Snowy Night with a Highlander

by Julia London

  She was courting disaster—she might be in the Highlands with no one about to observe her ruin, but that didn’t mean she’d be any less ruined if she gave in to temptation.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Startled, Fiona looked at him, then down at her hands. She was holding two rock-hard scones.

  “Perhaps if you put them near the fire,” he said, as if she were undecided as to what to do with them.

  She quickly put them on a rock near the fire and looked into the pail again.

  It hardly mattered that there was only one rug between them—the space was so small that she couldn’t help but lie or sit beside him in this tiny shelter. Lord God, how did she get herself into such predicaments? It very much reminded her of the time that she and Lady Gilbert had taken it upon themselves to climb up to the old ruins on the Gilbert estate. But the ruins were not where Lady Gilbert had believed them to be, and they’d become lost in a stand of aspens. It had begun to rain, and without a proper umbrella between them, the two of them had been forced to crouch together in a tiny little cave. It was so cramped that they’d become rather cross with one another. It was a fortnight before they’d patched things up.

  Fiona had learned a valuable lesson that day—in times of turmoil, people either came together or were torn apart.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

  “Amiss? No, no—I was just having a look at the pail.” She pulled out a hunk of cheese wrapped in cloth. There were apples and nuts, too, in addition to the bread and ham. She handed the ham to Duncan, who speared the meat on the end of a stick and stuck it near the fire to warm it.

  They ate in silence, both of them staring out at the white landscape, huddled in their cloaks. But the cold was seeping through the hay and the fur on which they sat, making Fiona’s bones ache.

  Seated on her left, Duncan watched her hold her gloved hands out to the fire. “You are cold.”

  “I’m no’.”

  He gave her a look that said he knew better. “I can see you shivering, lass.”

  “Shivering?” She tried to laugh. “I am no’ shivering. I am . . .” Honestly, she couldn’t think of an excuse. She was shivering.

  Duncan removed his hat. He had sandy brown hair, streaked gold by the sun. With his gaze on the fire, he unwrapped a scarf from his face, leaving a second one wrapped around his lower face and neck. He returned the hat to his head and pulled it down low. “Here,” he said, handing the scarf to her. It was dry, protected by his collar and hat from the snow. “Put it around your neck and ears.”

  “I could no’ possibly,” she protested.

  “Put it on,” he commanded her. “You’ll catch your death.”

  She did not want to take his scarf, but she was freezing. She quickly removed her damp bonnet and tossed it aside. She wrapped the scarf around her head and neck. It smelled of him—a spicy, musky scent that stirred her blood. A violent shiver caught her by surprise, and this one had nothing to do with cold.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He reached for his boot and retrieved a flask. Fiona watched him open it and take a long draft from it. Then he handed it to her. “Drink.”

  “What is it?”

  “Scotch whisky.”

  “Oh no, I shouldna—”

  He turned and looked at her with a gaze warmly limpid in the firelight. “Drink, my lady,” he insisted low. “It will take the chill from your bones.”

  That suggestion persuaded her far too easily; she gingerly drank from the flask. The liquor burned so badly it made her eyes water. Fiona blinked to clear her vision. She felt a little strange in the gut, but she did indeed feel warmer.

  Duncan smiled a little lopsidedly when she took another, longer drink and handed it back to him. He took a sip, then passed it to her again, as if they were a pair of sailors sharing a bit of gin on a moonlit deck.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” she asked after taking another sip and dragging the back of her hand across her mouth.

  He did not respond, which she took as tacit agreement.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  He shifted slightly, as if the question made him uncomfortable. “An accident.”

  It was obviously the result of an accident. Fiona tapped him on the arm with the flask and handed it to him. But before she let go of it, she said, “There are many types of accidents . . . carriage accidents, hunting accidents . . .”

  “It was a fire,” he said stiffly. “Now may I ask you a personal question?”

  Fiona smiled. She was beginning to feel very warm and airy, open to all examination. “Please ask me—but I assure you, I’ve no’ omitted a single detail of my life today.”

  “Did you no’ settle on a matrimonial match in London?”

  Except perhaps that detail. Of all the things she thought he might ask, that was not among them. Fortunately, the whisky had done quite a lot to soothe any feathers before they could be ruffled, and she laughed at his audacity as she took the flask from his hand and sipped again.

  “No,” she said with a cock of her head, smiling at him. “It would seem I am a wee bit of a problem in that regard.”

  One brow rose high. “How so?”

  “Well . . . ” she said breezily, “I have a fortune . . . but it is no’ a great fortune by London standards. And I’m no’ what one would call handsome.”

  Duncan snorted. “You are a very handsome woman.”

  The compliment, so tersely and adamantly spoken, thrilled her. “You are very kind, but I am well aware of my shortcomings.”

  “You’ve no shortcomings,” he said gruffly. “If someone has allowed you to believe it, they are a bloody fool.”

  She grinned. “Lord, dare I believe my own ears? The Buchanan man flatters me!”

  “It is no’ flattery. I am a man, madam. I know a handsome woman when I’ve laid eyes on her.” He snatched the flask from her hand and tossed his head back, taking a long draft.

  Fiona’s grin broadened. “Then perhaps it is my cheerful countenance that serves me so poorly,” she gaily suggested. “Lady Gilbert swears that I am no’ as circumspect in social situations as I ought to be, all for one small mistake I made. One teeny, tiny mistake,” she said, holding up her finger and thumb just a breath apart to show him how tiny.

  “Aye?” He seemed interested as he handed her the flask. “What mistake, then?”

  Fiona snorted. “On my word, when Señor Castellano inquired directly of me if I thought Miss Fitzgerald would be a good match for him, I answered truthfully! I said that Miss Fitzgerald seemed particularly fond of Lord Randolph, and that I rather doubted she’d seriously entertain the advances of a Spaniard. I said it only because I thought it would be kinder to disabuse him of his false hope than to encourage him further. Was I so wrong, then?” she asked rhetorically before taking a drink from the flask. “Unfortunately, I was no’ privy to the fact that Lord Randolph had his eye on Lady Penelope Washburn, who is a very close friend of Miss Fitzgerald, but Señor Castellano was, and when Señor Castellano informed Miss Fitzgerald—and everyone else in jolly old England, for that matter—Miss Fitzgerald discovered for the first time that her dear friend Lady Washburn had no’ turned away Lord Randolph’s attentions as she’d promised she had, and . . . and it was a rather big to-do,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

  She glanced at Duncan. He was smiling again. “Oh no, no, no,” she warned him as she casually settled back against the hay, feeling remarkably warm for the first time that day. “You’ve no right to laugh. You were no’ there, you did no’ witness my dilemma.”

  “Any other mistakes?” he asked, clearly amused.

  “Nooo,” she drawled. “I am no’ entirely hopeless. Only one or two.” She shrugged. “A bit of horse gambling and what no’, that’s all. How was I to know proper English ladies donna gamble?” She lifted the flask to her lips, drank liberally. But when sh
e lowered it again, Duncan took it from her hand.

  At Fiona’s look of surprise, he said, “Another drink, and you may very well float off into the snow.” He sipped once more and stuffed the flask in his boot. “I’ll just check on the horses. You should try and get some sleep, for the morrow will be a rather long day.”

  “I’m too cold to sleep,” she complained, and tightened the scarf he’d given her around her head.

  With a wry smile, Duncan stood and pulled the fur over her before moving to the edge of their shelter. He paused and glanced back at her, taking all of her in—all of her—from her head to her toes. When he lifted his gaze to her eyes once more before going out, she found his expression to be entirely provocative.

  In fact, his lustful look had made her flesh heat in a most enticing way. Fiona meant to wait for him to return, but he was gone awhile, and the fire was lovely, the thick fur rug even lovelier, and when she laid on her side and pillowed her face on her hands, it was only to be nearer the fire.

  She did not recognize the moment she slipped into a whisky-induced sleep.

  * * *

  Fiona wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of whisky and a sexual attraction. Duncan had to walk about in the frigid snow just to get her out from under his skin. When he returned with another armload of wood, Fiona was lying on her side next to the fire, snoring lightly.

  He could not help but smile. As she’d talked this evening—her face flushed from the whisky, her eyes sparkling with her many memories—he’d pictured her in the finest salons of London, a young and elegant woman from the Scottish Highlands who knew more about horse gambling than social maneuvering, but whom he rather imagined had a natural talent for it. He guessed she was admired in London.

  He admired her for it. When he’d been whole, moving in even limited society had not been easy for him. He never clearly understood what was expected of him; it seemed men wanted him to be bold and aloof, women wanted him to be kind and solicitous. And they all wanted something from him.

  It required a lot of courage for Fiona to have gone off to London without knowing what awaited her, and quite a lot of courage to have remained and negotiated her way through court society all these years. Duncan liked her honesty and envied her ability to see her place in the world. She seemed to harbor no illusions about who or what she was, and seemed to take everyone she met at face value, without regard for their social standing.

  That she had attempted to befriend him, believing him a driver, made her all the more captivating to him.

  Duncan went down on his haunches beside her, and in the light of the fire he watched her sleeping for a moment. She was pretty. Not beautiful, but certainly pretty. She had the look of a Scot, a freshness he’d seen only in Highland women. More important, Fiona was real—there wasn’t the slightest bit of artifice about her. She was refreshingly different from the debutantes he’d once known. They’d all been trained from the cradle to be serene and delicate and demure. Fiona was serene but in a natural way. And she wasn’t particularly delicate or demure, a fact that made him chuckle quietly.

  He stoked the fire, removed his hat and eye patch, then eased himself down next to her, very gingerly lifting the fur rug and sliding underneath it beside her. There was nothing to be done for it—if they were to survive this night, they’d need to huddle together for warmth, just like the horses.

  He propped his good arm behind his head and looked out over the fire. The snow had passed and bright starlight was reflected off the snow. The air was completely still; it would be bitterly cold tonight. But on the morrow—Christmas Day—they’d be able to travel. They had to travel—he did not have enough grain to see the horses past another day, nor was there any food left but a pair of scones for the two of them.

  It would be a long, hard day, and Duncan closed his eyes, wanting to sleep—and to dream. To dream of himself with his old face and a pair of working arms.

  He slept badly, the cold seeping too quickly into his bones and settling there. He was awakened at some point in the night by Fiona’s trembling. She was making a strange noise that he realized was the sound of her teeth chattering. He reacted without thought, sitting up to stir the embers and put more wood on the fire, then easing down and moving closer to Fiona, pulling the fur up to her chin. He then slid his arm around her abdomen, drawing her into his chest.

  For several peaceful moments they lay there, the warmth of their bodies seeping into his joints. But then Fiona stirred.

  Duncan did not move or speak. He did not want to be sent back across the gap of cold earth that had been between them. But Fiona grabbed his hand and pried it from her middle. He began to move away, but she suddenly rolled onto her back and held his hand and removed his glove. She was, he sheepishly realized, awake.

  “Have you had your palm read by a seer?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head.

  A slow smile curved her lips as she idly traced a fingertip down the length of his palm. “I have. The Prince of Wales was quite entertained by the art and invited a seer to Carlton House to read the palms of all of his friends.”

  “You are a friend to the Prince of Wales?”

  “Oh no. But Lady Gilbert is. Or rather, Lady Gilbert’s husband. This line,” she said, tracing slowly from his forefinger to the bottom of his palm, “represents the path of your life. I am no expert, sir, but by the look of it, you shall have a long one.”

  “Shall I indeed?”

  “You seem skeptical.”

  He smiled wryly. “Perhaps a wee bit.”

  “Mr. Duncan, you must have faith in your hand.” She tapped her finger against his palm. “This line speaks to your intelligence,” she said, running the tip of her glove across his palm. “I am fairly certain it is this one. But this,” she said, wrapping her fingers around his forefinger and drawing another line across his palm, “indicates your heart.” She studied it a moment by the firelight. “There is a small break here, do you see? A broken heart, no doubt. Oh, but look! The line is renewed and goes on for quite a length! It means you have survived the heartache and will be strong again.”

  “Certain of that, are you?” he scoffed.

  “No, no’ at all,” she said. She turned her head and looked up at him, looked directly at his damaged eye. “But I am hopeful, for your sake.”

  That tiny profession of hope was his undoing. Duncan could not resist her—she was the one person who did not look at him with horror or disdain. Her joie de vivre was infectious, her hope uplifting. And her body, curving in all the right places, as soft as butter, smelling of rosewater, was too much for the man in him. He could not endure another moment in her company and not touch her.

  He put his fingers to her chin and turned her face completely to him. Her eyes were glimmering; he could feel something rising up in him, something human, something pleasing and agreeable. Her skin, her smile, her eyes beckoned, and he slowly, deliberately touched his lips to hers, unmindful of the consequences, caring for nothing but the feel of a woman in his arms.

  She kissed him back.

  Her mouth set him aflame, firing his blood from an internal hearth that had been cold for far too long. He slipped his tongue between her lips, and Fiona pressed against him, her body touching the length of his, inch by excruciatingly pleasurable inch.

  The sensation was overwhelming to a man starved for affection. He roughly pulled her to him, wrapping her in a tight one-armed embrace. He’d kissed many women in his life, but never in this way, not with such torrid need, and never so dangerously close to losing all capacity for reason. He rolled her onto her back and came over her, slipping his hand to her breast, filling his hand with the soft pliancy of it.

  He dipped his head down, working the clasp of her cloak with his teeth, then pressing his lips to the warm skin at her throat. Fiona sighed with pleasure and swallowed; he could feel the contraction under his lips.

  It drove him absolutely mad with desire.

  He slipped his hand be
neath her cloak and undid the buttons of her traveling coat, one by one, pushing fabric aside until his hand touched silken flesh.

  A wave of prurient desire engulfed him, and Duncan helplessly buried his face in the curve of her neck where the scarf had fallen away. When his hand found her bare breast beneath layers of wool, she gasped softly and arched into his palm.

  He could feel his heart beating. His heart, his heart! It wasn’t dead, it was very much alive. “Fiona,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to the skin of her neck, then to the hollow of her throat, and the mound of her breast.

  She did nothing to stop him—her hands were on his shoulders, her fingers scraping down his back, and up to his chest. She was panting lightly, and in something of a lust-filled daze, Duncan cupped her face with his hand and lifted himself in order to seek her mouth with his, filling her once more with his kiss.

  Fiona sighed into his mouth and began to move against him in a way only a woman could move, slow and sultry. He sucked and nibbled on her lips and her tongue, feeling pent-up need thrumming through him, swelling into every vein, every muscle, and flooding him with emotions he’d not felt in a very long time. He wanted her with a desperation that left him breathless; he needed—desperately needed—to be inside her, to feel her body hot and wet around him.

  As if to answer his silent wish, her leg rose up on one side of him as he teethed a rigid nipple. Duncan caught her ankle and slid his hand up her calf, beneath her cloak and skirt, over thick woolen stockings, to the bare flesh of her inner thigh, to the warm, damp apex of her legs—

  Fiona suddenly surged up, cupping his face in her hands, and in doing so, pushing the scarf from his head. She must have felt his puckered skin of his cheek and neck, because she suddenly reared back and looked at him, her eyes widening with shock.

  Duncan panicked at the thought of what she was seeing, and everything in him crashed in that moment. He felt a searing twist of his heart.

  “Dear God,” she whispered as she stared at his face.