.
“So it is,” the younger McKendrick agreed.
“But you’re not going,” Fingal told the woman who was veritably frying his brain.
She twisted to him, defiance all over her. And he wanted to kiss her senseless. “Says who?”
“You are under my protection,” he repeated, even though he would like her to be under— Damn it!
“How commendable, but I can take care of myself, thank you.” Giving her back to him, she lifted her hat to her head.
“Alright, I’m coming, too.” He turned to walk to the gate.
“I don’t think so,” she rebutted.
Lachlan looked at them alternately, like watching a tennis match, very popular with the Scots. “If you’re finished, we’d like to go,” he told his older brother.
“Stay out of this,” came Fingal’s answer.
“You’ll not fight with your brother,” she stated, chin up, straight spine. A queen before her subjects. “Have a nice day, my lord.” With a saccharine smile, she gave an exaggerated curtsy and turned to go.
“Mary, Queen of Scots much,” admired Lachlan.
“You touch a hair on her head and you’re a dead man,” Fingal said through his teeth.
“I heard that, Mr McKendrick,” admonished the stubborn lass.
All Fingal could do was look daggers at their backs as they walked down to the stables.
The hours spent with Lachlan and his light jests offered Catriona a much-needed reprieve from his blasted brother, she celebrated as they rode back to the stables. She had dreaded the day off and the possibility of having to endure Fingal’s stirring presence. Though she had decided to go for a long ride anyway, alone her thoughts would have diverted to undesired routes, or people. Or man, more specifically.
So far, she could not stop this yearning for him; the effort to stay away, to do the right thing, was tearing her insides apart. Near him, it all threatened to burst into a thousand pieces, tempting her to send everything to the devil. She held back just that necessary inch to stick to decency. In the end of the day, exhaustion, exasperation, and frustration were the rewards she took to her chambers.
“Hullo! Is anyone there?” Lachlan intruded into her musings.
They were leisurely riding back to the stables. The sun had warmed but the air kept its coolness which made the morning even more pleasant. Birds’ song and greenery all around had a soothing effect on Catriona.
Dark eyes rounded on him. “Sorry, you were saying—?
“That I had a lovely ride,” he repeated.
“So did I,” she agreed truthfully.
