Kissing the Countess (6 page)

"Indeed," Evan answered flatly, though he felt a fresh pang at losing his father with so much unresolved between them.

"I have not met the new earl, but I suspect he is no better than his father. He has not bothered to come north yet, and his father died months ago."

He glanced at her, tempted to say that he had been diving off a sea rock working on a lighthouse project during those months. The news of his father's death had not reached him quickly, and the man had been buried by the time Evan had found out about it.

And he did not expect the people of this glen to warmly welcome the new Earl of Kildonan. "Did you know the previous earl, Miss MacConn?" he asked.

She shook her head, and shivered. Bitter cold air seeped into the room through a multitude of cracks and crevices.

"I did not know him personally," she answered. "He caused much trouble and sadness in this glen when he evicted the people to make room for sheep to secure his fortune. I hear it is a vast fortune indeed. They say the new earl will likely sell much of the land and not bother coming to the estate." She lifted her chin, a slight motion that Evan thought revealed pride and a hint of some inner hurt.

She loved this land deeply, he realized. So did he, although he was aware that his actions as earl did not prove that.

He frowned. Catriona and the other residents of Glen Shee would not know that the new earl had no choice but to sell land and rent out the castle and hunting reserves to generate much-needed funds. Evan's father had left considerable debt. Although sheep could be lucrative, the old earl had been extravagant, thus leaving the new earl unexpected expenses to be met.

After resolving some of his father's debts, he had been forced to sell part of Kildonan to clear the rest. At the moment, Evan had only modest funds left—and obligations of his own.

Following a catastrophic bridge collapse that had killed three of his crewmen, Evan had been helping to support the three widows and their fatherless children. He had arranged for a modest yearly income for each family and was determined to see the children properly educated as well. He could donate money and take a personal interest in the welfare of each family—and especially each child—but he could not make up for the loss of their fathers, three excellent men. He still wondered if he could have saved them somehow.

The Parliamentary commission for the construction of bridges in Scotland had cleared Evan of responsibility in the tragedy, but he had not cleared himself, might never forgive himself. Memories of that day would haunt him forever.

"If the new earl is altering the estate, I suppose he has his reasons," he said. "Have you always lived in this glen, Miss MacConn?" He wanted to change the topic.

"I have. I saw the people leave this glen, years ago. I can never forget that sight," she murmured.

Evan had seen the people departing the glen too, and could not forget it. "Your family stayed?"

"My father is the parish minister—a Free Church rather than an Established Church. Few people are left to minister to."

He knew the Free Church had adopted a strict dogma, having split from the more moderate Established Church of Scotland several years ago. "I see. Miss MacConn, what makes you sure that the new Kildonan is like his father?"

"My brother is his factor, Mr. Mackenzie. I have heard how the new earl neglects his property, leaving it to my brother to run, not caring about the land or the people. But the profit from the wool seems important to him." Her blue eyes fairly sparked.

"Factor?"
Good Lord,
he thought.
Finlay MacConn.
He should have recognized the name, but had never met the new young factor. Evan's sister, Lady Jean Gray, came to Kildonan regularly and she had met with Finlay MacConn, who had assisted the old factor and had replaced him not long before Evan's father had passed away.

Here he sat with the factor's sister, the daughter of Glen Shee's reverend, in what could seem a very compromising situations. Perhaps it was wiser to guard his identity until they could leave and go their separate ways. Catriona clearly disliked the new earl and might not want to stay—might walk out into the cold night.

Best to say nothing now.

"Neglect?" Evan asked. "The earl... neglects this place?" Did they truly think that? He had assumed all was well. But he had been out in the remote Hebridean Isles working on engineering projects when his father had died and had no time or leisure to come up here. His sister and brother-in-law enjoyed taking holidays at Kildonan, and so he left it to them to see to the running of the estate. Jean and Harry had reported that the new young factor was competent and trustworthy. Evan had assumed all was well.

"He's all but abandoned the estate to his sister, my brother says," Catriona went on. "He has not returned to meet his tenants since his father's death. Does he want to right the wrongs the old earl did here? Would he bring back those who were forced to leave the glen? He could ask Highlanders to watch his sheep for him. Has he done any of it?" She folded her arms. "Not at all, and it's very sad, I think."

He frowned. "I can see where you might believe that—"

"The new earl is continuing the old earl's ways. He profits from the sheep and takes fees from tourists and holiday climbers."

Evan looked down. Rentals and tourists had been his father's idea, for a healthy profit. Evan and his sister had even considered building an inn for tourist. He shook his head slowly. He had much to learn about Glen Shee, apparently.

Catriona looked at him. "Oh! Mr. Mackenzie, are you—"

Had she figured it out already? He drew a breath for the consequences. "Am I what, Miss MacConn?"

"Are you one of climbers who paid Lord Kildonan?"

"No, Miss MacConn," he said with relief. "I am not."

Chapter 4

Catriona stood, hands on hips, looking at the hut's interior with satisfaction. She and Mr. Mackenzie had crammed some of the fallen thatch into chinks in the drystone walls. The wind still howled and the cold was freezing, but the draft was lessened.

"Mr. Mackenzie, do be careful," she said, turning.

He had broken apart the wooden bench to wedge the planks between the roof beams, and now reached overhead to secure the makeshift patch to block cold air.

"I'm—perfectly—fine," he answered, pounding the plank into place with a rock found in the debris inside the hut. Tall enough to assist him, Catriona moved toward him to hold one end of the bench while he fit it between the rafters. Mackenzie glanced at her briefly. "I always liked tall lassies. Now I know why." He grinned.

She felt herself blush at his teasing compliment, and stole a glance at him as he worked, admiring the power in his arms and shoulders, the long tough grace of his back and legs. She saw the muscles shift and bunch under his shirt, as he had removed his jacket to work in shirtsleeves and vest. Remembering touching him earlier, when he had been unconscious, she felt her cheeks heat even more fiercely.

She had rarely had thoughts like that before, and these were disconcerting—and persistent whenever she looked at him.

"There," he said, stepping back and lowering his arms. He glanced at her. "A bit less drafty, at least."

"Mr. Mackenzie, please rest. I fear you will overdo. We must have the doctor look at you back in the glen."

He looked surprised. "There's a doctor of medicine here?"

"Mr. Grant is the laird of Kilmallie at the other end of the glen, and studied medicine at university. His father was the earl's factor, but died, so his son was called back here. And he is a competent doctor for our needs. You could consult Mr. Grant about your head bump, certainly. Are you staying at the Torridon Inn in Glen Shee? Mrs. MacAuley runs the only inn here. Or perhaps you are staying with friends?"

He avoided a direct answer—she would know everyone in the glen. "I may consult Mr. Grant if I feel poorly later. For now, I am well enough. There, that should hold." He stood back.

"I do feel a difference."

"But it is still bitter cold in here." He glanced around. "Where shall we sleep? I apologize for being so direct, but it is getting late. We need to make a bed."

"Beds," she corrected. "There's only the one plaid and our jackets, but it's just for one night. You take the blanket, Mr. Mackenzie, and I'll borrow your coat, if I may."

"You take the blanket."

"But you must rest well—your injuries. I insist." She folded her arms like a stern nursemaid.

"We will share." He knelt on the floor to spread out the plaid. "After you, Miss MacConn."

She stared at him. "Sleep in the same bed?"

"We'd stay warm." He looked at her. "The only way to get through this beastly night is to share warmth, Miss MacConn."

"Share warmth! You—I trusted you!" Yet she felt no real alarm—just a deep, secret excitement. Did she dare?

"You can trust me." He inclined his head.

"I will not—" She stopped awkwardly.

He sighed. "Your virtue is safe. Either we protect ourselves from the cold, or suffer for the sake of propriety. Which is it?"

"When you climbed in the Alps, I am sure you did not have to share warmth with your companions, sir."

"It was easier to keep warm high in the Alps than in this frosty hovel, I assure you. We had tents, hot water bottles, extra clothing, blankets, campfires, and plenty of hot food. A tent gets very warm with two or three occupants. This is no tent, Miss MacConn. Tonight this place will be cold as the devil."

"Then you had best find a way to keep yourself warm."

"I am trying," he drawled. "I like a challenge, Miss MacConn, but you seem to think that one night in this wee frozen box will be more risky than a night on the Matterhorn."

She sent him a sour glance. "We can manage."

"We need to be resourceful as well as determined. What we must do to stay alive here is obvious. How we reconcile that with society is the problem."

"Stay... alive?" She stared at him.

"If the temperature continues to drop, and if we fall asleep unprotected, we could freeze to death. Surely you knew."

"I—I did not think it was that dangerous."

"We may be fine. But there is the possibility—" He stopped. "Does being proper count more common sense?"

"I am not so proper as you think. Oh! That did not come out right," she said hastily. "Of course I have common sense."

Evan nodded. "I would think you no less the lady if we were to keep each other warm."

She regarded him warily, realizing he was right. They needed to stay close tonight. His obvious integrity reassured her; he seemed a gentleman to the core. But she could not risk a shocking situation. She thought of her family, and frowned.

"We will take turns," she decided. "I will stay by the fire while you take the blanket. Then we will change places."

"A quiet lass—with a formidable nature." He turned and went to the blanket, lowering himself to the floor.

Sitting beside the fire, she took the poker to stir the crumbling peat bricks, which were beginning to smoke. The brose was thickening in the kettle. She should fetch snow or ice to thin it further, and melt some for drinking water.

Mackenzie stretched out in the blanket and quickly fell asleep, for she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing. Catriona knew he must feel bruised and achy and should sleep, but she would rouse him later to be sure his head injury did not get the best of him.

Shivering, amazed at such an icy storm for early November, she tended the fire. Once Mackenzie was snoring lightly, she stood, taking his coat, and went to the door, slipping outside. Using a wooden bowl she found in the hut, she packed it full of snow and brought it inside to think the simmering brose and to let the rest melt. She sipped a little hot brose to ease the ache of hunger in her stomach.

Tired, she lay beside the fire, the earthen floor a cold slab beneath her chilling her bones, though she curled for warmth. The little peat fire was not radiating much heat.

Evan Mackenzie lay an arm's length away. Suddenly she very much wanted to slip inside the blanket with him just to feel toasty again. Instead, she lay there shivering.

* * *

Waking in the night, Evan saw that the fire had diminished to a few glowing threads of light—and the air was astonishingly cold. The girl lay curled by the low fire, apparently asleep.