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

“Fair point. But nonetheless, Mr. MacNab is a little too formal for present circumstances.”

She found herself smiling. “Then Quentin you shall be.”

The bed was made of solid pine and took a bit of lifting, but they soon had it positioned in front of the roaring fire. Quentin tossed in some more peat before he fetched his now-dry greatcoat and laid it across the straw mattress. “I’m afraid there might be fleas.”

“It’s too cold for fleas,” Kit said, unable to help noting how fine he looked in his shirtsleeves after he removed his green coat.

He gave a grunt of laughter and pointed to her concealing jacket. “Take that off. If we put it over us and wrap my coats around us, we’ll preserve more heat.”

She regarded him uncertainly. Although he knew who she was, the thick jacket was the main engine of her disguise. Taking it off in another person’s presence seemed dangerous.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Come on, Kit.”

What a henwit she was. He already knew she was female. Quickly she shrugged off the shapeless jacket and passed it to him. Then before her nerves got the better of her, she lay down on top of his greatcoat.

He took his place behind her so she was closest to the fire. She was painfully aware of him as a large, masculine presence mere inches away from her. He arranged their coverings and settled against the mattress.

Kit told herself to go to sleep, but it was no good. She was too tense, and it still wasn’t warm enough. After a short while, she started to shiver.

“I think…I think we’ll have to be in contact,” she said through chattering teeth.

“Will you mind?”

“I don’t want to freeze to death.”

“Very well.”

He drew her into his arms and back against his chest. She was stiff and awkward, even as a creeping warmth thawed the chill in her blood. She’d never been held by a man before or shared a bed with one, however innocently. Telling herself she could bear this, she closed her eyes and felt Quentin rearrange their makeshift blankets.

“Kit, if you rest flush against me, it will be better.”

“Aye,” she muttered, scooting across until her back pressed along his front. Already she was warmer. She snuggled closer and tucked her jacket around them more securely.

“Are you comfortable?”

No. She was too aware of his fresh male scent and how he was so much bigger than she was. “It’s warmer.”

“Aye.” He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, and she felt the heat build. “You know you’re safe, don’t you?”

“Aye,” she said, and the strange truth was that she did, although she hadn’t felt safe since her father died. “What about you? Are you comfortable?”

“I’m warm,” he said. “Any fleas?”

“Not yet.”

“Go to sleep. We’ll come through this, I promise.”

He couldn’t know that. The snow could continue for a week. They could run out of peat. They had no food. But despite all that, his confidence eased her heart.

Her rigidity eased, and she instinctively shaped herself against him. It was surprising how natural she felt, lying in a bed with Quentin MacNab.

“They’ll come looking for us if we’re missing too long,” she said.

“Aye, and this hut will be one of the first places they try. I refuse to die a few days before Christmas. It would spoil everyone’s festivities.”

She’d been sick with fear for so long. Tonight when Quentin uncovered her masquerade, she’d wanted to run out into the snow. Death had seemed preferable to exposing her identity. So it seemed insane that she laughed at the weak joke. “It would indeed.”

He shifted so even more of her seemed to be in contact with his body. Her rump pressed into his stomach, and her head tucked in under his chin. “I like to hear you laugh.”