Chapter Five
Bursting inside, she saw Evan Mackenzie standing in the dark room, firelight edging his tall form.
He exclaimed in relief as she ran inside, then turned as she fell to her knees beside the heat of the peat fire.
Pulling at her wet mittens, she fumbled with trembling fingers at the laces of her leather brogans.
“What happened?” Mackenzie dropped to a knee beside her.
“I went out—just quickly for water. But I fell through the ice into the stream. So foolish—Ach Dhia,” she added in frustration as she pulled off one wet leather boot to reveal her saturated woolen stocking, then began to loosen her other shoe.
Her fingers were shaking and red with cold. The chill in her limbs felt like knives. Her skirt and petticoats were wet through to her chemise and even her knickers. Thin slivers of ice clung to the hem of her skirt as she shoved the fabric aside to unlace the shoe.
“Let me.” He cradled her foot to undo the laces and pull the shoe off, setting it by the fire to dry. “Take off the stockings,” he said firmly.
Teeth chattering, she reached under her wet skirt to unfasten the ribbon garters around her thighs and roll down each knitted stocking, stretching forward to arrange them near the hearth. Folding bare legs and feet under her skirt, she shivered repeatedly.
“You’ll freeze like that.” Mackenzie went to the bed to reach for the blanket.
Catriona called out in protest. “The blanket will get wet and we’ll both freeze!”
“Then take my jacket.” His voice and manner were blunt, firm, yet gentle as he draped his coat over her shoulders, then knelt beside her. His coat was far too large for her, but it felt so good. It smelled of him, resinous, smoky, masculine.
Taking her hands to rub them between his palms, his touch felt so divinely warm that Catriona gasped in relief. “We need to warm you up and get you some dry things or you could catch an illness.”
“I’m s-s-strong.” Her teeth would not stop chattering. “N-never sick.”
“That is in your favor, then. Something hot will help. There is some brose left.” He went to the hob, moved the kettle closer to the fire, and returned. “While that heats up, we can warm your feet.”
His tone, calm and straightforward, was reassuring.
She edged her bare feet out as he sat beside her and slipped his hands under the dripping hem of her skirt to wrap his hands over both feet at once, holding, then caressing gently.
The flow of warmth into her feet felt delicious. But then she winced.
“It stings,” she admitted.
“That’s a good sign.” He held her feet in his big hands, his fingers just under the frilled hem of her long cotton knickers.
The more overt shivering calmed, but soon she began to shiver again, rubbing her arms. His hands cocooned her miserably cold feet, his touch needed, but so intimate that a thrill began to flow through her.
Suddenly she wanted his hands on her everywhere, craved his embrace. The need made her suck in a breath.
He noticed, for he gave her a lightning glance as his hands coaxed and eased more warmth into her, fingers sliding over her feet and beneath the wet cotton ruffles of her knickers. Her limbs tingled as if his touch, meant to be helpful, also seduced.
She watched him from under her lashes. He frowned, focused and concerned rather than trying to entice her. Blushing at her wayward thoughts, she sighed audibly.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Aye,” she breathed as his fingers eased along the arch of one foot, then the other. His fingers trailed in a gentle tickle, moving on to cup and protect her icy toes. If he stopped now, she thought her feet would go icy again; if he continued, she might melt in his arms.
She knew all about desire, having shared kisses and caresses with a local crofter, a charming, handsome lad mentored by her father.
Young Hugh MacLeod planned to become a minister, so Catriona had seen him often.
Sometimes they walked together as he talked about sermons and songs and life.
Soon friendship turned to shared kisses, and one rainy day, they took shelter in an abandoned hut and began to explore each other with pleasant if awkward fondling.
They returned to the place often enough that Catriona learned to stop him—he was a lovely, biddable lad—for she knew where it could lead.
He mentioned marriage someday, but she hesitated.
She felt friendship rather than the spark of passion she had read about; she longed to feel her heart set aflame, longed for love.
But Hugh MacLeod was evicted from the glen with so many others, and Catriona never learned what became of him.
Their sweet encounters taught her much about tenderness, secret feelings, and hints of the passion she wanted.
Yet it was clear that her father expected her to manage his household as he aged.
Now she sat here with a man who was all but a stranger, and his hands on her were inviting, were heaven, and she wanted more. Stop, she told herself. He was helping her, only that. He was indeed a stranger, and she was a plain girl consigned to a lonely life.
Yet she wanted to touch the dark, glossy silk of his hair, shape his wide shoulders, feel his arms and his strength surround her. She sat straighter and drew her feet back.
He looked up, his hazel eyes glinting green and gold in the firelight. “Enough?”
Never, she thought. But it was time to halt this, as she had halted her Highland lad. Yet this felt different, as if that elusive spark was within reach.
“Enough,” she said. Even as she spoke, shivers rattled through her again, for her clothing was clammy and cold. Scuttling away, she moved closer to the hearth. “I should sit here so my skirts can dry out.”
He stood. “Those wee peat embers will not dry your things very quickly. And if you stay in wet clothes, you might take a chill, even risk your health and life.”
She blinked. “That is quite dire, Mr. Mackenzie!”
“Sorry. I have seen it happen. I know what cold can do.” He scowled as if he pushed away some unpleasant memory, and gestured toward the box bed.
“Go behind the curtain. Take the plaid.” His words were curt but not harsh, and he picked up the plaid to drape it over her shoulders, then offered a hand to help her to her feet. “I will stay out here.”
She stood, clutching the plaid close. “I will be fine.”
“You’re shivering. Go over there.” His firm, quiet tone sent a delicious thrill through her. “I insist, Miss MacConn. Go on.”
“But I want to st-stay by the fire.” The cold was seeping into her bones, and her wet gown felt heavy.
New shivers ravaged her. She needed to take off her wet clothing, but she did not want to sit in a dark, chilly, lonely bed.
The peat fire had flickering blue and vermilion flames and tempting heat. And Mackenzie would be with her.
“Turn around,” she told him, echoing his firm tone. “Go on. Turn!”
He gave her an amused look, then spun and walked away, shoulders broad, head lowered as he waited.
Dropping the plaid and then his coat, she pulled at loops and buttons with frigid, trembling fingers to open her green wool jacket, shrugged it off, and let it slide to the floor.
Now, standing in the heavy, wet woolen gown, she fairly shook with chill, muscles tensing, jaw tight.
Desperate to feel warm again, she longed for a hot bath or just to feel the heat of Mackenzie’s hands again.
Working at the buttons of her bodice, fingers stiff, she gave a little cry of frustration.
“Done?” he inquired, turned away, head angled.
“Not yet. Wet wool and so many buttons!”
“Let me help.” He rounded and came toward her.
Surrendering, glad of assistance, she stood still as he began at her waist to undo woolen loops over the small horn buttons that ran up the bodice to the gown’s prim neck. His fingers were quick and certain, and her heart slammed.
As his knuckles brushed over her bust, her breasts tingled in response. She slipped her hands under his to take over and open the rest of the buttons.
“Thank you,” she said, buttons undone, and bent to pick up the discarded plaid to cover herself. Draped in a sort of tent, she tugged at sleeves and bodice. “Turn away.”
“Of course.” He did so, standing just a reach away. “I’m here if you need me.”
Here if you need me. She paused. No man had ever said that to her before.
Under the dress, she wore a chemise but no stays, which did not suit vigorous walking over Highland slopes.
The chemise bodice was damp, but its lower hem was cold and sopping, as were her petticoat and knickers too.
Struggling out of the gown, she stepped out of it, the wide skirt a puddle of moss-green wool, and began to untie the cotton tapes that snugged the lightly structured petticoat to her slim waist. The ties were wet, the knots tight.
She pulled, exclaimed, and pulled again.
“Help,” she said in a small voice.
He turned, and without a word, deftly worked the wet knots loose. “There.”
“Thank you. You seem familiar with ladies’ clothing.”
“I have seen how that sort of apparatus works,” he said with a low chuckle. He turned away again, and she took the moment to step out of the petticoat, standing in damp chemise and knickers under the tented plaid.
She laughed. “Apparatus! You sound like an engineer.”
“I am. Would you like some warm brose now?” He began to rummage, finding a bowl and spoon and giving the kettle a stir.
Waiting, her mind conjured something wild and exciting at the thought of his hands, then his lips, his embrace, his heat wrapping her in delectable warmth. The man was like a quiet fire, steady, vital, passionate. Stop that, she told herself.
But he was a beautiful man, a good man—every instinct told her so—and he had an irresistible allure that she could not quite explain, but felt in the thrum and throb of her body. As he moved about, she watched, and a sensation shot through her like lightning, a sudden desire—a need—to be with him.