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

“I’ll give you a push,” Quentin said, as Kit took a protective position behind the gilt-haired little girl.

“Hold on tight, Miss Andy,” Kit said, then couldn’t contain a shriek of excitement as the sled gathered speed down the hill.

The shriek turned into a cry of panic, as the sled hit some invisible barrier and shot up into the air. Its two occupants went flying.

Time slowed to a standstill as Quentin watched in horror. Then, with dread cramping his gut, he broke into a run toward Kit and Andy.

“Andy!” Emily cried, also scrambling down the hill toward the two bodies sprawled over the snow.

Quentin was just ahead of her. He rushed past Andy, who already sat up, to where the lad lay unmoving. Terror tasting rusty on his tongue, he fell to his knees at Kit’s side. Shaking hands helped him to turn over. The knitted hat had come off in the fall, revealing an untidy mop of unevenly cropped black hair.

“Kit! Are you all right? Can you move? Where does it hurt?”

Quentin’s hold was gentle, as he cradled Kit against his chest. The boy smelled not unpleasantly of the stables. Horses and fresh sweat and hay, and beneath that an incongruous hint of flowers.

Kit looked pale and shocked, and the slender body in his arms was trembling. Those extraordinary eyes turned up to his face then darted away. The force of that charged blue gaze struck Quentin like a blow. His concerned questions jammed in his tightening throat.

“Mamma, that was fun,” Andy informed her frantic mother.

“Dreadful child,” Emily said, her voice thick with the remnants of fear as she hugged her daughter.

“Is she all right?” Hamish asked, rushing up.

“It would take a cannon to put a dent in this one,” Emily said. She turned to where Quentin had dragged Kit out of the snowdrift. “What about Kit?”

He cleared his throat and made himself look away from Kit’s face. “I think he’s fine.”

“I’m…I’m unharmed, my lady,” Kit said, trying to push away from Quentin, but too shaken after the accident to make much of a job of it. He fumbled after his lost hat.

Quentin located the hat and passed it over, noticing how quickly the boy tugged it down around his ears and low to his uncompromising dark eyebrows. “Can you sit up?”

“Aye, I’m sure I can,” Kit said in a muffled voice, although he remained still and he kept his head down. “How is Miss Andy?”

“Her parents are with her. She seems her usual self, not even frightened. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“I’ve suffered nae damage, thank ye, sir. I think you should leave me and go and tend to the bairn,” the lad said with an incongruous touch of hauteur. “I’m but a servant, after all.”

“We’re all equal in God’s eyes,” Quentin said piously.

Kit rewarded him with a flash of annoyance that made him want to smile. It became clear that the lad might be bruised, but otherwise he was in one piece.

There was no excuse to keep holding onto Kit. But it was only with the greatest reluctance that he released the stableboy. Quentin’s thoughts were in a tumult. The moment he’d touched that slim form, he’d confirmed his long-held suspicions. Although now he knew for sure, a thousand questions badgered him.

This wasn’t the time to ask them, when Kit had had an accident and even worse, regarded him with crushed bluebell eyes, bright with apprehension.

“Can we do it again?” Andy was asking her mother. “That was like flying.”

“No, you cannot, you dreadful little miss,” her mother said, laughing. “And don’t you want to know if Kit is all right?”

“He’s with Quentin. People are always all right with Quentin,” the child said, with all the certainty of a five-year-old who knew everything there was to know.

Quentin arched one brow at the slight, boyish figure gingerly shifting to sit up under his own powers in the snow. He hoped to tease out more of that intriguing impudence. “High praise indeed.”

But the stable lad had repented of his brief insurrection and stared back with a stony expression. “As you say, sir.”

Hamish rose from where he kneeled near his daughter and strode toward them. “Come away inside, Kit and Quentin. It’s getting cold and dark. Kit, are you hurt?”

“I’m gey sure I’m no’, Douglas,” the lad said in a gruffer voice than Quentin had heard from him all afternoon. And with a stronger Scottish accent. Quentin had already noticed that the Highland burr in the lad’s speech was an unreliable visitor.