The Highlander. Heather Grothaus

but she quickly covered her mouth, shocked at her own crudeness, and handed the jug back to its owner with no little regret.

      The highlander grinned at her. “I’d be thankful to trade a taste of the meat I smelled you cooking for the swallow of mead you’ve enjoyed, Eve.”

      Evelyn’s gaze flew to the shelf on the wall and she winced. She and Alinor could hardly afford to share what little food they possessed with a man who would soon be leaving them, but the sweetness of the mead still lingering on her tongue roused her conscience.

      “I’m not certain ’twould suit you, sir—’tis rather…dry.” She hesitated. “A bit burnt, as well.” She tried to laugh. “I’m afraid as a cook I’m no prize.”

      The man looked at her as though she was daft. “I’m hungry, lass. Would you deny me food because you doona wish me to criticize your cooking skills? Vain woman—I wouldna care a fig were it horsemeat and you served it raw.”

      Must he find a way to insult her with every breath?

      “Very well.” Evelyn let her lips curve in a small smile as she crossed the floor to the shelf. She picked up a scrawny strip at first, but then replaced it in favor of a longer chunk—thick in the middle and guaranteed to be a bit…chewy.

      She faced the highlander once more and he took the piece eagerly. “Here you are, then. Enjoy.”

      MacKerrick bit into the strip and chewed and chewed…and then looked at Eve, his mouth slack around the half-masticated wad of meat.

      “Iss hors-meet, innit?”

      Chapter Four

      Evelyn did not wish to open her eyes. She could tell by the numbness on the tip of her nose that the peat fire was exhausted and the hut was cave-cold, but in the little box bed under the woolen horse blanket and snuggled with Alinor, ’twas toasty. She felt as if she’d not gone to bed at all, was weary to her bones still, even after a night of unusually peaceful sleep. Evelyn wanted only to drift away once more, where ’twas always warm and quiet and no wolves howled. Fire be damned.

      If she opened her eyes, she would also have to deal with Conall MacKerrick once more, and she blamed her unusually large deficit of energy on the highlander’s arrogant presence.

      Evelyn had allowed him the shelter for the night, only because she could not in good conscience demand he expose himself to the threat of the grays on a night journey. Although “allowed” might have been too generous to her pride—the highlander had not asked her permission to stay in the hut, only nonchalantly made a pallet out of Alinor’s pen with pine boughs and his long length of plaid. He’d then simply lain down upon it with a mumbled, “G’night, Eve” and was asleep.

      So ’twas a choice of “Eve” sleeping out of doors or climbing into the box bed with Alinor, which Evelyn did after several moments spent staring confusedly toward the pens. At least she was not fearful of her virtue with the wolf at her side, and Alinor ensured a cozy companion to huddle with. Evelyn had fallen asleep instantly, it seemed.

      “Good girl,” Evelyn whispered and snaked a hand from beneath the blanket to tangle her fingers in the wolf’s thick ruff. She encountered bony rump instead, and smoothed her palm up Alinor’s haunch, letting her lips curve in a contented, exhausted smile.

      The smile fell from her lips when her palm moved onto rough, warm linen, radiating heat from the hard flesh beneath. Evelyn’s eyes snapped open.

      “Good morn to you, Eve,” the highlander said, his face inches from her own, Evelyn’s fingers resting on his shoulder.

      Evelyn was so shocked that she could not speak. She took quick, mental inventory of her person: belly, warm; thighs, warm; feet and legs, warm and weighted down. She was facing the highlander fully on her side and she raised her head to peer down the length of her body.

      Alinor was curled across the end of the bed, atop the woolen blanket, the highlander’s plaid, and both Evelyn’s legs.

      The traitoress.

      Her eyes flicked back to Conall MacKerrick’s. “What are you doing in my bed, sir?” she asked in a low, calm voice.

      “Gettin’ warm,” he trilled in his equally low brogue and gave her a sleepy smile.

      Those two words—their meaning deeper than his simple answer—combined with the man’s big body to cause Evelyn’s stomach to lurch uncomfortably. And so she did the first thing that came to mind.

      She slowly, languorously, gently, placed both hands on the man’s thick, muscled chest, returned his smile, and shoved.

      The highlander disappeared over the side of the bed with a strangled cry and a grunt. Alinor lifted her head to peer down onto the floor and then flopped back across Evelyn’s legs with a great sigh.

      “Why, good morn to you, as well, Conall,” came the highlander’s disembodied voice. “Did you sleep well? Oh, that’s grand! My thanks to you for keeping me warm through the night, and I do apologize for snorin’ in your ear like a bull elk. Terrible rude o’ me.”

      Evelyn rose up on one elbow to look down at the man on the cold, hard floor. “Collect your things, sir, and be gone. You’ve taken enough liberties with my person and I’ll not tolerate it a moment longer.” She started to lie back down but paused. “And I do not snore—’twas Alinor.”

      MacKerrick snorted and sat up with a groan. “I’ve a hard time believing a great black wolf could make a sound like a duck being strangled, but as you wish, Eve.”

      Evelyn frowned crossly and turned over on the thin ticking to face the wall. Already she could feel the hut’s chill creeping beneath the covers. She just wanted to go back to sleep. God help her, she had never been so tired.

      The sheep bleated from her pen and Evelyn cried out indignantly as Alinor trampled her to turn ’round and bound from the bed. Both her legs ached this morn, an unwelcome change.

      “Och, back…back, you beast!” MacKerrick chastised from somewhere over Evelyn’s shoulder. The sheep bleated again and then Evelyn heard the scrape of wood and felt a rude rush of frigid air before the hut door closed and all was blessedly still.

      She closed her eyes, only barely acknowledging once more how unusually poor she felt. She really ought to rise—’twas scandalous to lie about, drowsy as she was, while a strange man came and went as he pleased. She ought to get up and see him on his way, and that he didn’t abscond with the rest of the meat—’twas all she and Alinor had to eat. In truth, ’twas all they’d had for weeks.

      But she didn’t care at that moment. She had no energy. Her hip and leg pained her more than they had in days. She was cold and tired and wanted only to sleep…

      Conall watched the great black wolf bound off into the forest and he followed in her tracks at a more leisurely pace, tugging the sheep along on her tether. He relieved himself on the edge of the wood, letting the shaggy little sheep nose around in the dry undercanopy of a wide pine.

      Dawn had come, but Conall didn’t bother looking for the bright rays of morning sun in the east. The sky was low, thick, and the color of the gray tree trunks surrounding him. Weather coming. A slight breeze caused the branches overhead to sway, sending echoing crackles ricocheting though the wood, the sound of ice everywhere.

      Finished with his business, Conall led the sheep back toward the hut. The small enclosure to the left of the house was covered over with snow and so Conall was forced to spend the better part of an hour digging it out. He sent the sheep inside with a swat to her rear and kicked over the small, half-rotten trough to empty it of yet more white stuff. He’d have to melt water for her in a bit. For now, the animal was content to explore beneath the snow with her soft brown muzzle.

      Conall secured the pen and stood looking at the hut. No smoke came from the roof yet and Conall was mildly surprised and a little perturbed. The long, sloping room had been cold enough when he’d left Eve abed—’twould