Kissing the Countess (8 page)

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.

"We need more fuel," he said. "But the rest of the peat in the corner is damp."

"My skirt," she said quickly.

"We're not that desperate yet," he drawled.

"In the pocket of my skirt there are some papers. We can burn those."

He reached for her skirt, groped, found the folded pages. "Are these letters?"

"Notes," she said. "Just some songs."

"Aye?" He glanced at the pages. "Musical notations." He looked at her as if puzzled.

"I collect old Gaelic songs from some of the Highlanders in this glen," she explained. "I've been learning them for years and writing down all the songs I learn, to keep them."

"Fascinating," he said. "So you transcribe musical notation and speak not only Gaelic and English, but French, Italian, and German, as well."

"And a little Greek," she said.

"Not the typical Highland mountain lass, are you."

"I'm a minister's daughter," she said. "What did you expect, that I spend my time walking the hills in bare feet and ragged skirts, babbling in Old Irish and following a flock of sheep? Education is as important in the Highlands as elsewhere. I had tutors and I spent two years studying in Edinburgh. I'm as well educated as you are. Well, but for engineering."

"I cannot write in musical scale," he said. "Nor can I manage Italian."

She smiled a little. "Burn the pages, Mr. Mackenzie. They will give us some light and heat, at least for a while."

"I cannot burn these. There are several songs here, with the melody carefully transcribed, and the verses translated in Gaelic and English. This is a great deal of work."

"I can redo them. I remember most of them, and Morag, my friend, will help me with the rest. Burn the pages, do. We have no choice."

Relenting, he tossed the pages on the fire one by one. Light and heat bloomed. Catriona watched the papers crumble and spark, and frowned, trying not to regret the lost songs, glad for the heat they provided. She could recreate those pages.

"Mr. Mackenzie, you will be cold without your jacket. Take it back now."

"Your wee songs are keeping me warm." He smiled, and she laughed. "Good night, Miss MacConn."

"Good night," she murmured, feeling a sudden disappointment to lie alone in the dark and the cold. She drew her knees up, feeling a chill despite the jacket and plaid. Earlier, straight, strong whisky had created a hot core in her belly, but now the knife edge of the wind was cutting through the hut.

Lowering the plaid, she peered at the man. The papers had burned down quickly, and the flames were diminishing. In the glow, she saw that he was still awake. She felt guilty, for he lay without blanket or jacket, while she had both.

"Are you very cold, sir?" She knew he must be.

"I admit I am wondering what else we can burn," he drawled.

"I am cold, too." She drew a breath. "Would you mind... if we bundled again?"

"Not at all." Hearing a note of relief in his voice, she was glad she had offered. As he came toward her, she felt a lightning stab of anticipation, felt her heart begin to thud.

Crouching, he touched her cheek. "You feel cool."

"I cannot... get warm." Her feet felt like ice. "The chill in here seems worse."

"It does. Must be the weather worsening," he said. He removed his boots and opened the blanket to settle in beside her. They lay face-to-face, and he folded an arm under his head, then slipped his outside arm over her. Spreading his hand open, he rubbed her back in circles. She felt his stockinged feet touch hers, lending her bare feet a little protection.