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In the week traveling up north, Catriona thought through loose details of her adventure. She must divert her servants from her—white—lie. It occurred to her that she might give Flora and Peter, the footman, time for them to visit their families. The fewer people who knew she was there, the better. She would stay in an inn, close to the McKendrick. Her father would be with his family at their estate, but showing up at the McTavish manor would raise suspicion. She would be working in the McKendrick’s stables; her comings and goings would induce questions she did not want to answer. Her mare would be her transport, and the carriage and horses should remain at the inn.
With these issues sorted out, she relaxed and enjoyed the view of her homeland approaching.
CHAPTER TWO
The Highlands, Summer, 1811
Fiadhaich, Furious in Scottish Gaelic, the new stallion, stood in the centre of the stockyard, magnificent black fur gleaming in the sun. Fingal’s stable master held him by a rope, trying to get him used to being reined and saddled. For months now, the stallion had refused to comply. No amount of apples or oats had produced any progress towards such a goal.
Fingal had acquired him in an auction in Aberdeen, and the animal came with all the paperwork in order. At a distance, he watched his stable master’s efforts and wondered if he had struck a good bargain. His horseflesh made him proud, and he was equally as famous in all the Highlands for his expertise and love for his equine friends.
He should have asked the reason for the stallion’s name.
The unusually hot summer gifted them with a glaring sun which made him take off his sweaty shirt and stand there in just his tartan draped over his shoulder. His six feet four inches frame composed of pure steel became tanned with the exposure. Impossibly bright cinnamon eyes fringed with sooty long lashes stared at the stallion at a loss what to think, or what to do next.
Though what to do next had been taken care of as he had put an advertisement in The Times requesting horse experts to come have a look at Fiadhaich. Only a certain E. Paddington seemed willing to travel all the way from England to see the disobedient beast. McKendrick had chosen The Times for it had a broad circulation and would attract more specialised people.
Craig—an experienced horse trainer—attempted to pull the stallion into a trot around the fenced space, an idea the equine prince did not appreciate. Fiadhaich started digging his front hooves, neighing loudly. Craig approached him and extended his arm to touch his fur in a soothing way. The horse burst into a fury, launching his hooves in the air and pounding them on the dust uncontrollably. The stable master lost the rope as it whipped on the ground with the horse’s rebellion.
“Craig, get out of there!” Fingal shouted before the man got hurt.
But the furious animal jumped and back-kicked between the man and the gate, and the other sides of the stockyard were too high-fenced to climb quickly.
Fingal moved to run to the gate but stopped when a woman approached it. Delicate hands opened it and small booted feet went inside the enclosure, closing it behind her.
“What the—” Fingal cursed, unable to take his eyes off the lean figure.
With her spine straight, she stood barely inches from where the front hooves pounded the ground, staring up at the blue-blooded beast as if in fascination.
In a melodious voice, she talked to the horse as if they were old friends. He could not hear the words, merely the musical rhythm of it. He did not know if it was her figure or her voice that froze him on the spot, causing him to be too speechless to call the nincompoop out of the sto
ckyard.
The horse continued jumping and hammering his hooves menacingly on the dust, but the lass did not back down or stop talking in that hypnotic tone.
A rush of wind ripped her hat down to reveal a mane of the blackest hair he had ever seen in his life, made even blacker in contrast with her perfect alabaster skin, and coiled up in a crown of glossy braids. He could just see her profile of small nose, rosy lips and a long, elegant neck.
The lass extended her arms up as if to reach for the stallion, her figure stretched leaner under the simple walking dress. The sheer fabric, moulded to her feminine attributes, tantalized his cinnamon attention.
Fingal still could not take his stare off her. She looked like a nymph, a woods’ creature, a Diana in her element.
The horse hammered his hooves on the floor again, and she took the opportunity to rest her hand on his strong neck once it came down to her level. Fingal was about to shout for her to back away from the animal when the beast went still.
The crazy lass never stopped looking at the stallion or talking to him in that nymph’s voice of hers. She neared Fiadhaich even more and touched the long, elegant fingers of her other hand to him, caressing him fondly.
It felt as if her palms were on Fingal. Not just on any part of him. On his neck and chest. The sensation was so real, he swore her fingertips traced his hair-peppered skin from his collarbone down to his— Heat and arousal slammed into him as his eyes remained glued on the scene.
The lass smiled up to the beast. Even though he could barely see half of her smile, to Fingal two blazing suns shone in the daylight. Her smile was even brighter than the incandescent star above their heads. It blinded Fingal to everything else. She made matters worse, this insane Diana. Closing the distance between her and the horse, she hugged him and rested her head on his thick neck, her spine arching into the shiny black fur, accentuating her feminine lines. Fiadhaich became as docile as a kitten.
Who would not?
It was as if she had fastened her irresistible, shapely frame to Fingal and stroked her fingers through his dark-brown luxuriant hair. His temper flared with his reaction, though he thought he might go as docile as his horse had she done the same to him.
This realisation sprung him into action. He stalked to the gate with an angry scowl. “What the hell do you think you are doing, you brainless lass?” His hoarse, flinty tone helped very little.
The nymph turned her back to the horse without a second thought to her safety. “Oh, I am sorry, sir.” The cut-glass, top-rank, English accent was unmistakable. It cut through his guts with none of its sharpness and all of its melting, seducing quality, aided by her musical voice. “I could not resist such a darling,” she completed to his incredulous ears, but in a voice which Fiadhaich must have become addicted for he never moved even a muscle.
A darling? his hazy brain countered.
