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The haze of the kiss prevented her from protesting when he detached their mouths.
“Miss McTavish,” he called.
Immediately, Anna came in, her huge eyes taking in the scene.
He turned to her, Catriona’s skirts billowing around them. “I believe we both agree we don’t match,” he started. Whether the girl had heard anything of what they said or not did not occur to Catriona.
“Indeed,” her sister blurted.
Before Catriona understood what he was doing, he prowled out, her sister giving way to his natural predominance.
“Put me down, Fingal,” she demanded uselessly as her mind strived to clear.
“Send Catriona’s trunks and Debranua to my manor,” he directed to the younger woman. “I’m taking this lass.” Anna nodded, jaw dropped, eyes almost wider than her face.
“Stop, you arrogant scoundrel!” She started thrashing her legs, but he held her tighter.
The more-English-than-the-English butler stood in front of the entrance in an amusing gladiator’s pose, big, more-English-than-the-English nose in the air.
Fingal did not back down an inch. “Out of the way, you buffoon, or I’ll smash you and the door.”
Intimidated, not only did he obey, but he also opened it and bowed as laird and lass passed.
Days later, Drostan sat in his study with piles of ledgers to update when the door burst open and Laird McTavish stormed in, brandishing a letter.
“Your brother compromised my daughter!” he accused.
“Lachlan?” It was the only possibility that came to mind though he did not fathom how his younger brother could have done that if both were in different countries.
“Not Lachlan. Fingal!” The louder voice did not make it easier to understand his claim.
His middle brother had travelled to London as far as Drostan knew. Perhaps Fingal had a sudden change of heart towards the chit. “He’s bound to marry her, anyway,” the McKendrick tried to soothe the older laird.
“Not Anna, man!” he shouted. “Catriona.”
At Drostan’s blank stare, Angus paced the room even more impatient. “Tall, dark hair.”
“The only woman with this description I can think of is one called Emily Paddington,” he said, confused with the McTavish’s antics.
The older man grilled him with a threatening look. “What are you saying?”
“That if your information was true, Fingal would have to have done that by letter.”
The McTavish seemed even angrier. “Do you take me for a fool? My daughter spent the last few weeks here.”
The whole conversation was getting just a tad crazy, Drostan deemed. “Then she did not visit with anyone.” There had been no word around of her arrival. “As I said, the only woman—”
But the other man got too displeased to let him finish. “Emily is Catriona’s second name, Paddington is her mother’s maiden name,” he spat.
Bluidy Hell!
The offended father threw a letter on the massive desk—the one Drostan had smashed once, when news of the disappearance of his wife and son reached him. The piece of furniture had been skilfully mended.
He picked up the letter signed by Lady McTavish. “Fingal took
Miss McTavish from London and ordered her things to be sent here,” he interpreted the rather frantic missive.
“You’re going to pay for this, McKendrick!” The older man pointed his finger at Drostan.
