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“A Sassenach?” was the only thing his throat was capable of producing. Because now he saw her enormous eyes as dark as her glorious hair and became even more mesmerised. And her lips were not only pink, which would have been easier to tackle, but they were also full in a damned suggestive way. In that suggestive way.
A polite smile stretched those appetising lips while she curtsied with graceful elegance. “Emily Paddington, the horse-whisperer, at your service, sir.”
Fingal displayed an ugly frown. What the—
A horse-whisperer?
And a woman?
Bluidy hell!
Catriona hoped she had been able to hide the impact that the man bludgeoned on her. He must be the most gorgeous specimen alive on the planet, in a state of dishabille completely foreign to someone used to the formality of the ton. She kept her mouth from falling open at the bunched muscles, the imposing height and the eyes that glittered in the sun. Those bright orbs measured her from hatless head to booted toes, sowing heat and goose-bumps in their wake. She had no idea who he was; all the men there were dressed in the McKendrick’s plaid. He could as well be the stable master. Whoever he was, she would never be able to forget the rugged beauty of him. The giant god was scowling at her, which did nothing to diminish the veritable steam climbing up her skin.
Her breath caught as a random thought assailed her fogged head. There would be no polite lifting of nightgowns with this one, no. He would tear it from his woman and plunge both in a furnace of unbidden delights. The image darted in her head to soar the temperature of a place in her she did not even have a name to, but now knew its exact location—in the very centre of her. Catriona gulped air in search of a modicum of self-control.
“He isnna a ‘sir,’” a middle-aged man said from the other side of the temperamental horse. Her head turned to him, grateful to eliminate the god’s frame from her sight. “He is Laird Fingal.”
And just like that, everything that had been red-hot inside her went cold. Frigid. This spectacular specimen would become her brother-in-law. How unlucky was that?
“There will be no woman horse-whisperer around here.” Her ears registered his deep, commanding voice before it did the meaning. “You can head right home, Sassenach.”
Catriona’s attention rounded on him and collided with those cinnamon eyes attacking her with contrariety and something else she could not read but warmed her up all over again. Her face morphed into pure rebellion. Who did this…this scoundrel think he was to treat her like that? He might be impressive, but he needed dire work on his social skills.
Delicate chin inched up in defiance. “You allowed me to come all the way to this god-forsaken hole only to send me back?” Clearly, she did not believe his stables to be a hole, even less forsaken. At first sight, they were fascinating, to say the least. The rogue got to her temper, though.
“You did not sign your female name on your letter,” he threw out, fists going to his tapered waist, legs bracing apart. His disagreement with her words could not be more blatant.
The movement displayed his overgrown biceps and lifted his chest even higher, half of it uncovered by his tartan and glaring their hair-peppered bronzed magnificence for her to feast on shamelessly. And a dusky nipple. For pity’s sake, she had never thought of male nipples before, let alone seen one. Its display was a cruel act when it induced the most lamentable wish for a tactile experience. A very tactile and very…extended experience.
Her eyes darted back to his suddenly—she had not noticed that they had strayed in the first place. Her cheeks flushed the brightest red. A side-smile on that sculpted mouth said he did not miss it.
“You have a need for a horse expert. I am one. Names and genders don’t signify,” she countered, happy to be able to formulate at least one coherent line.
Laird Fingal scoffed. “So, if I said in the advertisement that I had a problem with a mare instead of a stallion, it would not have signified?”
Now it was her turn to place her hands on her waist and look daggers at him. The man annoyed the blazes out of her, which made her even more defiant. “The problem with a horse would have been the same,” she cast back, because the real issue here was what they did not put into words, was it not? This unease straining between them.
His glare narrowed, and she guessed it might be because he owned no answer to that. His gaze faltered, too, lowering to her uplifted bosom, only to slowly come back to her eyes. Heated. A heat to which her insides responded in kind.
“My laird,” the middle-aged man spoke again. “Begging yer pardon.”
“Craig,” came the deep answer.
“The lass seems to have a gift.” One of his hands raised and scratched his forehead. “And ye’ve been trying long and hard.” The hand fell to his side. “We canna afford ter let the chance escape.”
Fingal’s scrutiny clasped with her again. “How experienced are you with horses?”
That the giant dignified to ask counted as a small victory. “My father has a modest stable, and I have been dealing in it since I was a toddler, Mr McKendrick.” She would not call him my laird for the life of
her. Such deference would inflate the scoundrel’s ego even more.
Fingal dragged on glaring at the Sassenach—as if he had even a tiny chance of doing anything else. She spelt trouble. Sheer, incandescent trouble. From her defiant eyes, to her full, delectable breasts, to her firmly planted feet. Men lost their heads for much less. He did not usually think with his…lower parts, but he had a feeling she would mess up all his parts given the opportunity. The secret was not to give her such an opportunity.
Craig got it right. They needed someone with her ability; she had proven it in a mere five minutes. It would be safer to send her on her way, he knew. The circumstances did not allow for that, though--the solution being to let her do her trick as fast as she could and then send her well on her way.
“Fine,” he emitted to distract from nonsense. “Send someone to pick her things up from wherever she’s staying.” His men stood on alert. “She’s to move to my manor post-haste.”
The others scrambled into action while the lass moved to go.
