by Susan King
He slid his arms under the material. "I promise to behave myself. But you had better, also."
"I will." He heard a laugh in her voice.
"Are you comfortable?"
He heard the chatter of her teeth. "Almost." He saw a puff of frosted air as she spoke.
Lying beside her, he felt his body arouse and tighten. He had not slept beside a woman for a long while, and his body reacted to her nearness. As warmth collected in the space between them, he felt a distinct throbbing, a surge, gathering desire. But he had no intention of acting on that compelling need to take her into his arms. He willed himself to stillness again.
Soon he realized that she slept. Glad of the trust implicit in that, he tried to follow suit, tried to keep his thoughts away from her lush shape, sultry voice, gentleness—and irresistible nearness.
Just a few hours more in this bitterly cold little house and this chaste, barely warm little nest, and soon they would awaken to morning sun and melting ice and snow. Then they could make their way to the glen, and home.
He envied Catriona MacConn, in a way. She had a home and a hearth and a family who waited for her. Evan had none of that here. Kildonan Castle was his now, and was the home he had loved in childhood. But now he felt unwelcome, unwanted in the glen. He had dreamed of belonging here again, but in truth he was not.
He sighed, yearning for the comforts of home, where love, and family, and smiles waited. But that dream was elusive, and always would be for him.
* * *
Rising carefully from the bundled blanket in the middle of the night, Catriona tiptoed to the door and cracked it open slightly. She peered out at a world gone white. Snow flew sideways with the force of the wind, and sleet pelted the walls of the house. Chilled by the icy wind in her face, she rubbed her hands, in mittens, along her arms.
Poor weather or none, she had certain needs, and she and Mr. Mackenzie would need more drinking water as well. Besides, she had awoken feeling thirsty. Fetching the wooden bowl quietly, she then stepped outside, into a bitter blast of wind. She hurried to the far end of the building, seeking the shelter of an abandoned byre that sagged behind the shieling hut. After quickly tending to her needs, shivering all the while, she straightened her clothing, then headed for the burn at the base of a little hill nearby.
Sleet fell fast and needle sharp, and the wind shoved at her. Bowing her head, she half slid down the incline, ice-crusted grass slippery beneath her feet. She fell to her knees, dipped the bowl into the stream, wetting her mittens inadvertently. Clambering back up the hill toward the shieling hut, she stumbled, then righted herself, then slid again.
Her feet went out from under her, and she slid over the frosted grass and splashed into the burn, its banks edged with icy-coated grasses. The shocking sensations of wet and cold penetrated her layered clothing, and she gasped, floundering.
Sunk inches deep in a trench of fast-flowing, icy water, she fell to her hands and knees in the water. She floundered, slipped again—in the water too long, she knew, struggling, frightened. Finally she was able to scramble to her feet, grabbed her saturated skirts, and half ran, half fell up the incline to hurtle toward the house.
Bursting inside, she saw Evan Mackenzie sit up in the darkness, then get to his feet. Catriona ran to the hearth and fell to her knees beside its heat. Tearing off her wet mittens with her teeth, she fumbled at the lacings of her leather brogans with trembling fingers.
Mackenzie came toward her. "What happened?"
"I fell in the stream—through the ice. I wanted to get some water for us—ach!" she exclaimed in dismay, as she drew off one wet leather shoe to reveal her saturated woolen stocking.
Her fingers were trembling and red with cold, and the chill in her limbs felt like knives. Her skirt and petticoats were wet through to her chemise and knickers. Thin slivers of ice clung to the hem of her skirt as she tried to unlace the other shoe.
"Here, let me help," Mackenzie said, kneeling beside her. He took her foot and undid the lacing deftly, pulling the shoe off to set it by the fire.
"Your stockings," he said. "Take them off."
Mutely, she reached under her wet skirt modestly and carefully unfastened the ribbon garters around her upper thighs, rolling each knitted stocking down her leg and stripping them off, leaning to set them beside the hearth. Catriona folded her bare legs and feet under her skirt, seeking warmth, but her skirts and petticoats were cold and wet.
"Ach Dhia," she said, teeth chattering. When Mackenzie turned to whip the blanket off the floor, she lifted a hand. "No, we cannot risk getting our only blanket wet."
"Take my jacket, then," he said, tugging it off to drape it over her shoulders. Then he took her hands in his and rubbed them between his palms, his touch so divinely warm that Catriona gasped at the sheer relief of it. "Let me rub your feet, if you will, Miss," he said, bending.
"It can wait," she said, but wanting the warming so much that she nearly stuck her foot in his open, offering hand.
"We must warm you quickly or you'll catch an illness."
"I'm s-s-strong." Her teeth chattered. "I am never sick."
"You could get frostbite on those toes." He slipped his hand under the dripping hem of her skirt, finding her foot with a delicious shock of heat. She shifted to allow his touch.
As his firm caresses brought the blood flow back to her toes, she winced. "It stings," she admitted.
He rubbed more gently, his fingers sliding over her ankles and up under the wet hems of her cotton knickers to warm her lower legs. The feeling was intimate, delicious, dangerous. She gasped as the heat spread through her limbs.
Teeth still chattering, she sat quietly. No man had ever touched her like this, so freely, but she had to accept it—
Wanted it, she realized, feeling as if some hidden wellspring within her was being tapped. Warmth and a curious thrill flowed through her. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body—had wondered what his embrace would feel like, had wondered what caresses, kisses, more, would be like with him.
Gentle, like this, she thought. Tender and deep and then heightening to passion.
She had known only inept fumblings in a dark loft with a young man, a friend of her brother. Those brief, immature fondlings had hinted that magnificent feelings, secrets, existed in touch, in tenderness, in closeness. In love.
But such things were not for her—not for the plain girl.
Watching the glossy dark crown of Evan Mackenzie's hair, she wanted to caress that silkiness, touch him and let him touch her in turn anywhere. Anywhere, she thought, sighing, closing her eyes.
Opening them again to see his gaze on her.
She sat straight, pulled her foot away. "Thank you," she said, teeth still chattering. "That's enough." It was not.
"Your clothing is soaked."
"They'll dry if I sit here by the fire."
"Those wee embers will not dry anything." He set a hand on her arm, looking at her earnestly. "Listen now. If you stay in those garments all night, you'll take a chill."
"It will be fine," she insisted.
He shook his head. "Get those wet things off now, Miss MacConn."
Chapter 5
"No, I—" Catriona pulled away from him as if alarmed.
"Modesty is admirable, but do not jeopardize your health or your life. It is not necessary."
"M-my l-life?" She was shuddering now, her cheeks pale, lips a shadowy blue. He could literally hear her teeth rattling together. The girl was cold, so cold, and he wanted to take her in his arms, warm her, kiss her—kiss her. What had put that in his mind at such a time as this, an immediate dilemma?
"Aye, your breath could slow, your body temperature could drop. If you fall asleep like that, you might never wake up. It feels almost warm, that sort of chill, almost comfortable. You fall asleep, and then—well, you could die."
"You sound as if you know what that's like."
"I do. Far too well. Now consider removing your things—just until
you are warmer."
"Were you... exposed to such cold while c-c-climbing in the Alps?" she asked, shivering.
He bent to take her feet again to cup and warm them. "We were well prepared and were able to keep warm and dry there. No, I learned the dangers of real cold underwater." He glanced at her. "I'm a master undersea diver. We risk severe chill each time we go down the deep."
"D-diving! How inter-interesting," she said, shivering almost violently. "I've seen p-pictures in books. Is it so cold down in the ocean, Mr. Mac-mac-kenzie?"
He frowned and tugged his jacket more securely around her shoulders, rubbing her arms. "Aye. But the worst cold I have known was when a bridge collapsed into a river. I was there."
She gasped. "Did you fall into the water?"
He shook his head and rubbed her hands gently. Despite the pleasant distraction of her soft skin and slender, lovely fingers, his thoughts were elsewhere. "I dove into the water with others—we tried to help those who fell in. But three men died that day, good men, friends. The cold killed them."
"Oh, no," she murmured. "D-did you know them?"
He nodded. They had been friends and members of his work crew. The bridge had been his own design, his own project. He looked away. "I worked with them. I... I could not save them. One of them died in my arms."
In the two years since the incident, he had said little about that day to anyone. Certainly not to anyone he had met only a few hours earlier. He felt somewhat amazed at himself now for doing so.
"Oh, Evan," the girl whispered. He felt soothed, hearing his name soft on her lips. "Why were you there? Were you traveling over the bridge?"
"I am a bridge engineer. It was my project. My pride and joy," he said bitterly. "It fell while still under construction. We could not save everyone." He sat back, hunkered on his heels. His hands draped, empty, over his knees. He did not look at her.
"I am so sorry," she whispered. "Was it long ago?"
"Just over two years ago," he answered.
"Tragedies can take away parts of our souls, I think."
He glanced at her quickly. He had never thought of it in those terms, but he knew she was right.
He knew that she understood. She had lost a brother to a tragic incident, and her father had been deeply changed. She had seen the people leave the glen at his own father's orders. She knew about the deep hurt of the soul, as he did.
Suddenly he understood something more about himself, why he had wandered, wooden and subdued, through life afterward, abandoning bridge projects for dock works, lighthouses, canals. Burying himself in geometrically beautiful designs and mathematical formulas, he had shut himself off from the love and friendship that others tried to offer him.
"It can take a long time to recover from such a blow. Some n-never d-do," she added. She was still shivering too much, her body struggling to raise its own temperature.
He narrowed his eyes, struck by the depth of her sympathy and understanding. In the space of minutes, she understood him as no one else had in two years. She had summed up his hurt and his sense of being lost, and offered him a balm.
His friends and relatives wanted him to get on with his life by now. His mother wanted him to find a pleasant society girl and marry, wanted him to build a fine new bridge to replace the other one both literally and in his mind. Somehow she was convinced that both actions would cure his heartache, his guilt, his self-recrimination.
Catriona MacConn did not know him, yet she knew how he felt. Part of him was indeed still missing. He needed time to heal, to find that lost bit again. The tragedy had destroyed part of him, heart and soul. He had recovered as much as he could by keeping himself tightly guarded and speaking very little about the experience. Somehow she understood that.
But a part of his soul had torn away, spiraled out, left him on that day. He could not get it back.
He frowned, then nodded. "Thank you, Miss MacConn." She could not know why he thanked her. "I know what cold can do." He rose to his feet. "So I will not let you suffer tonight." He held out his hand.
She set her hand in his and stood.
"Very well." She clung to his coat, still around her shoulders. "Turn around."
* * *
Shivers ravaged her. She had never felt so frozen. She had to get out of her cold, wet clothes now.
As Mackenzie turned away, she undressed while doing her best to keep his jacket around her shoulders. She pulled at loops and buttons, fingers trembling. Her body shook, muscles tensing, jaw tight. She only wanted to feel warm all over again. Her fingers were so stiff that she could hardly undo the buttons, and made a small sound of frustration.
"Are you finished?" he inquired, back turned.
"Nearly. It is diff-difficult," she admitted.
He turned and came toward her. Without asking permission, quickly and smartly, he opened the button loops at the waist of her wet jacket and moved up, his fingers certain.
Silently he drew her jacket open and worked the long row of tiny buttons running up the bodice of her dress from waist to high neck. Catriona's heart slammed; her breath quickened.
As his fingers brushed over her breasts, she silently moved his hands away, opening the buttons herself. Beneath the dress, she wore a chemise but no stays. The upper body of her chemise was dry, but the lower hems, and her petticoats and knickers, were as wet as her outer skirt.
Mackenzie glanced down, up again, then turned away quickly. Catriona wriggled free of the dress, pushing it down over her hips until it pooled, soggy and a relief to remove, and she snatched up his thick tweed jacket, slipping her arms inside the satiny inner lining of the sleeves. Too large, it felt very good.
"The rest of it," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
"But—"
"Take off whatever is wet. Please," he added, voice gruff. "For your health. Let the things dry."
Sighing, she wriggled out of her soggy petticoats and dropped them, too, standing in damp chemise and knickers.
Then her mind conjured something wild, something exciting—his gazes upon her, his hands, his lips. His warmth surrounding, a passionate, quiet fire, the heat, the love she had always craved.
He had said she was not plain, had called her Fair Catriona. No one had ever complimented her like that. His interest, however slight it truly might be, had an irresistible allure.
Suddenly she wanted this night, already dangerous, to turn wild and intimate. She was alone with this kind and beautiful man. This would never come again—this night could be wild, bright miracle, changing her plain life forever. She wanted something secret and unforgettable with him.
She might never again have a chance to know what it could be like, alone with a man, loved, treated like a woman. Her heart slammed with her daring thoughts. Drawing a breath, wondering if she had gone lunatic from the cold, she undid the tape of her knickers and shrugged the garment off. The creamy cotton puddled at her feet, clammy wet. She shivered, and kept her chemise on, its shorter hem only damp.
Pulling Mackenzie's jacket close, its length hiding her torso and upper legs, she drew a breath. The thick, scratchy wool smelled of spice, fresh air, and of him.
He turned, and his gaze taking her in slowly, head to foot and back again, his hazel-green eyes intent. Facing him, she knew her breasts were scarcely hidden by the thin cotton shift. She felt her face heat in a blush.
One thing to imagine him loving her, she thought, suddenly mortified, quite another to stand before him nearly unclothed. What was she doing? But she felt compelled. Her heart pounded as she met his gaze.
Then she stooped to gather her dropped garments. The chemise and jacket left most of her long thighs and her knees bare. "I need to make sure my things will dry," she mumbled, and turned to spread the fabrics closer to the fire.
Evan snatched the plaid from the floor and tossed it over her. She clutched the wool around her and covered her limbs best she could, feeling embarrassed, reconsidering the mad thoughts that had gone through her mind.
Mackenzie took up his silver flask, opening it to hand it to her. "There is a little left," he said brusquely. "Here."
She nodded, sitting, tucking her legs beneath the plaid. She took a sip from the flask. The burning liquid poured down her throat, and she coughed as the wonderful fire of it spread through her, body tingling. She could not look up at him.
She was lonely, had been for a long time, watching other girls marry and have children while she cared for her father and brother and tried to forget her future. And now she realized that she was deeply curious, and very attracted to Evan Mackenzie. There would never again be a night like this in her life.
He had tapped her loneliness with kindness and concern, with a brusqueness likely born of his own discomfiture with the situation. He roused glimmers of passion in her with just a touch, with heartbreakingly beautiful, small smiles. Was he thinking of her too, looking at her?
He was grateful for her help, and that was all. He was a handsome, educated gentleman, and she was an ordinary Highland girl. When the weather cleared tomorrow and they left this place, she would never see him again.
Once—just once, she thought, let the wildness—
Ignoring that, she held out the flask. "Thank you."
"If you want more, take it. It will warm you."
She sipped again. The swallowed fire expanded, wrapping her in comfort. She handed back the flask. "No more. I have not eaten. It will make me ill."
He took the flask and drank from it, his lips covering where hers had been. She watched the slide of his powerful throat.
"Mr. Grant says a person with a head injury should not take whisky," she ventured.
"Mr. Grant has never been stranded in a shieling hut on a cold night, alone with a bonny lass," he said in a dry tone. "Now lie down and try to sleep. It will do you good."
She stretched out inside the plaid, the wool faintly prickly against her bare legs, and pulled it up to her chin. The comfort surrounded her, felt divine. She felt drowsy rather quickly.
Mackenzie sat beside the fire, propping his arm on his upraised knee. He took up the poker and jabbed at the blackened peat bricks. The fire smoked. For all the poking and shifting he did, the crumbling peat would not glow any brighter.
