The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

Compared to the laird, who was a blond giant, Mr. MacNab was much more man-sized. But in this confined space, he appeared dauntingly large. Kit wrapped her arms around herself – for warmth and to quiet her misgivings about how this crisis was going to play out.

“There. That’s done it,” he said with satisfaction, as the flames caught the kindling. He rose with the athletic grace that she’d noticed from the first and crossed to shut the door.

Immediate calm descended like an axe, although it only seemed calm in comparison to the cacophony outside. “Come close to the fire and thaw out.”

“Aye, sir,” she said, but when she stood, her legs threatened to fold under her.

Before she landed on the ground in a humiliating huddle, Mr. MacNab was at her side and catching her elbow. “I’m so sorry, Kit. I should have seen the weather was worsening and taken you back to the house. You did warn me. This is all my fault. I wanted to get you alone so I could talk to you.”

Her earlier fear rose up to devour her. “I think you should let me go, sir. I can walk.”

He ignored her protest and as he helped her to totter toward the fire, she was almost grateful. After he settled her on a three-legged stool, he dragged another one over for himself.

The hut was simply furnished. The bed with its straw mattress. A couple of stools. A rickety table against one wall.

Mr. MacNab removed his wet greatcoat and hung it off a hook beside the mantelpiece. Beneath it, he wore an elegant dark green coat and serviceable black breeches. He sank onto his stool with a weary groan and cast her a concerned glance.

“Here.” He held out a silver flask. “It will help.”

She accepted it. Despite the crackling fire, she felt frozen right to the bone. “Thank you, sir.”

Her hands shook as she raised the flask to her lips. After living with her stepbrother, she was familiar with the scent of whisky.

She took a mouthful and nearly spat it out. How could anyone like this filthy stuff? It tasted like medicine. She swallowed it in a gulp then started to cough. Blinded by tears, she felt Mr. MacNab gently remove the flask from her grip.

She sucked in a breath of air. “That’s horrid.”

He laughed. “A man develops a liking for it.”

Neil certainly had. He always stank of stale spirits. The reminder of what she’d escaped firmed her determination to cling to her disguise. “I can’t imagine why he’d want to.”

Mr. MacNab laughed. “Is it making you feel better?”

She opened her mouth to say no, then noted the warmth spreading inside her. When she stumbled inside, she’d felt like a block of ice. Now her blood started to flow again. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”

“Good.” Mr. MacNab lifted the flask to his lips and drank.

She must be feeling better. The foolish girl inside her couldn’t help noticing that he drank from where she had. It was as close as she was ever likely to come to receiving a kiss from Quentin MacNab.

Oh, don’t be so soppy, Christabel Sophia Urquhart.

“Would you like some more?”

There was a nice little warm space in her stomach that made the awful taste worthwhile, so she surprised herself by saying, “Aye, please.”

He smiled with approval and passed over the flask. She took a cautious sip and managed not to choke this time. When she handed it back, she watched him screw the silver cap back on. There was a wicked luxury in being able to study him like this. Everything he did had this marvelous economy of movement that stirred something deep inside her.

Because she was too afraid of people noticing her unsuitable interest in the laird’s nephew, she’d only glanced at him in fits and snatches so far. Here in this cottage, she could gaze her full.

Even better, for once, Mr. MacNab wasn’t asking any questions. A companionable silence fell, and Kit let her mind drift. It was warm near the peat fire, and the hut kept the dreadful weather at bay. For the first time in weeks, the tight knots of fear in her stomach loosened. When she breathed in, she felt that at last she took in a full measure of air.

“Watch out,” a soft, amused voice said, as a strong hand straightened her on the stool. “You’re about to slide to the ground.”

“Oh, dear, I think it’s the whisky.” Kit blinked owlishly at him and despite everything, pleasure flooded her.

He offered her such a pleasant view. Those spare intense features with the sharply defined cheekbones. A nose that was just large enough to lend his face character. Eyes full of kindness and intelligence.

He smiled. “I’m now questioning the wisdom of giving you a second dose.”