Chapter Four #3
They grew quiet, both seeking sleep. Lying beside her, he felt his body arouse and tighten.
He had not slept beside a woman for a long while, and his body reacted to her nearness.
As coziness grew in the confined space, he felt a throbbing, a distinct surge, desire gathering.
He had no intention of acting on it, no matter how compelling the need.
He wanted to take her into his arms, if only for the comfort of warmth and the blessing of companionship.
But his body wanted something else. He willed himself to utter stillness.
He realized then that she slept. Glad of that, he tried to follow suit, tried to keep his thoughts away from her lush womanly form, her gentleness, her irresistible nearness.
Just a few more hours in this bitterly cold little hut, a little more time in this barely warm, chaste little nest, and soon they would awaken to morning sun and melting ice, and they would make their way down to the glen, and home.
So far, he had skirted telling her who he was; it was inevitable, and she would not be pleased. But she would notice when he left here to head for Kildonan Castle. Truthfully, he was surprised she had not recognized him.
His mind was still fuzzy with headache and their distracting dilemma, but he was sure he had met her when they were children.
He recalled the glen’s minister, a big man with pink cheeks, reddish-blond hair, a wide red beard, and a good smile equally wide.
He remembered, too, the minister’s handsome daughters and tall sons.
Most were younger than Evan, but Catriona would have been one of them.
He recalled a spirited wee lass with messy braids of bright, brassy gold.
He did not recall her name, but she sang like an angel, her young voice truer than most of glen choir.
Though Evan had disliked standing beside his father, who was disrespected in his own glen, the girl’s voice had made kirk sessions more tolerable.
Remembering, he frowned deeply. Catriona’s role as the Plain Girl, as she called it, left her with the responsibility of aging parents.
But she was neither a plain girl nor a plain soul, and he could not imagine her vanishing meekly into that situation.
She had a unique quality, a sort of quiet, beautiful glory.
He wondered if she still sang like an angel, and then recalled her mention of doing something she loved; perhaps it was that.
Plain or not, she was fortunate to have a home in a beautiful Highland glen, and a family who worried about her and would search for her.
Evan lacked that in Glen Shee, the home he had so loved in boyhood.
Now, though he held the estate, he felt distanced, not missed, not needed, not truly connected.
Even during his years in the Lowlands, he had thought of Kildonan Castle and Glen Shee as his home, and dreamed he might return one day welcomed, valued, and helpful.
But he knew better than to expect that now.
Yet he still yearned for a home of his soul, a place where he had roots and family and love. So far he had not found that secret dream anywhere.
Sighing, he rolled to his side, trying to get comfortable, knees bent in the short bed. Beside him, the girl slept peacefully, golden light filtering over her face and hair. Beautiful, he thought. Not the least plain. He owed her his life, owed her everything.
*
Rising carefully from the bundled blanket in the darkest part of the night, Catriona eased around the man sleeping—snoring in quiet rhythm—beside her. He moved, muttered, shifted, but did not wake. Outside the bed, she went to the door and cracked it open slightly.
The world had gone white. Snow flew sideways, a flurry of feathery flakes streaming on the wind. Mixed with it, sleet pelted the walls of the little stone hut. Chilled by the icy wind in her face, she rubbed her hands along her arms.
Poor weather or none, she had certain needs, and she and Mr. Mackenzie would need more water in the morning.
Fetching her hat and mittens, buttoning her jacket—grabbing her plaid was out of the question, but she only needed a minute.
She stepped out into a bitter blast of wind and hurried to the shelter of the abandoned byre that sagged beside the shieling hut.
After quickly tending to her needs, shivering all the while, she headed for the burn at the base of a little hill nearby.
That would be better water than packed snow.
Sleet fell needle-sharp, and the wind shoved at her.
Bowing her head, she half slid down the incline, a crust of ice slippery beneath her boots.
Falling to her knees, she dipped the bowl in the stream, cracking through a thin coating of ice, inadvertently wetting her mittens.
Clambering back up the hill, she stumbled, righted herself, slid again.
This time her feet went out from under her, and she slithered over a frosting of snow and ice back toward the stream, splashing into the icy water. The shock of the wet and cold made her catch her breath, and as the deep chill penetrated her clothing, she gasped, floundering, grabbing for the bank.
Inches deep in a trench of fast-flowing, icy water, she stumbled to her hands and knees. But she managed to scramble to her feet, then snatched up the bowl and filled it again. Holding her saturated skirts, she half ran, half fell up the incline and hurtled toward the shieling hut.