Kissing the Countess

by Susan King

  Dragging him slowly, carefully, she moved down the slope with him. His head lolled on her hip, and his weight—he was lean, but very tall—threatened to pull her to her knees now and then. But she went onward, determined.

  The wind buffeted her, tugged at her plaid, and sleet stung her cheeks. Snow dusted her and the man as well. She slipped once, falling hard to her knee, but she kept his limp head from hitting the ground, and stood again. Breathing hard, she summoned sheer will and somehow managed to pull him along.

  The stone hut was set off the path in a clearing, tucked in the lee of the hill. Pulling and huffing, Catriona dragged the traveler along, his heels digging tracks in the snow.

  The thatch and stone hut was empty now, she knew, for it was used only occasionally by shepherds who brought cattle to the uplands. Still, its ruined condition was shelter enough.

  She kicked open the door and tugged the unconscious stranger over the threshold. Inside, a portion of the roof had collapsed and one corner was piled with musty old thatch and broken rafters. Chill winds and sleet burst through the roof and the small interior was dank and dim.

  Straining now, Catriona maneuvered the man across the room toward the cold hearth and laid him on the earthen floor. She removed her plaid and wrapped it around him, using his knitted scarf to cushion his head. He opened his eyes slightly, heavy lashes black against his pale cheeks, and mumbled something before closing his eyes.

  She went back outside, shivering, to grab handfuls of snow, wrapping them in her handkerchief. Back inside, she sank to her knees beside the man to apply the makeshift compress to his forehead, where a cut seeped blood that had stained his cheek, shirt and tweed jacket.

  Cleaning his skin gently, she saw him flutter his eyelids a little, a flash of hazel there, though he did not wake up. She rubbed his bare hands with her mittened fingers, still shivering herself, and murmured to him.

  Then she glanced around. Beside the simple hearth was a stack of old, stale peat. If it was not too wet, she could start a fire. Stacking a few crumbling peat bricks in the hearth and finding an old flint on a shelf, she worked until she struck a spark and finally produced a smoking peat, which she coaxed into a flame. Catriona sat back and watched the flame grow, casting a feeble light over the man who lay near her.

  She studied his face curiously. Handsome and strong-looking, he seemed healthy enough despite the bruise and cut on his brow and his pale, cold face. She did not recognize him, though for a moment he looked elusively familiar.

  Warming her hands by the fire, she looked around. In the gathering dusk, the shieling hut was gloomy but for the small bright glow of the hearth. The air felt freezing, and she could hear icy rain pelting the outer walls as sleet and snow spilled through a hole in the roof.

  Gazing at the man's unknown, handsome face, she wondered how the two of them would survive this bitter, dangerously night.

  First, though she had to tend to his wounds. She did not yet know the extent of any injuries. Drawing off her mittens, she bent forward and patted his broad shoulders, arms, then his chest, covered in a brown woolen vest and white linen shirt beneath the jacket in a good brown and cream tweed. She glanced again at his face—his skin was smooth and good, lightly tanned, and the fine creases around his closed eyes hinted that he was accustomed to being outdoors. His taut, strong body beneath the layers of clothing had athletic strength.

  His shoulders were broad, his torso lean muscle wherever she probed. Though hesitant at first, she grew bolder, exploring his chest and flat abdomen, lean hips and long, muscled legs, searching for broken bones, until she wiggled his feet in their hobnailed boots. No obvious injuries, she discovered with relief. With blushing surprise, she realized it was pleasant to touch his long, lean, perfect form. He was a beautiful, virile young man, and for a moment her imagination strayed—she wondered what it might be like to lay sheltered against that hard, powerful body. Shocked at herself, she sat back.

  He made no sign of pain when she had touched him. Good. She touched his head. His hair was deep brown, his brows, thick lashes, and clean-shaven beard black. His jaw had a square strength, and his rough day's beard rasped under her fingertips. She traced a fingertip over his mouth, his lips soft and cool. Satisfied that his breath was even, if faint, she smiled.

  His eyelids fluttered again, mossy green and brown, like a calm forest. Then his breath eased out, long and slow, and she realized he slept.

  Drawing the plaid to his chin, she turned to look around again. In a dark corner, she saw a sagging bench and a shelf with a few utensils—a small iron kettle, a bowl, tongs, a fire poker.

  She rose to her feet to fetch the kettle, remembering the packet of dry oats tucked in her skirt pocket, a habit she had when taking long walks in the hills. Wondering if the stranger carried any other food, she turned toward his knapsack.

  If they had to spend a long, dark, cold night in this hut, they would need not only heat, but sustenance.

  * * *

  Firelight and warmth and gentle hands upon him. He knew that kind touch now, treasured that grace and comfort. He did not know who she was, or how long he had been here. But he was grateful to be alive and thankful for her care of him.

  The girl's hands lifted away from his forehead, where she brushed back his hair. She began to sing in lilting, breathy Gaelic—such a calming sound. He sighed.

  Opening his eyes, Evan watched the young woman as she dipped a wooden spoon into an iron kettle set over a hearth fire. Her hair gleamed, a waving, coppery halo loosely caught in a long braid. She hummed as she stirred. Firelight flowed over her like red gold.

  She looked younger than he, early twenties perhaps. Tall and long-limbed beneath a moss-green, her body was curved and lovely, full and yet slender. Despite his weariness, he felt his body contract lustily as he saw her womanly shape. He glanced away, looked around.

  The shelter was a small, crude stone house in sad repair. The cold leaked inside, and part of the roof had collapsed into a corner. The place looked otherworldly, enchanted, the girl stirring a magic cauldron, her soft chanting song rising with the steam from the kettle.

  Dimly he recalled his fall while climbing. He frowned, tested his memory—Evan Mackenzie, lately of the Lowlands, born in the Highlands. Viscount Glendevon, recently Earl of Kildonan. Engineer. His father was dead seven months.

  His brain was intact, at least. Good. Now if he could only summon strength to speak, to move.

  The girl turned toward him, her face a pretty oval, features delicate, her head surrounded by that glorious bright hair. Her eyes were large and grayish blue, her skin translucent and finely scattered with freckles. She had a fresh, simple beauty, an honest face, gentle hands and a lovely voice. He hoped she wold sing again—the sound was soothing. Healing.

  She said nothing, glancing at him keenly, smiling a little, turning to stir the kettle again. The calmness about her seemed to affect him, too, for he felt steady and relaxed, strangely so, given these rather odd circumstances.

  He lifted a hand to his head and felt a cloth bandage over a tender spot. He ached head to foot, but he lay in a warm nest made of a plaid blanket wrapped around him.

  The girl smiled at him again, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her smile was bright, impish, quick. She had the strong-boned handsomeness common in the Highlands, and her hair was extraordinary, a beautiful, soft, curling fall.

  She spoke then in Gaelic, and he looked at her without reply. "You are awake," she said then in English. "Good."

  He stared, foggy with weariness. He had fallen, he knew, had slammed against a rock, hit his head. Somehow he had crawled to a hill and had begun to walk downward.

  But he did not know how he came to be here, with her.

  She tilted her head. "Parlez-vous francais?" she asked. "Capiscol italiano, abbastanza bene.... Sprechen-Sie Deutsch?"

  Now here was a surprise. The Highland angel was multilingual. He blinked, bemused.

  "That is more than my poor brainpan can h
andle just now, lass," he murmured. "English will do. I believe I fell... quite a distance?"

  "Ah! Aye. You are an English holiday climber?" She spoke the lilting, precise English typical of a Gael who had acquired the second language in school.

  "A climber. A Scotsman."

  "You sound English."

  "Eton College."

  She nodded understanding, then blew on the spoon to cool its steaming contents before leaning forward to offer him a taste.

  He swallowed, closing his eyes with pleasure at discovering a hot, good brose. The healthy dash of whisky mixed with a thick broth of water and oats slid down his throat like welcome, sustaining fire.

  She turned away again. He saw then that the dim little room was a dank ruin. He smelled stone, earth, sweet musty peat, and the clean, cold snap of wind and snow. Icicles hung from a tear in the roof, and he could see a magical night sky swirling with snowflakes that drifted inside.

  The little hearth fire gave off some heat nearby, but the hut was cold as an icebox.

  The girl shivered. He noticed mittens, a green skirt plump with petticoats, a jacket, but no outer coat, cape or plaid.

  He, on the other hand, felt snug inside the plaid. Looking down, he realized that he was wrapped in her shawl, a tartan of soft color on a creamy background, the sort a woman would wear. Seeing her shiver and sniffle, he felt a pang of guilt.

  "Miss—" he began.

  "MacConn," she said. "Catriona MacConn."

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss MacConn. It is... Miss?"

  "I am not married," she said, stirring the kettle again.

  His spinster-angel was shivering, and he had the only blanket in sight. He must do his best to be a gentleman, provided he could move. He opened the plaid, his arms stiff and sore. "Miss MacConn, meaning no disrespect—sit beside me here and be warm."

  "I am fine." As she spoke, she chafed her arms with her mittened hands. Her breath frosted in the air.

  "Lass, don't be a fool. You're shivering and will perish of the chill." Evan beckoned sternly. He did not have much patience where common sense was required—he did not intend to play wolf to her lamb—nor did he enjoy watching her suffer nobly on his account.

  Besides, she seemed forthright and practical to him, even with just a few glances and few words exchanged.

  "Miss MacConn," he said. "It seems absurd and ungentlemanly for me to sit here comfortable, while you are over there shaking with cold."

  She stared at him for a moment, then moved forward.

  Chapter 3

  "I am not that sort of girl." Her teeth chattered.

  "And I am not that sort of man." He sat up gingerly, leaning against the cold, damp wall. "You saved my life and I am in your debt. I will not sit in warmth by while you suffer."

  "You owe me nothing, sir. I could not leave you there."

  "If you will not sit here with me, then let us share the blanket by turns. Here. I'll tend to the fire and supper while you warm yourself." He eased himself to knees, then feet, setting a hand on the wall when his head spun.

  "Sir, you must not—" She slipped an arm around his waist and tucked her shoulder under his arm. He leaned, glad she was a tall, strong girl, and allowed her to help him to a wooden bench beside the fire. The warped thing rocked a little as he sat.

  "You should rest," she said. "I do not think you have broken bones, but your head injury concerns me. And you were exposed to the cold for a time before I found you."

  "I will be all right," he said, although he felt achy and weak and would not admit to it. His natural tendency was to be strong and hardy and he expected that to return quickly. "Whatever is bruised will mend." He tipped his head, puzzled. "How did I come to be here in this place, with you?"

  She knelt to stir the pot, then sat back on her heels and looked at him. "I found you near the drover's road that runs over the hill—Beinn Shee, the Fairy Mountain. It is the tallest peak beside the great mountain called Beinn Alligin."

  He nodded. "I was climbing Beinn Shee, but I did not make it to the top." He shifted, stifled a wince.

  "No one ever has," she said. "Do you recall falling?"

  "Oh aye. A friend and I started out early in the day in the mist, and later the storm blew in from the northwest. My friend turned back. I lost him in the fog. I hope to God he did not fall."

  She frowned. "I saw a man crossing the glen floor as I came along the old track. I did think it odd to see a gentleman walking alone in this poor weather. He had a pack on his back, and was dressed like a sporting gentleman. But no gun."

  "That would be Fitzgibbon." Evan felt relieved to know that Arthur had made it safely down from the mountain. "I could not descend safely where I was, so I went up a little, looking for a better place." He explained the rest. "It was something of a nightmare," he finished, touching his brow. "I hit a rocky ledge rather hard and tried to move, but fell again. It's a blur now."

  "I found you beside the path, nearly chilled to death, with your head bruised and bleeding. I knew this shieling hut was not far down the track, so I brought you here."

  "I'm eternally grateful, Miss MacConn. But how did you manage it?" He sat forward. "I must have walked, though I do not recall that."

  "I took you by the arms, sir, and dragged you here."

  "Truly! I am amazed as well as grateful. That was a Herculean task. I am not a small man."

  "Nor am I a small woman. I had no choice but to move you somehow." Cheeks blushing fiercely, she rose to her feet. "Sir, it is so cold in here. Do cover up and keep warm."

  He felt the cold intensely, but saw how she rubbed her arms, and how pink the tip of her nose had become.

  "Miss MacConn, I insist that you get under that blanket. It is freezing in here," he said, pointing toward the plaid. He left the bench and lowered stiffly to the floor beside the glowing hearth. Taking up the spoon, he dipped it into the kettle.

  "Be careful, it's hot," she said, then crawled into the cocoon he had abandoned and drew the blanket to her chin. Her boots stuck out.

  "Tuck your feet in, do," he ordered. She smiled at his tone, and he smiled, too, feeling a bit surprised, for generally he had much greater reserve with strangers. But he felt strangely at ease in her company. He sipped from the spoon. "This is good. Like a brose, but not sweet."

  "I used oats, melted snow, and whisky," she said. "I hope you don't mind. I found your flask of whisky in the knapsack and mixed it with snow and some oats I had with me. I always carry dry oats in case of hunger when I walk out in the hills."

  "Luckily for us that you do. Whatever I have is yours, Miss MacConn." She had saved his life—he might have died had she not come along, compassionate and capable, just in time.

  He smiled, feeling an easy and unexpected affection, as if he had known her a long time. Odd for him, as he tended to be reserved and was not quick to fondness. But then, no one had ever saved his life before. He felt gratitude, he realized.

  "I have more oats in my pack, enough for tonight," she said. "We do not have much else to eat."

  He set down the spoon, not wanting more than his share. He offered her a taste but she shook her head.

  "I'm not hungry now, thank you. I fear we may have to stay here until daylight and will want food later." She looked at the door, swaying on worn hinges in the wind. Snow blew through chinks in the walls and a gap in the roof.

  "The storm will end soon, and then we can leave. The glen is not a long walk from here, is it?" he asked.

  She shifted, drew the plaid closer. "The track goes over the hills and down about three miles to the glen floor. 'Tis another mile to my father's house. The way is steep and can be treacherous in bad weather. You should not try such a walk just yet, with your head injury. Thankfully though, you have no broken bones." She blushed in the firelight as he glanced at her. "I had to examine you," she explained.

  Evan smiled. "Thank you for making sure," he said, to put her at ease. "I can make the descent if the weather clears, but it seems th
at we will have to spend the night here, Miss MacConn." He studied her for a moment. "It is awkward, I admit. My apologies."

  She shrugged a little. "What choice do we have? We'll manage. We have a fire, some food, and... a blanket." She frowned. "Perhaps your friend will come looking for you."

  "Fitz? A good fellow, but he tends to assume all is well and goes about his business. Besides, the storm will prevent anyone from searching for us. Your family will be concerned, I'm sure."

  "My father and brother will worry when I do not come home. My... eldest brother died under such circumstances, many years ago," she murmured. "He was climbing on Beinn Shee when he fell."

  "My God," he said softly. "I am so sorry."

  "My father took it very hard. We all did. Donald was the oldest of us—we were six children. My father was injured on the day of the search, and... well, he has never been the same. Turned sad and fierce that day and found solace in strict religion." She shrugged. "Aye, they will be concerned if I do not return from the hills—and will look for me soon as they can."

  "We will easily get down to the glen in the morning, before they even have a chance to come up. No one need be the wiser about our adventure here, if you wish," he offered impulsively. "We could appear there separately. A pact, shall we say?"

  She tilted her head, then gave a pensive nod.

  The wind howled, and sleety gusts rattled the walls. Catriona MacConn looked around anxiously. "This shieling hut has been here a long time. It was used long ago when the shepherds and their families brought the cattle to graze on sweet grass in the high hills. No one has been here for decades, I think. It is not in very good repair."

  Evan shifted to sit with his back against the wall, closer to the girl. "We could stuff some of the biggest holes and block the gap in the roof somehow," he suggested. "I could try to wedge something between the rafters."

  She rubbed her arms. "With a wintry squall like this, we could have even colder winds and more snow before morning. Oh dear—we could be stranded for days."