Chapter Two
He was dark-haired and hatless, his body long-limbed, his posture slumped and spilled out as if he had fallen from a height.
The rope knotted at his waist, the knapsack tumbled beside him, and his thick hobnailed boots implied he might be one of the holiday hillwalkers or climbers who sometimes came through the Highlands to challenge themselves on the slopes and hillsides.
“Sir?” she asked again, patting his shoulder. He groaned slightly but neither moved nor opened his eyes.
Frowning, alarmed, wondering what to do, she examined him for blood or obvious injury, seeing a bruised lump on the side of his forehead.
His profile was neat and handsome, cut lean and pale as a sculpture; he was only about thirty years old, give or take, and well dressed in a brown jacket and trousers of heavy Harris tweed.
The gloves covering his hands were of supple brown leather, and a knitted scarf swathed his neck, part of it caught under the side of his face.
Perhaps its thickness had helped save his head from further damage; she did not see a hat nearby.
Surely he would not clamber over these rocks alone, she thought; his companions must be looking for him.
She glanced up and around, but saw no one and heard no voices calling out.
The only sounds were the whine of wind and the patter of sleet.
Nor did she hear sheep; even they had found shelter somewhere.
“Sir? Please wake up,” she murmured. What would she do if he did not? She would have to hurry down to Glenachan House and hope Finlay was there.
Gently, she swept his dark hair back, silky, cool, and damp under her hand.
Blood darkened one side of his forehead, and now she saw the small gash and darkening bruise.
He needed help for certain. Even if he woke, she was not sure he would be able to walk on his own down to the glen.
He was a tall and muscular man, and though she was tall and strong, she would have a time of it supporting him safely down to the glen.
The nearest house was Glenachan, but the weather was rapidly growing worse. She could not leave the man alone in these conditions, uncertain of his injuries. He could die from the head wound or the cold, or both.
Slipping her fingers under his scarf, she felt the strong pulse in his neck and was somewhat reassured. She had to help him, had to find shelter.
Resting her hand on his shoulder, she remembered her elder brother, Erik, who had fallen while climbing this same mountain years ago.
The weather had turned to ice that day too, up here on Beinn Sitheach, the Mountain of the Fairies.
With no one nearby to help, Erik had died of his injuries when he might have been saved.
By the time her father and brother had discovered him, he was gone.
That horrid day, her father had been injured in a fall too, his heart broken, feet stumbling.
She could not let tragedy befall this stranger as well. She had to help him.
Old Flora lived up there, a bit west of here, but it was too far and too dangerous to try to make it to her home with this wounded stranger.
Then she remembered an old shieling hut located further up along the path, tucked in the lee of a high rock.
The small house was used by shepherds during summer grazing, when they led cattle high into the grassy hills for weeks.
But how could she get this man that far?
Standing, bending her knees for a moment to lift him, she managed to grasp him under the arms. Settling his back against her thighs, she dragged him a little way, testing as she went, pulling, dragging slowly.
But that would not do for more than a few steps.
She set him down. He groaned, but did not wake.
“Oh please, please come round,” she said low. “I cannot leave you here. I will not.”
Removing her long plaid shawl, she laid its length and struggled to roll his limp form onto the wool.
Untying the rope around his waist, she knotted it around plaid and man, set his knapsack on him and wrapped the edge of the plaid around that to secure that and him.
Then she tugged and tested the end of the plaid under his head. It had to work.
Dragging him over an incline, she covered a few feet and found it took less effort than before. While yet a struggle, it would have to do. She could take him toward the shieling hut, and with luck, perhaps he would wake and walk the rest of the way.
Step by slow step, she moved him along. His weight and length threatened to pull her to her knees now and then, and she stopped to breathe and adjust her grip. Determined, she went on.
The wind buffeted her skirts, loosened her braid, and sleet stung her cheeks, but the icy coating helped her drag the long makeshift sling that allowed her to move the gentleman and keep his head up and off the rock.
Snow followed sleet, dusting her hair and clothing and the man’s as well.
Once she slipped and fell hard to her knees but kept his head from striking the ground.
Back on her feet, breathing hard, she summoned sheer will and kept going.
By the time she spied the old hut, snow was falling in earnest. Because it was early for the season, she had hoped the earlier flurries would not last, but as the heavy clouds sky grew greenish gray, she knew there was real snow in the offing.
Making her way down to the glen with this fellow would be impossible—thank heavens for the shieling.
Not far off the path, tucked in the shelter of a hill between trees, the hut was all but a ruin. But it would be shelter enough. Pulling, huffing, she dragged the man toward it, the plaid and his boot heels tracking through feathering snow that now clung to turf and rocks.
Squat and boxy in shape, with a rounded thatch roof, two windows and a door, the hut had no doorstep, opening directly inside. Opening the iron latch, Catriona kicked the door wide and dragged the stranger into the dim interior.
At the back of the single square room, a portion of the roof had collapsed, filling the corner with a pile of musty old thatch and broken rafters. Snow, sleet, and cold winds leaked through, but the hut was almost snug compared to the weather outside.
She maneuvered the plaid and its burden along the earthen-floor room to the side of the room that contained a low arch of blackened stone, a simple hearth and cooking area.
When she loosened his knitted scarf to cushion his head with it, he opened his eyes, a flutter of dark lashes and a flash of hazel, then mumbled something and closed his eyes again.
She was worried about him. The fall, the head wound, the chill he might have taken while lying there—how long had he been on the path before she arrived?
All that, and his grogginess, could mean a serious injury.
She had a fair understanding of treating basic hurts and illnesses and a strong stomach for such things.
And she had a caring heart. She would do whatever she could to help him.
Stepping outside, seeing the snow accumulating faster now, she grabbed a handful, compressed it in her handkerchief, and brought it back inside. Kneeling beside the man, she brushed back his hair to apply the cold compress to the raised bruise on his brow.
His eyes fluttered again. He seemed to see her.
“What—” he rasped.
“Hush. You had a fall but you will be fine.” She was not sure of that yet. “We are safe here, out of the cold.”
“Thank you.” Barely a whisper.
Angling the snow-filled damp handkerchief on his head, she took his hand to pull off one glove, then removed the other to rub his bare hands with her mittened fingers. Shivering, she longed for warmth too, and was relieved to feel some grow between them.
The cold hearth was stacked with old peat bricks coated in dust. If she could find a flint, she could start a fire, perhaps boil water, perhaps even find some foodstuffs somewhere.
Rising to search the room, she felt the man’s gaze following her.
Good, she thought; he was coming to better awareness.
The room held two wooden chairs, a small table, a narrow wooden cupboard tucked in a corner, and a curtained cot tucked in a niche in the stone wall.
Beneath the hearth’s low arch, a kettle sat on a brick hob, and an iron hook was suspended over the peat bricks.
On a rough wooden shelf by the table, she found an old flint in a box of kitchen items. Working the flint, she finally succeeded in striking a spark, then nursed a cold chunk of peat to smoking and then a low flame.
Sitting back, watching the flames catch, she glanced at her companion. The feeble light of the hearth cast a low glow over him in the growing darkness. The day was fast falling to evening. They would be here the night, she realized.
Frowning at the thought, she saw his eyes close again. He went still, as if time had suspended, as if he waited for something. Heat, she thought, and comfort, just as she craved. Perhaps he wanted to know where he was, perhaps he wondered if there was a solution to their odd dilemma.
The solution, she thought, was to stay here and get through a cold, dark night. As soon as he came around better, she would explain it.
She tilted her head. What a handsome man, strong and vigorous, even stunning in better circumstances.
He was pale now, too still, and the bruise and cut on his brow stood out, looking painful.
For a moment in the low, flickering light, he looked familiar.
Then the elusive impression passed. She did not know him.
Warming her hands at the growing fire, breathing in the musty, chocolatey smell of old peat, she wondered what to do next.
The shieling hut was shelter, but cold and gloomy but for the space near the hearth.
She could hear icy rain pelting the outer walls, and snow, sleet, and cold wind spilled through the hole in the corner of the roof.