Kissing the Countess (26 page)

Turning, she mustered a smile. "I would love that."

* * *

All was quiet that evening as Evan made his way through darkened hallways lit by the occasional oil lamp. He turned them down as he went, seeing to his own home, not leaving it for the butler. His solitary footsteps echoed on stone in the corridors of the central keep, despite the carpets strewn there. As he entered the wing that housed his private rooms with Catriona, his footsteps were muffled in the modest, more modern dimensions of the long hallway.

Pausing at Catriona's door, he was tempted to knock. Instead he stood listening to the peacefulness, imagining her quiet, even breaths as she lay sleeping.

After a simple Highland supper shared with their guests in the small dining room—a meal of mutton stew, brown bread, and a sugar-crusted lemon cake—Catriona, as hostess, had proposed that the ladies retire early. Evan had not been surprised by her considerate regard for their guests, most of whom were tired after a day of traveling and hillwalking.

Her suggestion was welcomed. Lady Jean, being with child and readily fatigued, was the first to depart, followed by the other ladies and some of the men. Making quick apologies, they went to their various bedrooms in the castle's main tower and two wings.

Evan shared port and cigars with Sir Aedan MacBride and Reverend Wilkie, the only two who lingered after dinner. Wilkie, the author of several books about his travels and climbing adventures in Europe and Britain, revealed such a fine knack for storytelling that he kept Evan and MacBride entertained until past midnight with his tales.

Two glasses of port warmed Evan's blood, and good company and healthy fatigue had relaxed him. He stood in the silent corridor outside Catriona's room and fought the urge to touch her door handle.

All he wanted, just then, was to go to her, take her into his arms, sink down with her in that big, comfortable bed. He wanted to recapture the night when they had held each other, caring so deeply about the other's welfare that their own needs seemed unimportant.

Compassion and desire, in a crucible of danger, had created love—real love—that night. He felt more certain it was in him now. But the thought still staggered him, awed him, changed him somehow. Standing at her door, he was not the man he had been days ago, when he had climbed the mountain in the mist.

Could love happen so fast, like flint and spark, creating flames so hot that they flared into passion within hours? Could a quick fire like that create embers to last a lifetime?

He would not have thought it possible, yet some sort of subtle magic flowed through him, stirred and roused him as if from a long sleep. Filled with hope, with caring and desire, he began to understand that this was love—real love—the sort that existed in fairy tales and legends.

Yet it all hung in the balance. He and Catriona could destroy what they had found—or build on it gloriously.

Drawing a breath, he told himself to be patient, to let her decide. Otherwise he would never know what she truly wanted.

She had saved his life, and in turn he had saved hers. Now they might be able to save each other completely.

He leaned a shoulder on her door and felt a flicker of hope and something more, a sense of falling. But this time he was falling in love, and he did not want to stop that plummet.

Chapter 18

"Oh! What a grim occasion it must have been," a voice said in a half-whisper, followed by a loud sniff. "A hasty little wedding, and only days ago?"

Catriona slowed as she came down the hall toward the small dining room to meet the others for breakfast the next morning. She recognized Lady Wetherstone's voice, and her remark, clearly not meant for the bride, stung like a bee.

She hesitated, wondering if she should march boldly on, or turn and flee without being seen.

"A lovely little wedding and quite romantic," she heard Jean say. "They knew each other as children, you know. Love blossomed quickly for them when they met again, and they knew their hearts." She sighed, an audible yearning.

Bless Jean, Catriona thought, for stretching a distant childhood association into a white lie. True, Catriona and Evan had been children in the same glen, and had only met once or twice. And she had seen him on the day his father cleared the glen of tenants. Jean had embellished an awkward situation and a hasty wedding into something wonderful, and in that moment Catriona truly loved her.

She turned to tiptoe away, but saw Mrs. Baird at the other end of the hallway. The housekeeper was talking to an unseen maid inside one of the rooms along the corridor.

"Really!" Lady Wetherstone said. "I heard from one of the others here that it's said the earl's sudden marriage came about because he and the girl were alone together for an entire night, stranded on the mountain. No wonder they had to marry!"

"She saved my brother's life that night," Lady Jean said.

"And so he married her out of gratitude and to preserve her honor. His childhood sweetheart—there can be nothing more wonderful, in my opinion." Anna Wilkie, another voice Catriona recognized, sighed.

Lady Wetherstone huffed. "A man can be tempted under such circumstances. She is a fetching creature, though that red hair is a little wild. And she's so tall that she quite startled me in that Highland tartan. She looked like a crofter's wife rather than a bride and a countess."

Catriona sank against the wall and folded her arms, feeling mortified.

"Do not forget that you are speaking of my sister-in-law, who I think is very lovely," Jean said.

"I r thought her Highland outfit charming," Anna replied. "What a beautiful tartan shawl."

"She's a very unlikely countess, all the same, even if they did elope, or whatever it was," Lady Wetherstone said.

"Lady Kildonan will be a credit to this house," Jean said firmly, "and a credit to my brother. And they have great love for each other. We should be in awe of it, in my opinion."

"I agree," Anna Wilkie said.

"You are both young and full of silly romantic notions," Lady Wetherstone said. "Lady Jean, you are very kind, but I wonder if your heart is softened by your expected blessed event. Now, which door leads to the gardens? I would enjoy seeing them this morning."

"It's misty outside still, but let me show you the view," Jean said. "Just here, there's a stair and a hallway that leads out past the kitchen. It's the shorter way."

Their footsteps faded, and Catriona breathed in relief. Straightening up, smoothing her skirt of heavy satin in a dark plaid pattern, she patted her red hair—not so wild today, she hoped, in a prim little net—and she walked resolutely down the hallway to open the closed door of the small dining room to join the others for breakfast.

* * *

"Wilkie tells me he's written yet another book," Arthur told the others gathered at the breakfast table. He looked around at Evan, Wilkie, Sir Harry, and then Catriona.

She smiled attentively, teacup lifted. "How interesting! What is it about, Reverend Wilkie?"

"Uh, mountaineering," the young man replied modestly.

"All of his books are about mountaineering and hillwalking," Arthur said. "I quite enjoy reading them. The last I read was quite a good account of a trek through the Alps. What was its title again, sir?"

"Scrambling in the Alps,"
Wilkie answered. "I've also written
Scrambling in Skye.
The newest is called
Scrambling in the Grampians."

Across the table, Sir Harry snorted a laugh as he reached for the toast rack. Beside Catriona, Evan smiled. She wanted to smile too, but stifled it.

"Awful title," Arthur said bluntly. "But Wilkie pens excellent travelogues! If you're interested in reading one of them, Lady Kildonan, I can lend you my copies."

"Thank you," she said.

"And you have written another book as well, Mr. Fitzgibbon?" Wilkie asked.

"Aye.
The Geological Structure of the Alps
was my first, followed by
Glacial Theories in the North Highlands of Scotland.
My most recent was
Hebridean Ice Age Formations.
But no one reads them, I'm afraid." Arthur grimaced.

"Your students do," Evan said. "And I have."

"Well,
you
would," Arthur said, as if it were expected. "Not that you agree with my theories."

"I'm not convinced that a glacier can be described as a body of viscous fluid," Evan answered.

"If the body is as frozen saltwater, it is accurate, Kildonan."

"Perhaps, but most glacial formations in Scotland will prove to be freshwater, I think. Though I'm quite keen on your practicums concerning the thermal conductivity of various stones," Evan replied.

"Oh, it all sounds so... interesting," Catriona said, blinking.

"Fitz is Professor of Natural Philosophies at Edinburgh University," Evan explained. "He was a young professor when Sir Aedan and I attended his classes. He's collected many honors by now, and is a respected fellow of the Royal Society of London."

Catriona murmured appropriate admiration, having never heard of the society.

"Lord Kildonan," Arthur countered, "was the youngest member ever admitted to the Royal Society of Edinburgh, did you know that of your husband, my lady? At eighteen he wrote a simply brilliant essay on extinct volcanoes in Scotland. He's quite the geologist, and puts it to good practical use."

"Are you a scientist too? As well as an engineer," Catriona added hastily, glancing at Evan. She realized how odd it must seem to the others that she knew so little about him. But the men were busy with sausages, toast and coffee, and seemed to hardly notice.

"I am an engineer," Evan answered, "but I need a good understanding of rocks and geological formations for my work."

"He's a very capable and talented bridge designer," Sir Harry said. "I've worked with him myself. My family owns a steelworks, Lady Kildonan," he explained to Catriona.

"Ah," she said, looking at Evan. "I am sure the bridges you build are much more complicated than stone arches."

"Aye," Evan said curtly, buttering a piece of toast.

Catriona remembered that he had mentioned a bridge collapse resulting in the deaths of some of his friends. She glanced at him in quick concern, sorry to have reminded him.

"Mr. Fitzgibbon, I understand you are here to study the geological composition of the Torridon mountains," Wilkie said.

"Yes!" Arthur said. "The local mountains here are primarily formed of Torridonian sandstone—the chocolate and red varieties—and Lewisian gneiss, which is a hard black stone identical to that found on the Isle of Lewis and the Isle of Skye. Natural crystal formations occur in these slopes, as well."

"Crystal? How fascinating," Catriona said, leaning forward.

"Are you an admirer of geology and rock formations, Lady Kildonan?" Arthur asked.

"I admire the mountains around Glen Shee," she answered, "Beinn Alligin to the west, Liathach the Giant to the south, Beinn Dearg north, and Beinn Eighe east of the glen. I know their peaks and corries, ridges, and stacks well. But I know nothing about their, uh, geological composition or their, er, thermal properties." She gestured out the window at the view of a blue, misted mountain shape. "Look there, at Beinn Alligin. At times the sun shines almost through the upper peaks, as if they were made of glass. It's an enchanting effect."

"No magic whatsoever," Arthur said pragmatically. "Those are crystal beds. They can form at the tops of these mountains, if the embedment is large enough."

"Fitz, do not deflate the lady's dream," Evan said. "I rather like the thought of enchanted crystal mountains."

Catriona smiled at him quickly in gratitude. "Did you know that Beinn Alligin actually means 'Jeweled Mountain' in Gaelic?" Catriona asked. The men shook their heads, each looking intrigued. "The highest point of the tallest peak, Beinn Sitheach, is said to be made of pure crystal."

"Beinn Shee—the Fairy Mountain," Evan said. "I have fond memories of falling off it recently." He laughed a little, as did the others. Catriona smiled, too. He seemed so content with his friends, and with her. She wished it could always be that way between them—and it could, if she would only say it so.

She glanced away, feeling herself blush.

"No one knows for certain about the crystal legend," she went on quickly. "Professor Fitzgibbon, do you really think there are crystal beds up there?"