His head lowered to her, sculpted lips almost touching her forehead. “Are you alright?” The hoarse rumble merely threw wood to the fire.
She nodded, still holding his shoulders. “Thanks to your prompt reaction.”
Fiadhaich’s high-pitched neigh cut through her foggy mind, and her eyes darted to the horse.
In annoyed movements, Fingal let her go. “He needs to be controlled.” The firm tone announced equal conviction.
A feminine hand rested on his strong forearm and stayed him. “No, please.” Instinct told her to wait. “He needs breathing room.”
Fingal raked an exasperated hand through his luxuriant brown hair. “You’re too patient with his whims.”
“It’s not a whim and you know it,” she said and leaned on the fence, watching the horse’s display of power. Black coat gleaming in the sun, mane fluttering in the air, heavy thuds on the ground—he was splendid.
By her side, the blasted laird said, “If you say it.”
In a few minutes, Fiadhaich seemed to have spent his steam and stopped mid run, going utterly quiet.
Catriona could not help the rather smug stretch of her lips. “He just needed time to put up with it.” And she motioned towards the gate.
He blocked her way. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Her head tilted up, daring him to prevent her from doing what she thought right. “I do believe he deserves a treat.” She stepped to the side.
A strong hand closed around her upper arm. “I’ll give it.”
Did the impossible man think she was made from plume and would not be able to handle the poor beast? Blasting protective streak, he possessed. “Be my guest,” She invited as she fished a carrot from her pocket. Mrs Thomson had been a darling to provide as many as the training required.
But as soon as the horse ate the vegetable, he cantered to where she leaned on the fence, nuzzling the palm she offered him. “Good boy.” Smiling, she caressed his nose.
Fingal huffed. “Why am I not surprised at his preference?”
She offered him a slight grin. “Shall we teach him how to use his new toy?”
Next day, a Sunday, Fingal gave the lass the day free. He sat in the morning room alone, certain she would be asleep.
Helping himself to eggs at the sideboard, he looked through the window and saw Lachlan in a neat green, white, and black tartan. Fingal strode out to greet his brother.
“Lachlan,” he greeted. “What are you doing there? Come in and have breakfast.”
“Good morning, brother mine,” he said in that mocking way of his. “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.” He glanced expectantly at the entrance. “Miss Paddington and I are going riding.”
Fingal went still, stone features, while a fireball of something that resembled inadmissibly like jealousy burned in his guts. “No, you’re not,” he contradicted without even thinking.
Lachlan eyed him quizzically. “Why, is she ill? She’s just waved at me from her window.” He directed his gaze at the second floor of the tower.
“I’ll not allow it.” The older man crossed his bunched arms over muscled chest. Also dressed with care, he had had a mind of inviting her himself.
His brother studied him, intrigued. “What are you about, Fingal?”
“I know you,” he said. “Always in search of a conquest you ditch as soon as they fall for you.”
A playful side-smile came to Lachlan’s perfectly symmetrical face. “Well, not that soon. We usually have—”
“Miss Paddington is under my protection, and you will not dishonour her.”
Lachlan’s features morphed into seriousness at that. “Sounds very much like you are getting ideas in this regard.”
As Fingal’s features crumpled with the other man’s taunt, it also showed it to be true. “Stay away from her.”