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She took a sip of the excellent Burgundy. “With remarkable success, I must say.” In between the lines it became clear the McKendrick gave him a place where he could house his future wife. Her sister, she reminded herself doggedly.
“This used to be the McKendrick dwelling before my grand-father built the newer one.” His focus trained on where the glass touched her lips. They tingled from his gaze.
“You have a big family, I understand.” She helped herself to the first course, though her hunger had disappeared. The hunger for food, that is, as for other types…
“Two brothers, one sister, and the next generation is already coming.” He lowered his head to his food, giving her the opportunity to appreciate him.
To be frank, she preferred him without the shirt, like the lairds who came before him. The broad expanse of his pectorals would not leave her memory in haste. And the nipple. Dear me, would she not let it go? The dusky skin planted amidst the dark hair had her hands itching to test its texture. Naturally, it proved to be much less risky with him all covered up in his flawless tartan and shirt.
“Nieces and nephews, I presume.” She dabbed her lips with the napkin, which was promptly followed by his focus.
“Two nephews and one niece,” he provided. Catriona had heard Aileen, his sister, had a son, Rory; and Drostan had Ewan and recently, Sorcha.
Fingal sat there feeding this inane conversation, struggling not to burst from his chair and do something about this rising heat that threatened to explode any minute. When the glass or the napkin touched her lush lips, indecent thoughts crossed his uncensored mind. The impossibility of following the impulse built inside him.
Nothing in her composure suggested the least inappropriate action. The fashionable blue of her dress might be labelled diluted, the neckline came just three inches below her collarbone, the sleeves reached her elbows, and her midnight hair was in a simple bun. But all of this added to his torture, for he imagined himself yanking the dress away, scattering the pins from her hair to reveal her dramatic beauty and the w
oman behind her sheer armour.
“Enough of me,” he declared. “Tell me about you.”
Her head tilted gracefully. “Parents alive, one sister.”
“That was a succinct description,” he mocked.
”There’s not much to say, I should admit.” She did not drink a lot of her wine, but he felt her thumb caressing the crystal glass as if it were right on him.
“It’s clear you come from a family of means,” he added. Her manners and clothing made that an understatement.
“My father owns land,” she summarised as her long lashes veiled her eyes.
This reluctance to disclose her background got him intrigued. Another piece of information flashed in his memory. The return address on her letter had been a postal box. Too mysterious for his taste.
“You earn your living with horse-whispering,” he probed. Though she surely did not need the money. What would a Sassenach lady be doing in the confines of the Highlands? he wondered.
“When the opportunity arises.” Again, she lowered her face to her plate.
He did not like her evasiveness one bit. She came from London because the stamp indicated as much. More than that? Difficult to fathom.
“Not an open book, I see,” he provoked.
Her brilliant dark eyes clasped on him and the contents of his brain almost vanished. “It’s just that there’s nothing unusual about me, not many things to talk about,” she emphasised, but he did not count himself reassured.
Nothing unusual about her? A young—presumably single—lady, traveling alone to this place, no maid, no chaperone, no one answering for her. What if it was revealed that she’s a fallen woman running from a mistake?
“Going from property to property to aid horses must make for a nomadic life.” His insistence would never be called polite, but who said he was a gentleman anyway? Far from it—and he was unwilling to fix the issue.
Her irises focused on him, sharp intelligence showing in them. “I do not do it so often.” The sip she took from her wine had an awkward drop to it.
“Many occasions to collect…adventures, perhaps.” His needling came from the desire to know who this intriguing woman really was.
Her whole posture turned rigid as she cast him a furious look. “What do you mean by that?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. He used to be nothing if not blunt in every dealing. There was no reason not to be so at this instant. “That you seem to be a worldly woman.” Fingal did not mean this in a positive way, and he did not care if his taunting rang presumptuous. He had met the chit mere hours ago, and she meddled with his lucidity without even trying. Which may explain—but not justify—the unpleasant comment.
Quick as a feline, she sprang up from her screeching chair, grabbed her glass and dumped its contents on him. “You will treat me with respect!” Even faster, she darted to the closed door, delicate hand wrapping on the door knob.
Red liquid dripped down his chiselled face but he paid no heed, still sprawled in his chair as if nothing abnormal had happened. “Sassenach,” he called silkily. After such an elegant meal, there remained no point in keeping with formal addressing.
