The Secret Gift by Jaclyn Reding

extending a hand in greeting.
    He was a black-and-white collie with floppy ears. When he lifted his head to give her fingers a sniff, she noticed he had one blue eye and one brown.
    She was scratching the dog behind his ears when Graeme came back into the room. He handed her a gray cable-knit sweater and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
    “What’s his name?” she asked.
    “Murphy.” He held out the clothes. “I’m afraid this is all I could find that would suffice. You’ll have to roll back the pant legs a bit.”
    Libby stood there, staring at him.
    He stood staring back.
    Finally she asked, “Bathroom?”
    “Oh. Of course. My apologies. It’s just down the corridor to the right. You can take the candle to help you find your way.”
    Libby tucked the clothes under one arm, took up the candlestick, and headed down the hall. She found the bathroom moments later, little more than a closet really, with a sink and a toilet and nothing much more. She wondered if the room had previously been a broom closet, before the addition of modern indoor plumbing.
    She closed the door behind her, looked in the mirror, and groaned. Dear God, she looked a fright. Her hair was plastered to her head like a soggy black mop, and her mascara had run where the rain had pelted her face. She looked like a sad, drowned raccoon.
    She quickly peeled off her wet clothing, giving her socks a squeeze over the sink. She washed her face and fluffed her hair dry with the hand towel she found in the cupboard, then slid his sweater over her head. As he was a great deal taller than her, it fell nearly to her knees, completely enveloping her. The wool smelled pleasantly of detergent and cedar and was soft, not at all scratchy. She pulled the sweatpants over her legs, and pulled, and pulled some more until her feet finally poked out the bottoms. Tying the drawstring waist, she rolled the cuffs over four times so she wouldn’t trip on them. Then she headed back to the den.
    She found him sitting on a sofa, staring into the fire. The lines of his face were pronounced in the firelight, his dark hair burnished a rich bronze. His eyes, she noticed, had long lashes.
    Any thought of Lurch was immediately quashed.
    He didn’t say a word as Libby carefully draped her jeans and sweater over a wooden drying stand near the hearth. She turned to face him.
    The moment she turned, Graeme was struck by the sight of her standing there wearing his clothes. Though the sweater swam on her and the sweatpants looked as if they could easily accommodate two of her, somehow she still looked incredibly, undeniably feminine.
    He blinked, and then quickly reined in his senses. “I took the liberty of pouring you a whiskey to help chase away the chill. Without any power, I’m afraid I couldn’t boil water for tea.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.”
    He frowned as she used his name, this a second time. He knew perfectly well he hadn’t revealed it to her. But what else should he expect? Of course she knew his name. Thanks to that rag of a tabloid and its bloody contest, everybody in bloody Britain knew his name.
    He watched as she took up the whiskey glass and folded her legs into the soft cushions of the opposite sofa. Her hair curled wildly around her face, making her appear vulnerable somehow. She took a small sip of the whiskey, a drink she was apparently not much accustomed to if the telltale grimace that followed was any evidence.
    “I feel at quite a disadvantage,” he said. “You seem to know my name, but I do not have any idea of yours.”
    She looked at him. “Libby Hutchinson.”
    “And judging by the accent, I’d warrant you’re from America. East Coast. New England. Not quite Boston, but close.”
    She nodded. “Impressive, although for the past several years it’s been New York I’ve called home.”
    They chatted on, and Graeme found her easy to talk to as well as being very easy to look at, sitting there in her bare feet, snuggled in his