Once Upon a Highland Christmas by Lecia Cornwall

for a walk. But the truth was that she hadn’t been able to make her feet turn, walk back to Dundrummie, knowing she must face Lord Merridew, and marry him. It had seemed so much easier to just keep moving forward, heading away from—­everything. Good heavens, she had run away. There was no other explanation for it. She lowered her eyes to the blanket, stared at the soft green wool. “I most certainly did not run away!” she said aloud. “I gave my word, and my mother is counting on me.”
    He folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother? You’ve mentioned your mother and your brother. What of your fiancé?”
    â€œHe’s English.”
    â€œLike Penelope.”
    â€œYes,” she said. Though Merridew was not young or good-­looking. Nor was there love, or even admiration, as there was between Iain and his intended. She felt a moment of envy. Lady Penelope would have Iain, and she would be the one to wake up next to him every morning. “I just went for a wee walk to get some fresh air before . . . he . . . arrived.” She couldn’t bring herself to speak his name, not in front of Iain MacGillivray, her rescuer, her hero.
    He folded his arms over his chest. “A dozen miles in a blinding snowstorm is hardly a wee walk. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
    She felt irritation chafe, heat her skin, and she pushed the covers back slightly, tried to sit up. “Is it so hard to think that I simply lost track of time, and the storm caught me unawares, made me lose my way? Is there anything wicked in that? Shall I thank you again? I truly am grateful, my lord earl.”
    â€œJust Iain,” he said again. His brow furrowed. “Is that my shirt?”
    She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Annie had given it to her as a makeshift nightgown when she’d taken Alanna’s own clothes away to be cleaned and repaired. She shifted. The homespun linen was soft against her breasts. She folded her arms over her body. “Um, yes. Annie gave it to me, just until she can return my gown. I did not mean to impose.”
    â€œNo, you look quite fetching—­I mean, you’re welcome to wear it.” He looked stricken as he backed toward the door. “I should find Annie, tell her you’re awake—­” He bumped into the chair next to the desk, caught and righted it before it fell, and found the door. He set his hand on the latch. “I’ll go then, send Annie up, tell her you’re—­” He swallowed, probably realizing he was repeating himself. She made him nervous, and that made her nervous. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she could only stare back at him.
    She watched as he opened the door and darted through it with a final nod of farewell. She lay very still and stared at the door. No man had ever made her feel the way Iain MacGillivray did, unsure in her skin, breathless, nervous. Perhaps it was circumstances, the aftereffects of the storm, and her injury, or the fact that he’d saved her life. Just that. She wished she could be certain. She sighed, settled deeper into the bed, and closed her eyes. She would think about this tomorrow, when she was not so befuddled.
    I A I N L E ANED AGAINST the wall outside the door and put the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to banish the image of Alanna McNabb wearing his shirt, in his bed, her hair spread in a wanton, sexy tumble across his pillow. And under that shirt, she was as naked as she’d been at the cottage. He forced his mind to turn, do an about-­face, away from danger. What would Penelope look like wearing his shirt? He couldn’t even imagine it. He’d had the damnedest desire to touch Alanna, to lay his hand on her forehead again, to stroke her cheek, see if it was as soft and warm as it looked, though he already knew it was. She’d lain in his arms all night, and she was soft as a rose petal