Chapter Four
Later, Catriona looked around at the hut with a sense of satisfaction. The interior felt somewhat more comfortable after she had worked with Mackenzie to cram some fallen thatch between the open rafters. The wind blew freezing cold, but the draft was less.
“Please be careful, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said, reaching out to steady the chair on which he stood. Not long ago, he had broken apart the small wooden bench to wedge the planks between the rafters. Now he reached overhead to secure the makeshift repair.
“I’m perfectly—fine,” he answered as he pounded the plank into place with a rock she had found outside. She reached up to push at some thatch falling from the ceiling just where the rafter met the wall. He glanced down. “Thank you. I always admired tall lassies. Now I know why. Very useful.”
She chuckled, blushing at his teasing compliment.
She stole a glance at him as he worked, admiring his powerful arms and shoulders, the long, tough grace of his back and legs.
Muscles shifted and bunched under his shirt, for he had removed his jacket to work in shirtsleeves and tweed vest. Remembering touching him earlier, when he had been weak, she felt her cheeks heat fiercely.
She rarely had such thoughts, but they were disconcerting and very pleasant.
“There,” he said, stepping down from the chair. “That should do for a while.”
“You must not overdo it. And the doctor should see you when we go back to the glen.”
He raised a brow. “You have a doctor of medicine out here?”
“Aye, Mr. Grant. He is laird of Kilmallie at the far end of the glen. He came back here after studying medicine in Edinburgh. He is an excellent doctor and tends to the folk in this glen and others, so he is often away. But he should look at your head bump. Are you staying at the Torridon Inn in Glen Shee, or with friends?”
“I feel better, but if it still bothers me, I may see Mr. Grant. The cold is less in here, I think,” he added.
“A bit,” she agreed. He had not said where he was staying, but she would not press.
“Good. Miss, I apologize for being direct, but it is dark and late. Where do we sleep?”
She gestured toward the curtained niche. “That is a box bed, perhaps even with a blanket. You take the bed, Mr. Mackenzie. I will lie by the fire with my plaid.”
He held up a hand and shook his head. “You take the bed, Miss.”
She shook her head too. “You have a head injury and must rest comfortably. I insist,” she added, folding her arms like a stern nursemaid. Without another word, she knelt on the floor to spread out the plaid. “I will stay here.”
“Are you sure? It could be very cold in the middle of the night.”
“I am hearty Highland stock. You take the bed and I will lie here and tend the fire.”
“I can do that.”
“Do you know how to tend a peat fire, Mr. Mackenzie? It is a fussy thing that needs a practiced hand.”
He hesitated. “True, I do not have the skill of it. Very well. But later we can change places so you can be more comfortable. Or share if need be.”
“Share?” She stepped back.
He sighed. “Pardon. I mean if it becomes necessary. Miss, you can trust me, I promise you that.” He held up a hand.
“I—trust you,” she said, feeling awkward.
“Whatever we do to survive the night will be our secret.”
“Survive?” She stared at him. “Secret?”
“I am not making myself clear. Perhaps it is the knock on the head. My thoughts are a bit fuzzy. I mean that on a night like this, a person could freeze to death.”
“But we are inside, and snug.”
“Barely.” He glanced around. “Last year, I climbed the Matterhorn with friends. You’ve heard of it?” When she nodded, he continued. “We had to sleep close together to survive the cold and the winds.”
“But this is not the Alps. And you were with men. Not—alone with a woman.” She was blushing fiercely, and feeling suddenly very alone with him—and wary of it. Not wary of him, but of herself. The old loneliness rose, shoved at her like a living thing.
“This weather is already proving to be more than a squall.” He pointed to the rafters, where snow was swirling down through the gaps. “Likely there is no danger. But if you insist on sleeping in the open room, I will wake to make sure you are fine. Or you can wake me anytime. Agreed?”
“I should be the one to look in on you. Falling asleep after a hard knock to the head can be serious. You might not wake up. Ever,” she added.
He cocked a brow and winced with the slight movement. “Then we shall hope we both survive this night,” he drawled.
She gave him a sour look. “I suppose it is good to be cautious in this storm.”
“Then we are agreed.”
“But I think my family, and your friend too, will be searching for us. We may not be here the whole night.” If they were found sharing a bed, explanations would hardly suffice. She saw him sense it too, for he frowned, then nodded.
“I suspect we will see morning in this wee hut,” he murmured.
“Then we will take turns,” she said decisively, lifting her chin. “I will stay by the fire while you take the bed. I will make sure you wake, and you can make sure I do not freeze. How is that?”
“So she declares it, so mote it be. A calm, quiet lass with a formidable soul,” he said with a half smile. “But first, we should have something to eat.”
“Oh! I nearly forgot.” She plucked up the wooden spoon to stir the mixture. “It is too thick. I will fetch some snow to melt into it.”
“Let me.” He grabbed one of the wooden bowls stacked on a shelf and went outside. Catriona picked up an iron poker to tease the peat bricks until they smoked and glowed, flames licking blue and hot around the crumbling blocks.
She glanced at the door, waiting. She was not alarmed in Mackenzie’s presence.
He had an aura of integrity that she instinctively trusted; he seemed a gentleman to his core.
Yet she had only known him a few hours, and did not dare risk sharing a bed for warmth.
He might have solid morals and a good soul, but he was far too attractive a man.
She was not sure she could trust herself near him.
She had her morals too—but she was lonely to her core, and had been for a long while.
And he was unlike any man she knew. Not just because of his physical charisma, but because he had needed her, relied on her, accepted her—and seemed to respect her.
He listened. His vivid hazel-green eyes saw her deeply.
The need to be needed—to be seen—tapped something in her that she did not want to lose. Did not want to spoil.
But oh aye, she would all too gladly lie near him, sleep beside him, and more. Her own need for comfort, a balm for loneliness, her own desire, flared.
The greatest danger in this situation was that she was suddenly, deeply infatuated and might be terribly willing. Then this night would end and he would leave for the Lowlands. She would never see him again. But she would have one night to cherish.
She sighed, a long breath like a banner of yearning.
Then he opened the door and brought her a bowl of snow, shaking snowflakes from his hair, laughing.
And she smiled and felt a blush spread into chest, throat, and cheeks.
He tilted his head, curious, and she turned away to dump the captured snow into a small kettle that sat at the back of the hob, and coaxed it to melt.
Mackenzie went to the curtained bed to investigate. “One blanket and a thin pillow, well-chewed,” he reported. “Mice like this place, too.”
Curling her lip at the news, she served the brose into bowls and added a healthy dash of whisky to each. “For what it is worth,” she said.
“Worth quite a lot, lass. That was an excellent and expensive whisky. But we need it,” he added with a little smile.
He ate the brosey porridge hungrily, and she did too.
It tasted so strongly of whisky that she coughed as it went down.
Mackenzie chuckled, and his eyes, mossy green and black lashed, sparkled in the firelight.
She smiled too—caught, charmed, yearning secretly. But she would not show it.
He helped her clean the bowls and watched as she tamped the hearth fire with the poker. Then he bid her good night, went to the box bed, and pulled the curtain closed.
Catriona stretched out on her plaid, aching with fatigue, cold, and a deep, unnamed craving. Cuddled in her familiar plaidie, she sank into sleep while listening to the steady rhythm of the man’s breathing in the curtained niche.
Mackenzie was the craving she felt, the source of the subtle need that pulled at her.
He was a lure and a puzzle, too. Evan Mackenzie; she had heard that name before, but not for years.
The old earl had a son named George, she thought, and there were Mackenzies of various first names who had lived in Glen Shee and the next glen too.
Some were kin to the earl, some distant kin, but most had moved away.
Perhaps she had seen the name in her father’s church roster.
That might be it. Mackenzie had mentioned briefly that he was Highland by birth but raised in the Lowlands; perhaps his family had been evicted with so many others.
Shivering, awake again, she sat up to tend the flames, keep them low, keep them burning.
A glance at the ceiling showed snow falling in beams of starlight.
Ice and snow were not the usual for November, but would end by morning.
Hearing Mackenzie’s light snore, she stood and went to the door to peek outside.
Snow was falling steadily. Grabbing one of the wooden bowls, she slipped out to fill it, then set the bowl on the hob to melt for use in the morning.
Tired at last, she lay down again beside the fire, the floor a cold earthen slab beneath her chilled bones. She curled up for better warmth and tried to relax into sleep.
Mackenzie lay but a few steps away, and suddenly she wanted very much to feel warmer. Tempted to slip inside the curtain and crawl into the crude bed with him, she lay shivering until at last sleep came over her.
*