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

This time when he faced her, he kept hold of her arms. He’d learned his lesson.

She was panting, and hatred flashed in her eyes as she glared at him. “You have no right to touch me.”

“I do when it’s going to save your damn fool neck,” he retorted.

His eyes roamed her delicate features. Even in that appalling outfit, she was beautiful. The woolen hat tugged low over her forehead couldn’t hide the perfect bone structure or the winged black brows or those flower eyes. That soft, pink mouth never belonged to any stableboy either.

He shook his head in puzzlement. “How the hell did you ever convince anyone that you’re a lad?”

That soft pink mouth set in mutinous lines, and she cast him a fulminating look. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“No, you don’t.” She was like a high-strung filly, flinching at her own shadow and apt to bolt at the merest sound. “But I’ve kept your secret so far. Won’t you trust me?”

She looked bewildered. “You haven’t told anyone?”

“No, on my honor.” He paused. “And I promise I won’t. But you’re obviously in trouble. I’d like to help if I can.”

“You can help by letting me go,” she said sullenly.

“Are you going to take off into the snow?”

She heaved a weighty sigh. “No. You’re faster than I am. You’d catch me before I made it.”

“Very sensible.”

The eyes she raised to his were wary, but the blind panic had receded, thank God. He was poised to chase her again if he had to, but she remained standing in front of him, surveying him as if she expected him to bite her. Quentin wasn’t a vain man, but he was used to people liking him, especially the lassies. This fear and suspicion wasn’t the usual female reaction to his interest.

As a sign of good faith, he released her arms. “Come back to the fire. It’s cold as a penguin’s parlor over here.”

He turned to right the overturned stool and lowered himself to sit. All the time, he watched the girl, his muscles taut with readiness, in case she made a break for it.

But it seemed she’d accepted his assurances that she was safe, at least for the moment. Hesitantly she picked her way across the floor to collapse in a defeated slump on the other stool.

He pulled out the silver flask and extended it in her direction. “Would you like some more whisky?”

“No, thank you.” Whoever she was, she’d been brought up with good manners. But he’d long ago noticed that the new stableboy had a refined air, incongruous in such a low-placed servant. The erratic Highland brogue had disappeared now, too, he noticed.

By God, he needed a drink, even if she didn’t. He loathed seeing the dread in her eyes. Whatever she was running from, it was bad enough to have taught her to fear. He hated to think of anyone mistreating this girl, who was such an intriguing mixture of strength and vulnerability. Not to mention so devilish pretty.

He took a mouthful of whisky and slid the flask back into his pocket while he considered the best way of going about gaining her trust. He decided to start with something reasonably simple. “What’s your name?”

“Kit.”

He bit back a sigh. “No, your real name.”

“That is my real name.” She bent her head and plucked at a loose thread on that voluminous and hideously ugly coat. Quentin had already worked out that she wore it because she could hide an elephant under there and nobody would know.

He didn’t push for an answer and after a moment, she cast him a quick glance from under thick black eyelashes. “You won’t betray me?”

He spread his hands to convey his harmlessness. “I haven’t yet.”

Another silence, while he felt like she weighed his soul in the balance. Then the tense line of her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “My father called me Kit.”

“Short for Catriona or Katherine or Christina?”

“Christabel.”

“Ah.” An unusual name for an unusual girl. Not just because she was dressed as a boy. He’d been watching her since she’d first caught his attention. Even dressed in the conventional style, she’d be out of the common run of females. “That’s pretty.”