Chapter Five #3
“Some n-never recover from terrible experiences,” she said, as if she followed his very thoughts. “But you have a strong character, I think. No fault of yours, just an accident. Such things h-happen. But it takes time to see that and move on in life.”
She saw through and into him, recognized he was still lost, and offered a balm. You are strong. It takes time.
His kin and friends had urged him to forget it, move on, marry a society girl, create a family, build more bridges.
This girl recognized that he had the strength to accept it, but felt the heartache deeply, and still needed time.
That was a revelation; she did not know him, yet she had already seen the lost part of him, tightly guarded heart, stilled feelings.
He smiled a little. “I know what cold can do.”
“I see that. I am sorry that I fell and brought some of that back to you.”
“Not at all. I am just glad you are warmer now.”
“I am. You should go back to bed, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“You need the bed.”
“I want to stay by the fire. The bed is cold and dark.”
“Cozy enough, perhaps better than here by the hearth. Either way, we should build up the hearth fire. What can we burn?”
“One of those awful chairs,” she suggested. “Or the bed.”
He laughed, and so did she. The sound was like golden sunshine even as snow drifted through the hole in the roof.
Catriona sat beside the fire while Mackenzie dropped on his haunches beside her, iron poker in hand as he jabbed at the blackened peat bricks. Smoke tendrilled upward. For all his poking and shifting, the crumbling peat did not flame much or glow any brighter.
“We need more fuel,” he said.
“My jacket,” she said, suddenly remembering. “In the pocket are some papers. If they are not wet, they will burn.” She twisted to reach for her jacket, draped over the bench, and produced a wad of folded pages bound in red ribbon.
“Letters?” he asked.
“Notes.” She untied the ribbon. “Musical notations for songs.”
He tipped his head. “Songs?”
“I’ve been collecting traditional Gaelic songs around the glen and nearby. I’ve done it for years, visiting people, learning the old songs, writing them down. The people are leaving the Highlands. Someone has to make sure we keep the old ways. So I do this.”
His eyes were keen on her. “Do you sing?”
She nodded. “I love the old songs. They are beautiful.”
“I—heard some of them, long ago.” His gaze was intent, as if he hid his thoughts. Then he smiled. “You are helping to preserve the Highland legacy. I cannot burn these. You have done a great deal of work to capture this music.”
“I have copies safe at home. I just had these with me today. Burn the pages, Mr. Mackenzie. They will give us light and heat for a little while.”
She pulled a few pages loose from the packet and tossed them into the fire.
Flames and heat bloomed. Watching the papers crumble and spark, she frowned, hoping indeed that she had copies of all those songs.
But short of the furniture, there was precious little left to burn in this dilapidated place.
She saw him rub and pat his arms, and begin to shiver. “Mr. Mackenzie, put your coat on.”
“You wear it. Your songs will keep me warm,” he said with a little laugh.
“I have the plaid.” Seated by the hearth, she gathered it around her. She added more pages to the fire, then handed him the rest. He tossed them in, one or two at a time. With Mackenzie, she watched the flames rise and crackle as the pages crisped and darkened.
An icy blast of wind cut through the roof, and she shivered anew. Evan Mackenzie stood, plucked up his coat, and leaned down to take her arm and bring her to her feet.
“Enough,” he said. “To the bed, lass, such as it is.”
“But—”
“Trust me.” He walked her to the box bed, pulled back the curtain, and gave her a gentle push. She sat on the edge and looked up at him.
“What about you?” she asked.
“You will need both the plaid and this blanket.” He yanked on the old cover.
“Just the plaid,” she said, resigned. He was right, after all. Even by the fire, neither of them could sleep with icy winds and one plaid to share.
“And my coat.” He dropped it over her shoulders. “Go on. Get in.”
“What about you? You will turn to ice out there.”
“Hardly. My clothes are dry, at least. Good night, Miss MacConn.”
“G-good night.” She felt keen disappointment at the prospect of lying alone in the dark, chilled bed. She wanted to be with him, and not only for warmth, not at all. Draped in his overlarge coat, she drew up her knees and watched him.
He sat on the floor before the hearth, legs crossed, hunched. The wind cut through the hut to flutter past the hearth and stir the curtain that partly enclosed the bed.
The papers were nearly burned down, and the flames had begun to diminish. Mackenzie had neither plaid nor jacket.
“This is absurd, sir!” she called.
“I am thinking of burning the chairs,” he drawled.
“We could bundle, as before. Come here,” she said firmly, scooting to the back wall to make room. “I cannot feel warm in here without you. And you will simply freeze out there without me.”
“Without you.” He repeated it softly, and Catriona felt a light stab of anticipation as he stood, silhouetted before the hearth. “Very well.”