passion in her with just a touch, with heartbreakingly beautiful, small smiles. Was he thinking of her too, looking at her?
He was grateful for her help, and that was all. He was a handsome, educated gentleman, and she was an ordinary Highland girl. When the weather cleared tomorrow and they left this place, she would never see him again.
Once—just once, she thought, let the wildness—
Ignoring that, she held out the flask. "Thank you."
"If you want more, take it. It will warm you."
She sipped again. The swallowed fire expanded, wrapping her in comfort. She handed back the flask. "No more. I have not eaten. It will make me ill."
He took the flask and drank from it, his lips covering where hers had been. She watched the slide of his powerful throat.
"Mr. Grant says a person with a head injury should not take whisky," she ventured.
"Mr. Grant has never been stranded in a shieling hut on a cold night, alone with a bonny lass," he said in a dry tone. "Now lie down and try to sleep. It will do you good."
She stretched out inside the plaid, the wool faintly prickly against her bare legs, and pulled it up to her chin. The comfort surrounded her, felt divine. She felt drowsy rather quickly.
Mackenzie sat beside the fire, propping his arm on his upraised knee. He took up the poker and jabbed at the blackened peat bricks. The fire smoked. For all the poking and shifting he did, the crumbling peat would not glow any brighter.
"We need more fuel," he said. "But the rest of the peat in the corner is damp."
"My skirt," she said quickly.
"We're not that desperate yet," he drawled.
"In the pocket of my skirt there are some papers. We can burn those."
He reached for her skirt, groped, found the folded pages. "Are these letters?"
"Notes," she said. "Just some songs."
"Aye?" He glanced at the pages. "Musical notations." He looked at her as if puzzled.
"I collect old Gaelic songs from some of the Highlanders in this glen," she explained. "I've been learning them for years and writing down all the songs I learn, to keep them."
"Fascinating," he said. "So you transcribe musical notation and speak not only Gaelic and English, but French, Italian, and German, as well."
"And a little Greek," she said.
"Not the typical Highland mountain lass, are you."
"I'm a minister's daughter," she said. "What did you expect, that I spend my time walking the hills in bare feet and ragged skirts, babbling in Old Irish and following a flock of sheep? Education is as important in the Highlands as elsewhere. I had tutors and I spent two years studying in Edinburgh. I'm as well educated as you are. Well, but for engineering."
"I cannot write in musical scale," he said. "Nor can I manage Italian."
She smiled a little. "Burn the pages, Mr. Mackenzie. They will give us some light and heat, at least for a while."
"I cannot burn these. There are several songs here, with the melody carefully transcribed, and the verses translated in Gaelic and English. This is a great deal of work."
"I can redo them. I remember most of them, and Morag, my friend, will help me with the rest. Burn the pages, do. We have no choice."
Relenting, he tossed the pages on the fire one by one. Light and heat bloomed. Catriona watched the papers crumble and spark, and frowned, trying not to regret the lost songs, glad for the heat they provided. She could recreate those pages.
"Mr. Mackenzie, you will be cold without your jacket. Take it back now."
"Your wee songs are keeping me warm." He smiled, and she laughed. "Good night, Miss MacConn."
"Good night," she murmured, feeling a sudden disappointment to lie alone in the dark and the cold. She drew her knees up, feeling a chill despite the jacket and plaid. Earlier, straight, strong whisky had created a hot core in her belly, but now the knife edge of the wind was cutting through the hut.
Lowering the plaid, she peered at the man. The papers had burned down quickly, and the flames were diminishing. In the glow, she saw
He was grateful for her help, and that was all. He was a handsome, educated gentleman, and she was an ordinary Highland girl. When the weather cleared tomorrow and they left this place, she would never see him again.
Once—just once, she thought, let the wildness—
Ignoring that, she held out the flask. "Thank you."
"If you want more, take it. It will warm you."
She sipped again. The swallowed fire expanded, wrapping her in comfort. She handed back the flask. "No more. I have not eaten. It will make me ill."
He took the flask and drank from it, his lips covering where hers had been. She watched the slide of his powerful throat.
"Mr. Grant says a person with a head injury should not take whisky," she ventured.
"Mr. Grant has never been stranded in a shieling hut on a cold night, alone with a bonny lass," he said in a dry tone. "Now lie down and try to sleep. It will do you good."
She stretched out inside the plaid, the wool faintly prickly against her bare legs, and pulled it up to her chin. The comfort surrounded her, felt divine. She felt drowsy rather quickly.
Mackenzie sat beside the fire, propping his arm on his upraised knee. He took up the poker and jabbed at the blackened peat bricks. The fire smoked. For all the poking and shifting he did, the crumbling peat would not glow any brighter.
"We need more fuel," he said. "But the rest of the peat in the corner is damp."
"My skirt," she said quickly.
"We're not that desperate yet," he drawled.
"In the pocket of my skirt there are some papers. We can burn those."
He reached for her skirt, groped, found the folded pages. "Are these letters?"
"Notes," she said. "Just some songs."
"Aye?" He glanced at the pages. "Musical notations." He looked at her as if puzzled.
"I collect old Gaelic songs from some of the Highlanders in this glen," she explained. "I've been learning them for years and writing down all the songs I learn, to keep them."
"Fascinating," he said. "So you transcribe musical notation and speak not only Gaelic and English, but French, Italian, and German, as well."
"And a little Greek," she said.
"Not the typical Highland mountain lass, are you."
"I'm a minister's daughter," she said. "What did you expect, that I spend my time walking the hills in bare feet and ragged skirts, babbling in Old Irish and following a flock of sheep? Education is as important in the Highlands as elsewhere. I had tutors and I spent two years studying in Edinburgh. I'm as well educated as you are. Well, but for engineering."
"I cannot write in musical scale," he said. "Nor can I manage Italian."
She smiled a little. "Burn the pages, Mr. Mackenzie. They will give us some light and heat, at least for a while."
"I cannot burn these. There are several songs here, with the melody carefully transcribed, and the verses translated in Gaelic and English. This is a great deal of work."
"I can redo them. I remember most of them, and Morag, my friend, will help me with the rest. Burn the pages, do. We have no choice."
Relenting, he tossed the pages on the fire one by one. Light and heat bloomed. Catriona watched the papers crumble and spark, and frowned, trying not to regret the lost songs, glad for the heat they provided. She could recreate those pages.
"Mr. Mackenzie, you will be cold without your jacket. Take it back now."
"Your wee songs are keeping me warm." He smiled, and she laughed. "Good night, Miss MacConn."
"Good night," she murmured, feeling a sudden disappointment to lie alone in the dark and the cold. She drew her knees up, feeling a chill despite the jacket and plaid. Earlier, straight, strong whisky had created a hot core in her belly, but now the knife edge of the wind was cutting through the hut.
Lowering the plaid, she peered at the man. The papers had burned down quickly, and the flames were diminishing. In the glow, she saw
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