Kissing the Countess (4 page)

She hoped her brother had stayed home today rather than ride to Inverness as he had planned. For two years her brother had dedicated his time to finding exiled Highlanders and quietly relocating them to their old crofts in Glen Shee, finding jobs for them when he could. The people were willing to work as shepherds for the vast numbers of sheep now roaming the slopes and fields of the glen—sheep that belonged to the current Earl of Kildonan, who had not visited the glen since his father's death.

Finlay all but ran the estate himself, making decisions with increasing boldness. Catriona worried that one day Lord Kildonan would return and ask why his sheep were being herded and clipped by the very same Highlanders his father had run off the land. If that day came, she hoped Kildonan would be so wealthy from the wool profits that he would not care if Highlanders, English or fairies were doing the work.

But she knew Finlay risked arrest or exile if the new earl discovered, and disliked, his factor's decisions.

Lost in thought, walking through thick white mist, she did not see what lay prone in her path. Tripping suddenly, she looked down and gasped aloud.

A man lay motionless at her feet, face down, arms flung outward. She had stumbled over his tweed-covered arm, the rest of him hidden behind a crop of large stones.

Sinking to her knees, Catriona reached out, afraid the man was dead. When his fingers twitched slightly, she touched his shoulder.

"Ach Dhia,"
she murmured. "Dear God. Sir! Sir," she said, shaking him a little, but he did not respond.

Chapter 2

He was dark haired and hatless, his body tall and long limbed. His face, only partly visible, had a firm and handsome profile, and he seemed about thirty years old or so. Catriona noted that he was well dressed, his jacket and trousers of good, heavy tweed, his gloves of supple brown leather. His well-cobbled boots had thick, hobnailed soles—a climber or hillwalker, then. Perhaps a tourist—some came up here to the hills. A knitted scarf was draped around his neck, and a canvas knapsack hung from his shoulder.

He must be one of the holiday climbers who sometimes visited the area to challenge themselves on the mountain slopes. Soon his companions would be looking for him, she thought.

Catriona glanced around, seeing no one else, nor did she hear anyone calling out as if searching. All she could hear were the threatening sounds of sleet and cold wind.

Resting a hand on his back, she felt his breath rise and fall. Gingerly she swept back his dark hair, silky cool, damp with sleet. Blood darkened one side of his forehead. Seeing the small gash and dark bruise there, she frowned. He needed help for certain. She glanced around, wondering what to do.

She did not think the man was able to walk on his own. He was tall and muscled, and though she was tall and strong herself, she did not think she could support him all the way down to the glen.

The nearest house was Glenachan, but it would take her too long to get home in these conditions, and with the weather getting worse, she might not be able to return with help easily. And she could not leave the man alone to suffer, perhaps even die, from injuries and exposure.

She slid her fingertips under his scarf and felt the pulse in his neck. His skin felt cold, and he was pale under the dusky shadow of his beard. She had to help him, had to find shelter.

Resting her hand on his soft, dark hair, she frowned, thinking of Donald. Years ago, her eldest brother had fallen while climbing this same mountain—Beinn Sitheach, the Mountain of the Fairies. The weather had turned that day, too, to ice and cold.

With no one to help him, Donald had died alone of injuries that need not have killed him. By the time her father and Finlay had found him, he was gone, and her father had been injured too that heartrending day after falling.

She could not let the same tragedy befall this stranger, whoever he was. She had to find a way to save him.

Remembering that a small, ruined shieling hut was located farther down the slope, she wondered how to get him there. Easing the knapsack off his back, she set it aside. Then she stood and leaned down, grasping the man under the arms.

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 handle just now, lass," he murmured. "English will do. I believe I fell... quite a distance?"