Chapter Three
“Nor am I that sort of man.” He sat up with a wince and leaned against the cold, damp wall. “You look uncomfortable. You saved my life, and it seems I am in your debt.”
“Not at all. I would not leave you or anyone out there in this weather.”
“And I am grateful. Either sit with me or we must share the blanket by turns. Here. I can tend the fire while you get warm for a bit.” He got to his knees, then his feet, propping a hand on the wall to stand while his head spun.
“Oh, be careful!” Then she was just there to slip an arm around his waist and tuck her shoulder under his arm. He leaned, grateful, and glad she was a tall, strong girl. With her help, he sat on a small bench; it was warped and rocked under his weight.
“You should rest,” Catriona MacConn said. “I do not think you have broken bones, but you have a head injury. And you were exposed to the cold for a while.”
“I will be fine,” he said, feeling weak and achy but unwilling to admit it. “Bruises will mend, and we are warm and safe here, thanks to you.” He tipped his head, puzzled. “But how is it we are here?”
She bent to stir the pot, then turned. “I came upon you near the drover’s road that runs over one of the foothills of Ben Shee, the Fairy Mountain. It is the tallest peak beside the greater mountain called Ben Alligin.”
He nodded. “I was climbing Ben Shee and got to a fair height, but not the top.”
“Most do not make it that far. You recall falling?”
“I do. Early in the day, I started out with a friend. There was mist, but we thought it would clear. But it grew thick, the winds turned cold, and a squall blew in from the northwest. My friend turned back. I lost him in the fog, and as I tried to come down, blast it all, I fell. Pardon my language.”
“Not at all.” She frowned. “I saw a man crossing the glen as I came along the old track, and I thought it odd to see a gentleman walking alone on such a poor day. He had a knapsack and was dressed like a sporting gentleman. But no gun. Not a hunter.”
“That would be Fitzgibbon.” He was relieved that Arthur had made it down the mountainside.
“I could not safely descend from where I was, so I went up a little, looking for a better hold and a better route down.” He explained the rest of what had occurred.
“It was something of a nightmare,” he finished.
“I fell to a rocky ledge. It’s a bit of a blur. ”
“I found you on the ledge, nearly chilled to death, with a bruised head. I knew of this shieling hut, so I brought you here.”
“However did you manage that?” He sat forward. “I do not recall walking here.”
“I dragged you on my plaidie.”
“What! I am amazed as well as grateful. That was a Herculean task for a woman.”
“I had to find a way to move you.” Cheeks blushed, she shrugged. “It is growing colder in here, I think. Do cover up again and keep warm.”
He felt the cold, but seeing how pink the tip of her nose had become, he shook his head. “Miss, I insist that you take a turn under the plaid. And I will tend our supper, aye?”
He left the bench to walk stiffly toward the hearth, where heat glowed. Taking up the wooden spoon, he dipped and stirred. Behind him, the girl crawled into the cocoon he had abandoned and drew the plaid to her chin. Her boots stuck out.
“Tuck your feet in,” he ordered. She smiled at that and did so. He smiled too, feeling a bit surprised at his ease with her. Generally, he kept his natural reserve with strangers. He sipped from the spoon. “This is good. It is like a brose, but not sweet.”
“I had no honey or sugar. It is simply oats, melted snow, and whisky. I found a flask of whisky in your knapsack and mixed it with snow and some oats that I had. I carry dry oats in case I get hungry when I walk about in the hills.”
“Lucky for us that you do. You are welcome to the contents of my knapsack. You saved my life, Miss MacConn.”
“It is what anyone would do.”
“I wonder.” He smiled, stirring her concoction, feeling relaxed, as if he had known her a long time. He was not quick to friendliness, let alone fondness. But no one had saved his life before.
“I have more oats, enough for tonight, at least. I fear we will have to stay here until daylight.” She looked up, and he followed her gaze to see snow blowing through the gap in the roof.
“When the storm ends, we can leave. The glen is not a long walk from here.”
She drew the plaid closer. “The track goes over the hills from here and then down. Following that would be safest, but it is about three miles to the glen floor, and another mile to my father’s house.
The way is steep and can be treacherous in the darkness and poor weather.
You should not try a long walk just yet, though. ”
“I am feeling stronger,” he insisted. “I can make the descent. But if we do have to spend the night here—” He paused, studied her. “It is awkward, I admit. My apologies.”
She shrugged. “We may have no choice. But we have shelter, a fire, some food. And a blanket. And your friend will surely be looking for you.”
“Fitz is a good fellow, but he tends to assume all is well with others and goes about his own business. The storm might discourage a search. But your family will be concerned. I’m sure they expected you home earlier.”
“My father and my brother may think I stayed with the friend I visited this afternoon. But they would worry otherwise. My older brother fell on Ben Shee several years ago, and died that day.”
“My God. I am so sorry.”
She nodded. “So you see, I could not leave you there. My father was hurt too, the day we searched for my brother. So he will worry, and they will search for me.”
“Then we must try to get down to the glen before anyone worries. And none need be the wiser about our wee adventure here. I will not put you in a difficult position.”
She tilted her head. “We could make a pact. Nothing untoward happened.”
“Nothing at all. A pact.” He smiled.
The wind howled, and sleety gusts rattled the walls.
Catriona MacConn looked anxious. He wondered if it was the threat of the winter storm—or if her uncertainty here alone with a strange man, even one in her debt and with no ill intentions.
He wanted to make her feel safe, just as she had done for him.
“We will not be here for long.” He was not sure of that, but said it anyway.
She shrugged. “This shieling hut has been here a long time. It was used by shepherds and their families when they brought the cattle up to the high hills in the summer to graze on sweet grass. No one has done that for a long time. The cattle are all but gone.”
“All but gone.” Frowning, aware that she referred to the clearing of crofts and families and cattle in favor of sheep and hunting lodges and profits. “We could close this up against the cold,” he suggested. “I could stuff something into the gap in the roof.”
“If we had anything.” She rubbed her arms against a quick blast of wind. “What if this is not just a wintry squall, but a storm with more snow to come? We could be stranded for days.”
“Surely not,” he said. “The snow has not increased much.”
“I hope you are right, Mr.—I have not asked your name.”
“Mackenzie. Evan Mackenzie. Pleased to meet you, Miss MacConn.” He smiled, came toward her to hold out his hand and touch her fingers lightly. The brief contact sent a subtle, astonishing shock through his body. Something about her sent his senses reeling.
He did not offer his titles with his name, for he rarely did so.
His peer status made him uncomfortable, setting him apart in his work as an engineer of bridgeworks—and setting him apart from workmen and others.
Besides, for years he had felt uncertain about his inheritance due to a rift with his father, and had devoted himself to earning a reliable reputation and a livelihood of his own.
More often than not, he simply introduced himself as Mr. Mackenzie.
As for his reliable reputation, it had suffered greatly two years earlier. He did not want his name and title shattered too, especially in Glen Shee. His father had done enough damage, and he did not want to be associated with it, or add his own tarnish to it.
“Mr. Mackenzie.” She smiled, elusive and fey, dimpled and charming. He felt a sense of relief that she did not hesitate over his name, even here above Glen Shee. There were enough Mackenzies about to dilute that.
“There are Mackenzies in this region. Are you related?”
“Could be,” he said casually. “My family was from this region, but I was raised in the Lowlands.” He did not add that he had spent his boyhood in Glen Shee; those memories were precious and private.
Considering her remark about cattle, he could surmise that Miss MacConn might not be keen to learn his father had sent the cattle and their owners away.
“Then you’re Highland by blood if not by upbringing,” she said. “How nice! Mackenzies have been lairds of Kildonan in Glen Shee for generations, and there are many about.”
“So I’ve heard.” He went back to the kettle to stir the brose. He ought to tell her the truth, but felt a sense of affinity here and did not want to add tension.
“The old earl was an awful man, Mr. Mackenzie, though I beg your pardon if he was a distant kinsman, as he might have been. I am sorry the man died—they say he was shot by accident while stalking deer, no way for any man to go. But many glenfolk were not unhappy when he died.”
“Is it so,” Evan answered flatly. He had been relieved too, in a way, yet he felt a fresh pang at losing his father. So much had been left unresolved between them.
“I do not know the new earl, his son, but chances are he is no better than his father. He has not bothered to come up north yet, and his father died months ago.”
He glanced at her, tempted to say that he had been diving off a sea rock working on a lighthouse project during those months. The news of his father’s death had not reached him quickly, and the man had been buried by the time Evan had found out about it.