Kissing the Countess Read Online Free PDF Page A

twenties perhaps. Tall and long-limbed beneath a moss-green, her body was curved and lovely, full and yet slender. Despite his weariness, he felt his body contract lustily as he saw her womanly shape. He glanced away, looked around.
    The shelter was a small, crude stone house in sad repair. The cold leaked inside, and part of the roof had collapsed into a corner. The place looked otherworldly, enchanted, the girl stirring a magic cauldron, her soft chanting song rising with the steam from the kettle.
    Dimly he recalled his fall while climbing. He frowned, tested his memory—Evan Mackenzie, lately of the Lowlands, born in the Highlands. Viscount Glendevon, recently Earl of Kildonan. Engineer. His father was dead seven months.
    His brain was intact, at least. Good. Now if he could only summon strength to speak, to move.
    The girl turned toward him, her face a pretty oval, features delicate, her head surrounded by that glorious bright hair. Her eyes were large and grayish blue, her skin translucent and finely scattered with freckles. She had a fresh, simple beauty, an honest face, gentle hands and a lovely voice. He hoped she wold sing again—the sound was soothing. Healing.
    She said nothing, glancing at him keenly, smiling a little, turning to stir the kettle again. The calmness about her seemed to affect him, too, for he felt steady and relaxed, strangely so, given these rather odd circumstances.
    He lifted a hand to his head and felt a cloth bandage over a tender spot. He ached head to foot, but he lay in a warm nest made of a plaid blanket wrapped around him.
    The girl smiled at him again, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her smile was bright, impish, quick. She had the strong-boned handsomeness common in the Highlands, and her hair was extraordinary, a beautiful, soft, curling fall.
    She spoke then in Gaelic, and he looked at her without reply. "You are awake," she said then in English. "Good."
    He stared, foggy with weariness. He had fallen, he knew, had slammed against a rock, hit his head. Somehow he had crawled to a hill and had begun to walk downward.
    But he did not know how he came to be here, with her.
    She tilted her head. "Parlez-vous francais?" she asked. "Capiscol italiano, abbastanza bene.... Sprechen-Sie Deutsch?"
    Now here was a surprise. The Highland angel was multilingual. He blinked, bemused.
    "That is more than my poor brainpan can handle just now, lass," he murmured. "English will do. I believe I fell... quite a distance?"
    "Ah! Aye. You are an English holiday climber?" She spoke the lilting, precise English typical of a Gael who had acquired the second language in school.
    "A climber. A Scotsman."
    "You sound English."
    "Eton College."
    She nodded understanding, then blew on the spoon to cool its steaming contents before leaning forward to offer him a taste.
    He swallowed, closing his eyes with pleasure at discovering a hot, good brose. The healthy dash of whisky mixed with a thick broth of water and oats slid down his throat like welcome, sustaining fire.
    She turned away again. He saw then that the dim little room was a dank ruin. He smelled stone, earth, sweet musty peat, and the clean, cold snap of wind and snow. Icicles hung from a tear in the roof, and he could see a magical night sky swirling with snowflakes that drifted inside.
    The little hearth fire gave off some heat nearby, but the hut was cold as an icebox.
    The girl shivered. He noticed mittens, a green skirt plump with petticoats, a jacket, but no outer coat, cape or plaid.
    He, on the other hand, felt snug inside the plaid. Looking down, he realized that he was wrapped in her shawl, a tartan of soft color on a creamy background, the sort a woman would wear. Seeing her shiver and sniffle, he felt a pang of guilt.
    "Miss—" he began.
    "MacConn," she said. "Catriona MacConn."
    "Pleased to meet you, Miss MacConn. It is... Miss?"
    "I am not married," she said, stirring the kettle again.
    His spinster-angel was shivering, and he had the only