“You’re…you’re Cian in that bible.”
“Aye.”
“You’re Cian…on the headstone. Here lies Hannah MacInnis, beloved gran of Cian.Born 1667.”
He filled his lungs and let the air out in a cloud, then a second time. “Aye.”
“Do you have some way of explaining how you made it to your, what, 300thbirthday?”
“Ye remember that story I meant to?—”
“Some way to explainwithoutme ending up in the loony bin?”
“Loony bin?”
“The nuthouse. You know, an asylum? For people who get told things they can’t handle?”
He made a half dozen faces, looked away, then back again. “I can only do m’ best.”
A defiant gust of wind came out of nowhere and swirled around the clearing, then bounced between them, as if on purpose. When it was gone, the lass shivered violently.
Cian planted the torch in the snow, opened his arms wide, along with the ends of the blanket, and silently pleaded for her to come to him.
After meeting his gaze for a pair of heartbeats—enough to let him know she was choosing to trust him—she closed the distance and slammed herself against him, welcoming his embrace and wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t complain that hugging her slick, cold jacket against his thin léine was like embracing the snow itself. But it warmed soon enough.
Over the top of her head, his gaze fell once more upon Hannah’s stone, where the snow fell lightly, like blessings, to cover the top with a clean blanket. He could imagine her standing there, watching with those smiling eyes as the snow blessed him as well.
Maddy tipped her head back, “Should we go back?”
“Just a moment more, woman.” Then he did what any canny Highlander would do, and kissed her—gently, then thoroughly, until his own knees grew weak.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s crazy how one kiss, or maybe half a dozen, can change a girl’s perspective…
That bothy had been a godsend. A sanctuary. Then, when I was tied up, it had been a nightmare, followed byhisnightmare when I turned the tables. It had eventually become a test kitchen, where I could prove myself worthy of the life I’d been living. And after one good meal together, it had changed back into a sanctuary, a confessional, and I’d come out clean.
Well, vindicated, at least.
After a couple of devastating weeks, I finally had someone who was on my side. A champion who encouraged me to fight. And yes, I wanted to fight. I just wasn’t sure what I wanted to fight for.
And now, that kiss had changed things again.
I was sure we would have walked hand in hand back to his house, but it would have been awkward with him clomping through the snow, retracing our path, while I strolled along easily on the snowshoes he’d insisted I wear.
I was literally floating on air while he filled his Offroaders with snow.
When I laid eyes on the bothy again, it was no longer a frightening space, a test kitchen, or stranger’s house I needed to put in my rear view. It was the place Cian and I would spend our last hours in. The place I would always picture him, standing by the trunk, pulling that ridiculously long shirt over his lovely bare chest.
At the door, he bent to remove the snowshoes, then propped them on end beneath the window before ushering me inside. He pulled the blanket off his shoulders and spread it over the table to dry and set his wet boots close to the stove.
I watched him while I slipped off my boots and hung my coat on the end of the headboard.
“M’ denims are soaked through,” he said, as he stripped them off. “But m’ gown is long enough. I’ll don more when somethin’ is dry. Will that do?”
“Of course. You can’t wear wet clothes.”
My legs were suffocating from wearing my ski pants over my leggings for twenty-four hours, so I stripped them off. “Sorry, I’ve got to get out of these.” I hung the pants on a peg on the back of the door, and the place looked like a laundromat with no working dryers. “But I still have my leggings. Will that be okay?”
