The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(10)

“Thank you, but—stop me if I’m wrong—you’d have done that anyway for yourself. So if you’re thinking I owe you anything, I don’t.”

He let out a full-throated laugh. “You misunderstand me, my lady.”

“Really? Like a little ‘my lady’ will make it all better. You Brits think we all get stupid over an accent—”

His eyes blazed. “Madam, I am a Scot.”

“Well, Scotty, last I looked, Scotland was part of the U.K.”

His face went ashen. “The what?”

“The United Kingdom. Hey, are you okay?” Other than being unhinged…

He looked away and suppressed whatever shock he felt. “Oh, aye. I am well.” He returned his focus to her. “But you’re shivering. Come here, lass.” He opened his arms and beckoned her to him.

Mac eyed him. His expression was open and honest. She found herself trusting him for no reason other than her gut feeling. Despite his sturdy physique, he was gentle. It was in his eyes. They were large and deeply set, looking at the world with guileless kindness and sympathy—perhaps even sadness. Once more, her gaze fell to his mouth. Her eyes darted away as she tried to think clearly. He stretched out his hand.

She had doubts, but she placed her hand in his and let him draw her closer. Despite her pounding heart, she assured him, “I’m just in it for the warmth. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Dinnae fash yourself over me.”

Mac’s face wrinkled. “I give up. What does fash mean?”

Suppressing a grin, he said, “Dinnae trouble yourself, my lady.”

“My lady”? Damn, he had charm. The sort of charm serial killers must have to lure their victims into the dark and stormy woods. She glanced at him, and his admiring look made her feel stupid, a fact she did her best to conceal. Her best wasn’t good enough. She exhaled a little too loudly.

“Why do you sigh, lass?” They’d drawn close—for the warmth—so he needed only to tilt his head down to peer at her.

His warm breath brushed her cheek, and she shivered. “I, uh, oh, I’m just sighing from the cold. Whew! It’s cold!” She made a great show of rubbing her arms.

Outside, thick flakes drifted noiselessly down. A person could die out there without anyone knowing. Their body might not be found until the spring thaw. His arm tightened around her, and he pulled her against his broad shoulders and chest. The man was a furnace.

“How is it you’re not freezing your… whatever off in that kilt? Sorry, plaid. From what I hear—never mind.” She had heard that they wore nothing underneath.

“Might I ask you a question?” he said.

She looked up with a start.

“To distract us, you ken, from the cold.” His mouth spread into a boyish grin that lit his face.

If he was a creep, he wasn’t a very good one. She hadn’t felt such ease with a man since… well, ever. For all of the dates her sister had arranged for her, none had looked at her and seen her—or made her feel—the way he did. He was—something she couldn’t even think.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

Her posture stiffened as she shrugged.

“You were shaking your head.”

She averted her eyes. “I’m shaking. It’s freezing.”

“Och, ’tis not so bad.” He grinned. “We’re inside.”

“I suppose you could call it that,” she said, looking at the stones.

“Aye, and we’ve a fire to warm us.”

As he repositioned his arms, Mac gave in and leaned into his embrace. She was cold—cold enough to reconsider her options. “Look—” She lifted her chin and peered at him. “What’s your name?”

“Ciaran.”

“I’m—”

“Mac,” he said.

Slowly, she nodded. “But most people call me—”

“Mac.”

She flashed him a suspicious look. “Yeah.”

His eyes sharpened as he looked outside. “When I pulled you from your carriage—your car—a bag fell out.”

“Oh, my purse.”

His face relaxed.

“Where is it?” she asked.

He pulled it from the shadows and handed it to her.

She rummaged through the leather bag and pulled out her phone. “There’s horrible coverage around here, but we could get lucky.” She pressed the screen a few times and held it to her ear. She looked out at the falling snow, waiting. She tried texting. “Nothing. Why would I get lucky tonight?” Mac turned to assess her companion. “I live down the road. I think we could hike through this snow in an hour.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that I’m freezing my butt off. In an hour, we could be inside by a fire with some blankets and whisky to warm us.”

He eyed her three-inch heels. “You’ll not get far in those.”

She gave him a frank look. “I’m motivated.”

“Hand me your slippers.”

Mac’s brow creased. “Why?”

Without a word, he held out his hand. She slipped them off and handed them to him. He hit them against the rocks and pried the heels off with his dirk. He ripped two strips from his plaid and tied her shoes onto her feet, crisscrossing the plaid about her calf and tying off the ends. Ciaran doused the fire and offered his hand to Mac. Then off they went.