Chapter Two #2
No food, no water, a winter storm, an injured man—how would they survive this bitter, even dangerous, night?
One trouble at a time, she told herself. They had shelter, and now a fire to warm and dry them. Next she must tend to his wounds. Did he have other injuries? Time to find out.
Drawing off her mittens, she turned, sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, and arranged her woolen skirts around her. She tapped his shoulder. “Sir. Are you much hurt, do you think?”
“Fine,” he murmured. His eyes opened and he waved a hand. “I am fine.”
“I hope so. Let me see.” Leaning forward, she took his hand, raised his arm, set it down, raised the other one. He made no sound, nor did he resist. She hovered a hand over his leg and he raised one knee, then the other to show her his legs were unhurt.
“Can you sit up?” she asked.
His eyes closed again. “Not quite yet. Dizzy.”
“No doubt.” She watched his face. His color was restored a bit as the warmth grew around them.
His skin was smooth and good, his brows thick and dark, his beard a dusting of ebony sand over lean cheeks.
Fine creases around his eyes hinted at much time squinting in the sun.
He was accustomed to the outdoors, and his taut, strong build and broad shoulders beneath the tweed suit and linen shirt had athletic strength.
She had sensed that clearly, after moving him about and then testing his limbs.
His legs were long and muscled. He might even be taller than she, when few men were.
Relieved that he had no other obvious injuries, she felt herself blush to sit so close to a strange man, to touch him, study him just inches away.
He was virile, perfect, even beautiful in a way, like a painting or a sculpture.
For a moment, her mind wandered far and quick, and she wondered what it would be like to lay beside him, sheltered against that hard, powerful, masculine body. Shocked at the thought, she sat back.
Then she leaned forward again to touch his head, sift his hair back to look at the bump and small gash. Her gaze strayed to his mouth. His lips were soft and full and still.
His eyelids fluttered open, displaying irises mossy green threaded with brown and gold. Eyes like a forest in sunlight, calm and deep.
He lay on the plaid still, and she tugged at its long edge to draw some of it out, trying to cover him, though it would not stretch far with his weight on it.
He lay still, seemed to doze. She had heard that persons with head injuries could fall asleep and never wake, that they should be kept alert.
Food or tea. Something warm would help. There was an iron kettle, a fire, and plenty of snow outside. She could heat water, though it might take a long time to warm through. There might be something here, grains and such in storage. Shepherds used the place in summer. She would explore.
Rising to her feet to fetch the kettle, she carried it to the door and stepped outside in a blast of cold, damp, snowy wind that took her breath away. Scraping handfuls of snow from some rocks, she packed the kettle and went back inside.
Then she remembered the packet of dry oats tucked in her skirt pocket. It was her habit to carry some with her when wandering the hills. The stranger had a knapsack, too. Surely that would contain something useful; it had fallen just inside when she had brought the man through the doorway.
If they were forced to spend a long, dark, cold night in this hut, they would have to make good use of whatever they had between them.
*
Firelight, heat, a gentle touch, a woman singing softly. He was grateful for her kindness, the comfort she offered. He did not know who she was or how long he had been here, but he appreciated her. He was alive, sheltered, feeling a bit more human, and she had made sure of that.
Her fingers brushed his hair back from his brow, and she continued singing. The melody was lilting and beautiful in breathy Gaelic, so calming, though he did not recognize the words. He took a breath, exhaled, opened his eyes.
Evan watched the young woman dip a wooden spoon into an iron kettle set over a fire in a small stone hearth.
With her back to him, she appeared slim, young, nicely made, her hair a coppery halo in a long, loose, mussy braid.
She hummed as she stirred. Firelight flowed over her like gold, and he could smell the sweetish comfort of burning peat, mingled with the crisp cold of a draft behind him.
The girl was young, in her twenties perhaps. Tall and long limbed in a moss-green gown, her body was curvy, full here, slender there. Despite his weariness, he felt his body contract by instinct at the sight of her womanly shape. He glanced away, looked around.
The shelter was a small, crude stone house in sad repair. Cold leaked through a hole in the roof. Yet somehow the place seemed enchanted, otherworldly, a beautiful girl stirring a magic cauldron, steam rising as she sang a soft chant.
He frowned, testing his memory. Dimly he recalled climbing, then falling.
Evan Mackenzie, aye, born in the Highlands, raised in the Lowlands.
Viscount Glendevon, newly Earl of Kildonan.
Engineer. Bridges. Design, build, repair…
His father died seven months ago, and Evan returned as earl, this time with a task, though he could not quite recall it.
His brain was mostly intact. Now to summon the strength to move and discover where he was, who the girl was, and when he could leave.
She turned to glance at him, her pretty face oval with good, delicate features, her hair a soft, bright, curling, red-gold mass.
Her eyes were large, dark blue, her skin translucent, creamy, with a scattering of freckles.
An honest face, a simple beauty, gentle hands, a soothing voice for song—she was like a Highland angel appearing when he most needed one. He was fortunate in that, clearly.
She smiled a little at him and turned back to stir the kettle again. Her calm infused the air with peace, infused him too; he felt steady and relaxed, strangely so, given these rather odd circumstances.
He knew he had fallen, slammed against rock, hit his head.
But he was not sure how he came to be here with her.
Lifting a hand to his aching head, he felt a cloth bandage wrapped over a tender spot.
He ached elsewhere, head to foot, and eased his shoulders, his knees, appreciating the warm cocoon of the plaid blanket.
The girl turned again, wooden spoon in hand. Her smile was quick and impish. She said something in Gaelic, and he looked at her blankly.
“You are awake,” she said in English. “I am glad.”
He nodded, foggy yet.
“You spoke earlier in English, but you do not have Gaelic. So you are a tourist here, I think?” She tilted her head. “Parlez-vous francais? Capisco italiano, abbastanza bene … Sprechen-Sie Deutsch?”
That was a surprise. His Highland angel was multilingual. He blinked, bemused.
“Far more than my brainpan can handle just now, lass,” he said.
“You had a hard fall. Are you an English holiday climber, come to the Highlands?” She had the lilting, precise English typical of one who spoke Gaelic initially.
“A climber. A Scotsman.”
“You sound English.”
“Lived most of my life in the Lowlands. Went to Eton.”
“Ah. And you’ve come to explore the beauty and mystery of the Highlands, aye?”
“I suppose so,” he said, feeling bemused.
She blew on the spoon to cool its steaming contents, then came toward him to bend and offer him a taste. “Here. You need some of this. I will get you a bowl. Taste.”
He did, swallowing, pleased to discover a hot, good brose, a thick broth of water and oats with a healthy dash of whisky that slid down his throat with welcome fire.
She went back to tending the kettle, then rummaged in a cupboard for a bowl.
Evan glanced around the dim hut. It was made of stone and earth, filled with the scent of sweet, musty peat, and the clean, cold snap of wind and snow.
Icicles hung from a gap in the roof, through which he saw a night sky swirling with snowflakes, some drifting inside.
Despite the little hearth fire, the hut was cold as an icebox.
The girl shivered. She wore a skirt plump with petticoats and a jacket in green wool, but she had no outer coat, cape, or shawl.
Looking down, he realized he lay wrapped in what must be her shawl, a tartan of soft colors woven with a creamy background, the sort of thing Highland women wore. He felt a pang of guilt.
“Miss—” he began.
“MacConn. Catriona MacConn.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss MacConn. It is… Miss?”
“I am not married.” She went on stirring the kettle.
His spinster-angel shivered again, and he had the only blanket in sight. He moved, stiff and sore, sat up, opened the plaid. “Miss, take this and get warm.”
“I am fine. You need it.” She chafed her arms.
“Lass, don’t be foolish. That little fire will not banish the chill from this place. Come over here.” He beckoned. He did not have much patience where commonsense was required, nor would he tolerate a woman suffering nobly on his account.
“Miss MacConn, you are shivering with cold. Come here.” He opened an arm.
She blinked as if stunned. Her teeth chattered. “I am not that sort of girl.”