Once Upon a Highland Christmas (3 page)

He listened to the guttural chanting of the wind as it circled the sturdy stone cottage, looking for a way in. They were safe here. Still, it was going to be a very long night.

 

Chapter Four

Eighteen days until Christmas

A
LANNA
M
C
N
ABB WOKE
with a terrible headache. In fact, every inch of her body ached. She could smell peat smoke, and dampness, and hear wind. She remembered the storm and opened her eyes. She was in a small dark room, a hut, she realized, a shieling, perhaps, or was it one of the crofter's cottages at Glenlorne? Was she home, among the ­people who knew her, loved her? She looked around, trying to decide where exactly she was, whose home she was in. The roof beams above her head were blackened with age and soot, and a thick stoneware jug dangled from a nail hammered into the beam as a hook. But that offered no clues at all—­it was the same in every Highland cott. She turned her head a little, knowing there would be a hearth, and—­

A few feet from her, a man crouched by the fire.

A very big, very naked man.

She stared at his back, which was broad and smooth. She took note of well-­muscled arms as he poked the fire. She followed the bumps of his spine down to a pair of dimples just above his round white buttocks.

Her throat dried. She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her body, and the room wavered before her eyes. Her leg was on fire, pure agony. She let out a soft cry.

He half turned at the sound and glanced over his shoulder, and she had a quick impression of a high cheekbone lit by the firelight, and a gleaming eye that instantly widened with surprise. He dropped the poker and fell on his backside with a grunt.

“You're awake!” he cried. She stared at him sprawled on the hearthstones, and he gasped again and cupped his hands over his—­ She shut her eyes tight, as he grabbed the nearest thing at hand to cover himself—­a corner of the plaid—­but she yanked it back, holding tight. He instantly let go and reached for the closest garment dangling from the line above him, which turned out to be her red cloak. He wrapped it awkwardly around his waist, trying to rise to his feet at the same time. He stood above her in his makeshift kilt, holding it in place with a white knuckled grip, his face almost as red as the wool. She kept her eyes on his face and pulled her own blanket tight around her throat.

“I see you're awake,” he said, staring at her, his voice an octave lower now. “How do you feel?”

How
did
she feel? She assessed her injuries, tried to remember the details of how she came to be here, wherever here might be. She recalled being lost in a storm, and falling. There'd been blood on her glove. She frowned. After that she didn't remember anything at all.

She shifted carefully, and the room dissolved. She saw stars, and black spots, and excruciating pain streaked through her body, radiating from her knee. She gasped, panted, stiffened against it.

“Don't move,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers splayed, though he didn't touch her. He grinned, a sudden flash of white teeth, the firelight bright in his eyes. “I found you out in the snow. I feared . . . well, it doesn't matter now. Your knee is injured, cut, and probably sprained, but it isn't broken,” he said in a rush. He grinned again, as if that was all very good news, and dropped to one knee beside her. “You've got some color back.”

He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand, a gentle enough caress, but she flinched away and gasped at the pain that caused. He dropped his hand at once, looked apologetic. “I mean no harm, lass—­I was just checking that you're warm, but not too warm. Or too cold . . .” He was babbling, and he broke off, gave her a wan smile, and stood up again, holding onto her cloak, taking a step back away from her. Was he blushing, or was it the light of the fire on his skin? She tried not to stare at the breadth of his naked chest, or the naked legs that showed beneath the trailing edge of the cloak.

She gingerly reached down under the covers and found her knee was bound up in a bandage of some sort. He turned away, flushing again, and she realized the plaid had slipped down. She was as naked as he was. She gasped, drew the blanket tight to her chin, and stared at him. She looked up and saw that her clothes were hanging on a line above the fireplace—­all of them, even her shift.

“Where—­?” she swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, her throat as raw as her knee. “Who are you?” she tried again. She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and panic formed a tight knot in her chest, and she tried again to remember what had happened, but her mind was blank. If he was—­unclothed, and she was equally unclothed—­

“What—­” she began again, then swallowed the question she couldn't frame. She hardly knew what to ask first, Where, Who, or What? Her mind was moving slowly, her thoughts as thick and rusty as her tongue.

“You're safe, lass,” he said, and she wondered if she was. She stared at him. She'd seen men working in the summer sun, their shirts off, their bodies tanned, their muscles straining, but she'd never thought anything of it. This—­he—­was different. And she was as naked as he was.

“May I have my clothes?” she asked.

“Oh—­of course.” He grabbed her shift, handed it to her. Her cloak slipped a little, revealing the jut of a male hip bone, the flat plane of his belly before he hitched the fabric back to his waist. He was tall—­his head was nearly touching the roof beams above him, but that might be a trick of the eye, since he was standing, and she was flat on the floor. He had red hair that glinted in the firelight like polished copper. The stubble of the beard on his cheeks shone too, making him look gilded, almost magical. Was he real? She shut her eyes, opened them again, but he didn't disappear.

He reached for her gown as well, dry and warm, if badly torn, and set it beside her on the plaid.

“If you need my help with—­” he began, but she sent him a glare and snaked one hand out from under the cover to drag her clothing inside, bundling it for a moment against her belly, watching him warily. Even that small effort was exhausting.

She watched as he took his shirt off the line and, with careful maneuvering, traded that garment for her cloak, covering what was necessary. Then, with one hand, he hung her cloak over the line to create a makeshift curtain between them.

All she could see now were his ankles, well-­shaped and sinewy, and his feet, long and white against the hearthstones. He snatched his breeches off the line, and she watched one foot rise, then the other, as he drew them on. The soft hush of the cloth was intimate in the tiny room. Then he stood there, his feet still, and she realized he was offering her time to dress too. She clutched the plaid to her breasts, pulled her shift over her head, then her gown, and reached underneath to right the ties and buttons. Her fingers felt thick and awkward, and she managed to knot the ribbons of her shift, but the buttons on her gown were impossibly small, and she couldn't fasten them. She gave up, held the two halves of her gown tightly over her breasts and stared at her boots, sitting near the fire next to his. Her stockings were nowhere to be seen.

His hand emerged from behind the makeshift curtain, grabbed for his boots, put them on. “I'll need to go out and check the garron. It will give you time for, ah—­whatever is necessary. I'm close enough to call if you should need any help.” Alanna felt a gust of cold air as he opened the door, then shut it firmly behind him. The silence was deafening.

She pushed away the plaid and tried to rise. Her leg rejected the idea at once, and her head agreed. The rest of her limbs were as thick and slow as her fingers. She looked at the bandage that covered her knee—­a handkerchief, by the looks of it. There was a monogram done in awkward stiches, blue thread against white linen—­I.M. She untied the knot and winced. The scratches were deep and ugly, long claw marks left by the ferocious storm, savage as a mountain cat. The bruises were like shadows on snow, bronze and black, and her knee was twice the size it should have been.

The door opened again. She flung her gown down over her naked leg, but the garment was torn from hem to knee, and it didn't cover anything at all. Her buttons were open as well, and she had to make a choice. She grabbed the edges of her bodice and held them together in her fist.

He stood and stared at her injured leg. He was wind tossed and cold, his skin flushed. He met her eyes. “The storm has stopped for the moment, but it looks like there'll be more snow before very long. Can you travel?” He came closer, holding out his hands as if to show he had no weapon, and no evil intent. There was snow in his hair, and it began to melt, the drops shining like gems, making a halo around him, as if he were an angel, or something else otherworldly. Was this heaven? Had she—­ She forced her mind into order. Her leg wouldn't hurt if this was heaven, and it wouldn't be snowing, or cold, surely.

“I think—­” she began. Her voice was thick, and she could not recall what she wished to say. She swallowed as he knelt beside her.

“I should check your leg,” he said, his tone apologetic. “May I?”

How polite he was, and there was nothing but kindness in his gray eyes. She nodded, knowing she could hardly fight. He shifted the folds of her gown, exposed as little of her flesh as she could. His hands were gentle, almost soothing, his long fingers dark and sure on the whiteness of her skin. She gasped at the pain, and he winced.

“It's not broken. I checked for other injuries—­”

She stared at him. “You did?”

His skin flushed again, but he met her eyes. “It was necessary, lass. I found you in a bad way. How did you come to be out in the storm?”

She felt tears sting her eyes. “I got lost,” she said. He dipped the handkerchief into a bucket of cold water, wound it back around her knee. The cold shocked her. “I.M.—­is that you?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Iain MacGillivray,” he replied, and raised his brows expectantly.

“Alanna McNabb,” she replied. “Where am I?”

“Craigleith Moor. Where were you going?”

She shrugged, and it hurt. “I wasn't going anywhere in particular, just walking,” she said.. “I wanted to think, so I went for a walk. My mother must be wondering where—­” Her eyes widened. Her wedding. How could she have forgotten about that? She looked at him. “How long have I been here?”

“Just the night,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

“Dundrummie.”

“Dundrummie?” He looked at her in stunned surprise. “That's twelve miles away! That must have been some problem.”

“Problem?” she asked.

“You said you went for a walk to think. That usually suggests a problem that needs considering.”

She tried to rise but sank back, gasping, her limbs refusing to obey.

“Oh, lass—­Alanna—­you'd better take it slow.”

He scooped a hand behind her shoulders and knees, and picked her up like a child. For a moment she was clutched against the broad warmth of his chest before he carefully set her on the bench by the fire. The room faded to spinning black dots, and he held onto her for a moment, his hand around her waist, steadying her.

“I must get back to Dundrummie at once,” she managed.

He poured hot water into an earthenware cup, added whisky from a flask, and pressed the cup into her hands. It was warm, and she wrapped her palms around it. “Not today. The blizzard has made Glen Dorian impassable. You'll come to Craigleith Castle. Your knee needs proper attention, and Annie can see to it. We'll get word to your family as soon as we can, let them know you're safe, but not today.”

Alanna felt tears fill her eyes. “But today is—­it's my wedding day!”

His brows shot up into his hairline. “Your—­” She saw the wheels turning inside his head. “You ran away!”

She tried to straighten her spine, didn't have the energy. Every inch of her body ached, and tears threatened. She clung to her unbuttoned bodice and glared at him. “Of course I didn't.”

“You walked twelve miles in a blizzard to
think,
and you very nearly—­” he began, but she sent him a fierce look.

“I will disappoint my mother if I am not there.”

His brows quirked again. “Your mother? What of your bridegroom?” he asked. His eyes roamed over her, his appreciation plain. “I mean, he's sure to be eager—­that is,
disappointed
—­” He paused as she folded her arms over her breasts and gaped at him, felt hot blood creep into her cheeks.

“You saw—­
everything
?”

He flushed again and looked apologetic. “I only did what was necessary. You were ice cold, near to—­ I had to get you warm, my skin to yours. Nothing else occurred. Your bridegroom will have nothing to complain of, save the fact you'll be late for your wedding.”

She stared at him, her body tingling at the very idea that he, and she, had . . .
oh dear
. She felt her cheeks grow very warm. But he had saved her life. She raised her chin. “Thank you,” she said in a formal tone, wondering if it was the right thing to say under the circumstances. She stared at the spot on the floor where they'd spent the night. Together. Naked.

He turned away and opened his saddle pack. “I'm afraid there's naught for breakfast save an oatcake or two. I've a flask of whisky, if you want it for the pain, but Annie will have something better to give you.”

“Who is Annie?”

He grinned at her as he handed her an oatcake. “Auld Annie MacIntosh—­she's been at Craigleith forever. She heals injuries and ailments, tells stories, and even keeps the laird in line.”

“Muira,” Alanna murmured, taking the proffered oatcake, her fingertips brushing his, sending sparks flying up her arm. “We have Muira McNabb. She does the same for us.” He really did have a lovely smile. She looked away and nibbled on her breakfast, unable to manage more than a mouthful.

“I'm sorry to insist on haste, given your injuries, but the storm has cleared for the moment, and the sky doesn't look promising. We'll have more snow before the day is out. We'd best get you back to Craigleith, where you can rest properly. You'll be among friends, Alanna. There's nothing to fear.”