Chapter Six
He came to the bed and sat on the edge to pry off his boots. Then he stretched out, settling beside her. Pulling the shabby blanket over him, he pushed the plaid between them and draped the remainder over her. He lay back in the shadows in silence.
She shifted, turning on her side to face him while he folded an arm under his head, She felt cold all over, and he radiated warmth in the small bed. She gravitated toward him.
Without a word, he raised his free arm to pull her to his side, so that her head lay on his shoulder. His fingers spread over her shoulder.
Closing her eyes, she rested against him, tired of shivering to fight the chill.
“Good?” he asked after a moment, his voice rough-edged, almost a growl.
“A bit miserable still, to be honest,” she whispered. “But we have each other now.”
“We do.” His hand began tracing circles on her shoulder, then her back.
Shifting, she rested her arm across his chest and rubbed his shoulder.
Her fingers grazed along the side of his neck and the edge of his jaw, cool skin, bristly whiskers.
His breaths were steady and he was silent.
But something changed between them. The air felt electric, alert, exciting.
Her fingers skimmed the wool of his vest. Under layered wool and linen, she felt the smooth, hard contour of muscles over his shoulder, his upper arm, his chest.
His massaging hand skimmed lower along her back, and she drew a quick breath as something stirred in the core of her body, melting, tingling. She sighed, and his hand came up higher, shaping her shoulder. His fingers swept over her hair, into its mass, out, in again.
Heat gathered between them now, more than warming, exciting, a sort of hum to it.
Lying in a stranger’s arms, barely clothed, she felt no unease, no alarm, only wrapped and safe and certain, as if she had known him a long while.
Her heart thumped, body throbbed as his caresses eased and circled, shoulder, back, shoulder, hair, feeling increasingly like fire, a craving mounting in her.
“Still cold?” Deep and soft, his voice thrummed through her.
“Not as much.” Her shivers were not from the chill now. “You?”
“Not as much.” His breath brushed her cheek, and as she moved her head, his mouth touched her cheek. Her heart surged. She tilted her head in the darkness and nudged her nose against his. Sighing, she tipped her head back and let her mouth find his.
So easy, that touch, cool and tender, questioning and respectful.
Her answer was in her lips, opening to ask for more as he set his other arm around her and pulled her closer.
His mouth moved over hers, with hers, the kiss deeper now, striking through her, crown to foot. She melted like butter over flame.
She had never been kissed like this. It felt like flying, felt hot and splendid.
He claimed she had saved his life, but he was saving hers now, whether or not he knew it.
His kisses wove a rope of hope, of possibilities that she could choose—or refuse.
And she wanted to follow that lead, follow desire to discover what love felt like, even if just once, even if he would soon be gone from her life.
Just now, she wanted this. He kissed her again and she shivered with pleasure this time. Whatever the price of this night, she would pay it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed close.
He drew back, swept fingers through her hair. “Warmer?” he whispered.
“Oh aye,” she breathed, and nudged toward him to invite the next kiss.
“Your toes are cold,” he said, as his stockinged feet stroked over hers. She cupped his jaw, slid her fingers into the thick gloss of his hair.
“My hands too.” She slipped her fingers under his vest, between the buttons of his shirt, skin to skin.
He laughed low, and his hand, deliciously warm, slipped over her chemise.
Her belly fluttered, breasts tingled as she felt his mouth softly bite against hers, seeking, tasting.
She faltered, knees weak, body sinking toward his.
Feeling so good, so wanted, however briefly, fed a yearning she had fully realized until now.
His hand smoothed over her hip, grazing upward, fingers finding and then cupping her breast. Catching her breath, she closed her eyes, allowed him to explore, fingers contouring, rousing—then she caught her breath again as he lowered his head to trace his lips along her throat and down, down, his breath hot through the damp cotton bodice.
Arching toward him, she felt his fingers slip beneath the cloth to settle over bare skin, his touch delicate, then firm as he teased the nipple.
As his lips found her, she moaned softly and thought she would simply dissolve from the bliss and excitement, from the freedom of letting this go on, when in the past she had stopped it out of uncertainty and caution.
But this time felt different. She was done with caution.
Slipping her hand beneath his shirt, she flexed her fingertips over his bare chest, over skin dusted with springy hair, over smooth planes of tight muscle, over a strong, thudding heartbeat.
Arching against him, gasping again as he soothed lips and hands over her breasts, she pressed against his body, felt him harden, felt the answering ache deep inside of her.
Then he groaned, soft and private, and lifted his head to take her mouth again in a chain of kisses, deep and tender; the quick flick of his tongue sent a lightning burst through her.
As her heart beat against the cage of her ribs, desire beat with it, struggling to be free.
She writhed, moved against him, cried out his name. “Evan—oh,” she said.
“Catriona,” he whispered. “Enough.” He pulled away, arms remaining around her, and rested his cheek on her head.
Her hand was caught under his shirt, warm skin over a thudding heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Exhilaration dwindled to disappointment. “Enough?”
He sighed, kissed her brow. “That—I wanted you desperately, but it went too far.”
“I did not mind,” she said. “I wanted it. I thought we—”
“I wanted it, but it had to stop,” he said. He rolled away to sit up. Chilly air invaded the nest of the box bed through the old stone wall at her back. The icy trickle diluted the warmth, the passion.
Her heart sank. “Why should we stop?” The bold question slipped out on its own.
“It was not right. We hardly know each other, and I am no cad. Nor are you—a girl of a certain sort. Go to sleep, lass. We’re both warm now. Blast it all, that’s how it got started.”
“Evan—” She pressed her lips together. Pleading would seem desperate, yet she wanted to explain. “I wanted—that. I am not the sort of girl to let that happen. But I am the sort who—” She paused, seeking the words.
“Who knows what she wants?” He looked at her over his shoulder, brow arched. He was listening to her, but did not seem to understand.
“Who knows that she faces lonely years because of where her life is headed. So I wanted—just once—” She exhaled, waved a hand. “Never mind. It does not matter.”
“Catriona.” He reached back, set a hand on her knee, plaid between them. “I am sorry. If you feel that way—but lass, that is a risky thing indeed.”
She clutched the plaid to her, suddenly too conscious of her thin shift, bare arms, the break beginning in her vulnerable heart, like a delicate crack in a porcelain cup. “I was wrong.” She shrugged.
He shook his head. “I thought I could lie near you and just rest. We both needed that. Rest, survive the night, see the dawn. But what happened was not what you needed.”
But it was, oh it was. She knew that for certain. But the moment was gone and so was the chance to have a dreamlike memory to treasure. She shrugged, shook her head.
He nodded then, as if making a decision. Standing, he crossed to open the door and stepped outside. A bitter chill flooded the room, further cooling the empty place where he had been.
Shutting her eyes against sudden tears, she lay down, curling tightly under the blankets. The thrill he had given her faded, replaced by a loneliness more intense than ever.
In his embrace, she had felt beautiful, enchanting, desired.
Now she felt more plain than ever, big and clumsy and unattractive.
She dreamed of having a great love someday, but circumstances might prevent it.
Evan Mackenzie had given her hope for a little while.
But he did not really want her, not the way she craved. Tomorrow he would be gone.
Moments later, she heard the door open again, heard him cross the room, heard the shush of the curtain as he pulled it aside. She feigned sleep, her back turned to him. The bed creaked as he lay down. She did not stir.
“I had to think about it. Lass, we’ll bundle, aye?” He reached out and gathered her to him, front to back. “We’re friends, and I do not want you to feel hurt. Aye so?”
“Aye. We will sleep.”
After a breath, two, he kissed her hair. “Aye. Sleep.”
At first, she could not do that. But soon, the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breathing as he dozed, and the solid comfort of his arm around her, no matter how cool or distant his intention, lulled her.
*
Evan woke, lying on his back with Catriona tucked in his arm, her head on his shoulder. He exhaled and saw his breath frost in the air, and icy drafts leaked through walls and roof and through the very floor, or so it felt.
Morning had arrived, filling the small house with gray light. He should go out to test the weather. If it was improved and the slopes did not look dangerously slippery, it would be possible to leave the shieling hut.