Page 55 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
No, it was something else.
A quiet kind of urgency. Practical. Steeled. Not someone afraid of storms, but someone who knew exactly what they could do.
“We’ll be safer in the cottage,” she added, looking at him. “That’s all that matters, is it nae?”
He met her gaze, searching for something irrational in her plea—but there was none. Only the certainty of someone who’d lived through worse.
She turned without waiting for his answer and nudged her horse into a gallop.
Richard cursed under his breath, spurred his stallion after her, and followed the path that curved through the trees.
He had no choice but to follow, his frustration battling with a reluctant admiration for her capability.
Sheisa fiery mare.
They reached the cottage in perfect time, just as the fat drops of rain began to pelt them.
Catriona dismounted quickly, leading her mare under the meager shelter of the overhanging eaves and giving her a soft pet on the snout. She had the foresight to bring a carrot, which she offered to her then.
Richard arrived a moment later, his stallion shaking its head and snorting as the wind picked up.
He glared at Catriona as he dismounted his horse. “Couldn’t you wait a moment?”
Catriona, however, simply stood there, her chest heaving slightly from exertion, a triumphant smile playing on her lips.
“I believe I won, Yer Grace,” she smirked triumphantly, and he burned to wipe the smugness of her face—with his lips.
He noticed then that she was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face. Despite the cold, her eyes sparkled with a fiery energy that even a storm couldn’t put out.
“You are impossible,” he said, but this time not in jest.
“And ye are a sore loser, Yer Grace,” she teased, her voice light as if almost reading his mind.
Chapter Nineteen
“Chan eil neart mar neart aonaidh.” There is no strength like the strength of unity.
“Aye, I hate storms,” Catriona hissed as she sat back on her bottom and stuck her hands by the fire to warm them.
Soaked and shivering, Catriona had followed Richard into the cottage as she’d begun removing her gloves. She’d set them on a nearby chair and begun wringing out her hair, the cool water dripping at her feet.
Richard had already begun working to start a fire for warmth, finding meager kindling next to the hearth. She’d made her way to his side, kneeling with him and gathering bundles of twigs to help him.
Their fingers brushed, and a spark passed between them at the connection.
As if on cue, the fire ignited and slowly began to pick up heat as it reached a roar. They may as well have been on fire.
“A Scotswoman, hating storms? I thought they’d be too ordinary for you,” Richard offered.
Catriona stared at the fire for a long moment before responding.
“I didnae mind them before.”
“Before what?”
She gulped. “When I was just eighteen… a lifetime ago, it feels sometimes… I was travelin’ through the Highlands with me faither. We were returnin’ from a hunt…”
“A hunt? I’m not surprised.”
