certain.
Silently he drew her jacket open and worked the long row of tiny buttons running up the bodice of her dress from waist to high neck. Catriona's heart slammed; her breath quickened.
As his fingers brushed over her breasts, she silently moved his hands away, opening the buttons herself. Beneath the dress, she wore a chemise but no stays. The upper body of her chemise was dry, but the lower hems, and her petticoats and knickers, were as wet as her outer skirt.
Mackenzie glanced down, up again, then turned away quickly. Catriona wriggled free of the dress, pushing it down over her hips until it pooled, soggy and a relief to remove, and she snatched up his thick tweed jacket, slipping her arms inside the satiny inner lining of the sleeves. Too large, it felt very good.
"The rest of it," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
"But—"
"Take off whatever is wet. Please," he added, voice gruff. "For your health. Let the things dry."
Sighing, she wriggled out of her soggy petticoats and dropped them, too, standing in damp chemise and knickers.
Then her mind conjured something wild, something exciting—his gazes upon her, his hands, his lips. His warmth surrounding, a passionate, quiet fire, the heat, the love she had always craved.
He had said she was not plain, had called her Fair Catriona. No one had ever complimented her like that. His interest, however slight it truly might be, had an irresistible allure.
Suddenly she wanted this night, already dangerous, to turn wild and intimate. She was alone with this kind and beautiful man. This would never come again—this night could be wild, bright miracle, changing her plain life forever. She wanted something secret and unforgettable with him.
She might never again have a chance to know what it could be like, alone with a man, loved, treated like a woman. Her heart slammed with her daring thoughts. Drawing a breath, wondering if she had gone lunatic from the cold, she undid the tape of her knickers and shrugged the garment off. The creamy cotton puddled at her feet, clammy wet. She shivered, and kept her chemise on, its shorter hem only damp.
Pulling Mackenzie's jacket close, its length hiding her torso and upper legs, she drew a breath. The thick, scratchy wool smelled of spice, fresh air, and of him.
He turned, and his gaze taking her in slowly, head to foot and back again, his hazel-green eyes intent. Facing him, she knew her breasts were scarcely hidden by the thin cotton shift. She felt her face heat in a blush.
One thing to imagine him loving her, she thought, suddenly mortified, quite another to stand before him nearly unclothed. What was she doing? But she felt compelled. Her heart pounded as she met his gaze.
Then she stooped to gather her dropped garments. The chemise and jacket left most of her long thighs and her knees bare. "I need to make sure my things will dry," she mumbled, and turned to spread the fabrics closer to the fire.
Evan snatched the plaid from the floor and tossed it over her. She clutched the wool around her and covered her limbs best she could, feeling embarrassed, reconsidering the mad thoughts that had gone through her mind.
Mackenzie took up his silver flask, opening it to hand it to her. "There is a little left," he said brusquely. "Here."
She nodded, sitting, tucking her legs beneath the plaid. She took a sip from the flask. The burning liquid poured down her throat, and she coughed as the wonderful fire of it spread through her, body tingling. She could not look up at him.
She was lonely, had been for a long time, watching other girls marry and have children while she cared for her father and brother and tried to forget her future. And now she realized that she was deeply curious, and very attracted to Evan Mackenzie. There would never again be a night like this in her life.
He had tapped her loneliness with kindness and concern, with a brusqueness likely born of his own discomfiture with the situation. He roused glimmers of
Silently he drew her jacket open and worked the long row of tiny buttons running up the bodice of her dress from waist to high neck. Catriona's heart slammed; her breath quickened.
As his fingers brushed over her breasts, she silently moved his hands away, opening the buttons herself. Beneath the dress, she wore a chemise but no stays. The upper body of her chemise was dry, but the lower hems, and her petticoats and knickers, were as wet as her outer skirt.
Mackenzie glanced down, up again, then turned away quickly. Catriona wriggled free of the dress, pushing it down over her hips until it pooled, soggy and a relief to remove, and she snatched up his thick tweed jacket, slipping her arms inside the satiny inner lining of the sleeves. Too large, it felt very good.
"The rest of it," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
"But—"
"Take off whatever is wet. Please," he added, voice gruff. "For your health. Let the things dry."
Sighing, she wriggled out of her soggy petticoats and dropped them, too, standing in damp chemise and knickers.
Then her mind conjured something wild, something exciting—his gazes upon her, his hands, his lips. His warmth surrounding, a passionate, quiet fire, the heat, the love she had always craved.
He had said she was not plain, had called her Fair Catriona. No one had ever complimented her like that. His interest, however slight it truly might be, had an irresistible allure.
Suddenly she wanted this night, already dangerous, to turn wild and intimate. She was alone with this kind and beautiful man. This would never come again—this night could be wild, bright miracle, changing her plain life forever. She wanted something secret and unforgettable with him.
She might never again have a chance to know what it could be like, alone with a man, loved, treated like a woman. Her heart slammed with her daring thoughts. Drawing a breath, wondering if she had gone lunatic from the cold, she undid the tape of her knickers and shrugged the garment off. The creamy cotton puddled at her feet, clammy wet. She shivered, and kept her chemise on, its shorter hem only damp.
Pulling Mackenzie's jacket close, its length hiding her torso and upper legs, she drew a breath. The thick, scratchy wool smelled of spice, fresh air, and of him.
He turned, and his gaze taking her in slowly, head to foot and back again, his hazel-green eyes intent. Facing him, she knew her breasts were scarcely hidden by the thin cotton shift. She felt her face heat in a blush.
One thing to imagine him loving her, she thought, suddenly mortified, quite another to stand before him nearly unclothed. What was she doing? But she felt compelled. Her heart pounded as she met his gaze.
Then she stooped to gather her dropped garments. The chemise and jacket left most of her long thighs and her knees bare. "I need to make sure my things will dry," she mumbled, and turned to spread the fabrics closer to the fire.
Evan snatched the plaid from the floor and tossed it over her. She clutched the wool around her and covered her limbs best she could, feeling embarrassed, reconsidering the mad thoughts that had gone through her mind.
Mackenzie took up his silver flask, opening it to hand it to her. "There is a little left," he said brusquely. "Here."
She nodded, sitting, tucking her legs beneath the plaid. She took a sip from the flask. The burning liquid poured down her throat, and she coughed as the wonderful fire of it spread through her, body tingling. She could not look up at him.
She was lonely, had been for a long time, watching other girls marry and have children while she cared for her father and brother and tried to forget her future. And now she realized that she was deeply curious, and very attracted to Evan Mackenzie. There would never again be a night like this in her life.
He had tapped her loneliness with kindness and concern, with a brusqueness likely born of his own discomfiture with the situation. He roused glimmers of
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