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“Aye, my laird.” And the boy left.
Clad in her usual serviceable riding habit and ebony hair coiled in a simple bun, she held the power to keep him staring. “What was that?” he asked instead.
“You’re late,” she quipped, not an accusation, just an observation.
Inevitably so; sleepless nights tended to do that to him. An ailment she seemed not to be suffering from if her predictable early hours were anything to go by these days.
“I’m here now,” he answered unnecessarily.
“We need to try the saddle,” she said to a spot over his shoulder. The lass had not looked at him once since Sunday. He did not blame her. Should their eyes meet, it might cause a conflagration, given the edgy state of their interaction.
It appeared a wonder they managed to train the Arab stallion in this condition. “Your call,” he compromised.
“I’d like to saddle him myself, but it’s better he gets used to a man doing it.”
“Fine, but run to the gate if he shows aggressive behaviour,” Fingal advised, picking up the saddle and approaching the horse.
He worked on the horse while she attempted to calm her Arab friend. Fiadhaich did not show much complacence. His front hooves dug the dirt, his head shook up and down, he paced and snorted. The whole time, the lass stayed with him and soothed his discomfort.
After they finished, Fingal motioned her to the gate. Fiadhaich did nothing at first, and they did not waste time to go out of the enclosed space.
The poor beast became really angry this time. He neighed, reared his front legs, kicked back, sprinted everywhere, trying to shake off his new burden. They were using an average English saddle weighing seventeen pounds, which was light compared with the stallion’s thirteen hundred. Fingal followed her lead, and they stood outside to see if Fiadhaich’s steam would wear off eventually.
It took the better part of an hour, but the horse accepted the saddle at last. He received his usual fare of praise, strokes, and carrots. Emily showed genuine happiness for the horse’s progress.
“Let’s leave him by himself for an hour more to give him time to come to terms with this new element,” the lass said sensibly.
“And what do you suggest after that?” he asked.
“Give him the day off and try again tomorrow.”
“Fair enough,” Fingal agreed.
His admiration for her soared. When he remembered the stallion soon after he brought him from Aberdeen and compared him to now, the improvement was undeniable. Her perseverance and dedication had been instrumental in the change. A lucky thing she answered the advertisement and came to Scotland. She proved to be the best choice for Fiadhaich. Especially because of the painful past the beast endured, a woman was exactly what the horse required.
The synchronicity of Fingal also needing a woman in his life did not cross his mind, naturally.
He would have a woman in his life in due time. One he had agreed with perhaps too soon.
No one had forced him to accept the match with the McTavish chit. But Emily was merely a miss that would not bring any alliance with her, and Fingal gave too much importance to his clan’s affairs to skip his obligations. He should forget he ever met her and put it past him as soon as she left.
While she remained, however, he could not take her out of his head. Day or night, she sat in a place inside him and refused to vacate it. Deep into the small hours, his thoughts roamed, imagining what life would be like with her by his side. Working together with the horses, sleeping together every night, squabbling over daily impasses, attending festivals. And children. A midnight-haired feisty little girl, for example. In the morning, he would scold his stupid reveries, telling himself to get real, the lass did not even like him. Though she enjoyed his kisses; that showed. And he liked to kiss her too much, truth be told.
He shook his head to clear his mind. He must go see to his livestock and not stand here staring at nothing, thinking of unrealistic matters.
“What do you make of Miss Paddington?” Drostan asked Lachlan as they sat in the laird’s study late afternoon.
“Nicer than the average Sassenach.” Lachlan sipped his whisky.
“No one would counter you on that,” agreed Drostan.
The lass intrigued him though. He had met her only twice, enough merely to be acquainted with her, and she did not volunteer a lot about her life in England. Still…
“Quarrels a lot with Fingal, it seems.” Sprawled on an armchair, Lachlan looked nonchalant, but his eldest brother knew better.
The McKendrick drank his whisky and waited. Silence made people want to fill it. He would know. He’d spent four years looking for a wife who had been right under his nose in the confines of the estate.
“We almost got into a punching spell when I took her riding.”
