Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball

Chapter Twenty

It was the earthy scent, like the smell of fresh-cut wood, that brought Kate to some state of consciousness. Her cheek was deliciously warm, yet it was not pressed against a pillow but something decidedly firmer. Callum? She relished his closeness, his scent, his heat, and began to drift back toward sleep when her entire body began to shake. Callum. His hand was on her shoulder, and there was nothing gentle about his touch.

“Not now!” She meant to shout, but it sounded more like the mewling of a kitten. Why wouldn’t he let her sleep?

“Stay awake, mo leannan,” came a low murmur by her ear. Perhaps she was still sleeping, because she could not make sense of his words. “Do ye hear me?” Now his tone was sharp, as biting as the cold. “Stay awake!”

Thatshe understood. If only complying were so easy. But she was so cold, and pain pulsed through her limbs if she tried to move. It was easier to close her eyes . . .

The muffled sound of voices drew Kate toward the surface of wakefulness once more, but the weight pressing down on her was so great she couldn’t quite manage it. Everything hurt. Her feet and her hands ached. All her muscles were tense and sore from being clenched against the cold.

She rode a wave of heat, and then cold descended, making her shiver uncontrollably. Behind her closed eyelids a fire danced, the steady flicker of flames carrying her away to unconsciousness once more.

She awoke with a start, Callum’s rough hands on her. A thousand needles pricked at her fingers and toes, and she cried out in pain.

“Shhh, shhh,” he soothed. “The pain is good, Katie. It means ye still have feeling.”

It was dark in the room, save for the firelight. Callum bent over her, his face a study in worry. His large hands encompassed hers, kneading and massaging without pause.

Kate blinked and stared at the ceiling, trying to orient herself. The blue curtains—she was in her own room. Panic grabbed her by the throat. “Where is Charlotte?” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper.

A brief smile lit his face. “Asleep in the nursery.”

The door pushed open, and Kate tried to turn her head to see, but she felt so leaden that movement was almost impossible. Harriet’s face appeared over Kate, her features as stern as ever. “I’ve brought you some tea,” she said gruffly. “And some broth.” She set a tray on the bedside table.

Was she dreaming still? “Harriet?” Kate rasped, an acute sense of relief washing over her. Somehow, with Harriet nearby, everything would be all right. Kate tried to lift her head. “And Archie too?”

Harriet smoothed back Kate’s hair. “No need to make such a fuss. You knew we were a few weeks behind you, and here we are.”

Harriet took one of Kate’s hands in hers, and the familiarity of the woman’s touch felt like a refuge. “Oh, but it seemed much longer than that,” Kate said, her throat swollen with tears.

“I told you we’d not leave you to the wilds of Scotland on your own, and I meant it. And not a moment too late. Those heathen winds very nearly knocked our carriage over today as we arrived.” She squeezed Kate’s hand. “But Charlotte is being well cared for, I promise you that.”

Harriet wouldn’t lie to her; it must be true. “Thank you,” Kate choked out.

“Now, you must eat something,” Harriet said sternly, her brows pinched together.

Callum placed his hand behind Kate’s back to help her sit up, and she discovered she was no longer in her dress but a thick nightgown she didn’t recognize. Surely Callum hadn’t—no, it didn’t bear thinking of. Harriet helped her drink, and the tea warmed her throat and lent strength to her limbs. Her heaviness melted away, in its place pure exhaustion. She lay back on the pillow, almost panting.

“She needs whisky,” Callum said.

Harriet clicked disapprovingly as Kate said, “No! No whisky.” Even in her state of stupor, she remembered what happened the last time she’d had whisky with Callum. And in this very room.

“Very well,” Callum agreed. “Thank ye, Harriet. I’ll feed her the broth.”

“Hmph,” Harriet said, though she handed over the bowl and spoon. She looked pointedly at Callum. “She needs rest more than anything, so she’d better be sleeping by the time I return with a fresh warming brick.”

Callum nodded once. “Aye, she will be.”

Harriet closed the door behind her, and in the near-darkness Kate suddenly felt right down to her still-prickling toes how very alone she and Callum were.

Callum adjusted the pillows to support her better and then scooted his chair forward so close his knees were touching the bed. From the table he took the bowl of steaming broth, lifting a spoonful toward her mouth.

Kate had vague and awkward memories of Callum pulling off her stockings, his firm hands on her legs and feet. She stared down at his offering. “I can feed myself.”

“Go ahead if ye’d like to try.” He kept hold of the bowl but offered her the spoon.

She took the spoon, but her hand trembled so fiercely the broth spilled down her wrist onto her nightgown. Heat rushed to her cheeks, as severe as the earlier cold.

“Ye need to eat to regain your strength,” Callum told her. “Let me help ye.” She expected smugness in the reply but was met instead with an earnest offer. His gray eyes shone with something akin to humility. Or perhaps that was the haziness that continued to hover in her brain.

He took the spoon from her and filled it with broth, then brought it to her mouth. The broth was warm and flavorful as it coursed down her throat and warmed her from the inside out. She took another eager spoonful and another.

When she’d finished, Callum set the bowl on the table beside her bed, though he didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving. Kate wished he would, as her eyelids were so heavy it took all her strength to keep them open.

Callum scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Why did ye run off with nary a word to anyone about where ye were going?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his movements tense and edgy. “I realize, given my history, I’ve no right to ask such a question. But I . . . when I couldn’t find you . . .” He interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the counterpane.

Kate stared at his hands, the fingertips calloused, the backs of them flecked with what looked like gray paint. More like Archie’s hands than that of a highborn gentleman. But they looked strong, capable of holding on to the things that mattered to him.

She glanced toward the fire crackling in the grate on the opposite wall. “I turned back once I realized the danger of the storm. But Willow had thrown a shoe, and when it began to snow nothing looked familiar.” She bit her lip, remembering her growing sense of panic. “The snow was so blinding I could hardly see, and I’d lost my hat.” She finally met Callum’s gaze. “I feared if I kept going it would be in the wrong direction.”

Callum swallowed, nodded. “Aye, but ye’ve not told me why ye left in the first place.” His gaze was unyielding, relentless. He’d sit here all night and wait for her answer.

“I—” There was no easy answer. How could she explain without letting him see how he’d torn her apart? Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, and her throat sealed shut.

“May I venture a guess?” His gray eyes darkened. “That night I kissed ye . . .”

Kate looked away, the humiliation of it still fresh in her mind.

“I think ye misunderstood what I said, what I did.”

Her gaze swiveled back. “It was not that,” she protested.

He saw right through her lie. “Did ye think I wanted to stop kissing ye? By the heavens, woman, if the Prince Regent had any idea of the excruciating self-control it took for me to break off our kiss, I’d have been appointed to the Order of the Thistle.”

With the way he was looking at her, Kate was suddenly very aware of her disheveled hair. She cast about for something to say, anything to detract from the fierce blush rising on her cheeks. “What is that? The Order of the . . . Thistle?”

“It’s the greatest order of chivalry in Scotland, created by King James VII in—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, it doesnae matter. The point is I stopped myself not because I didnae want ye but because of how badly I did. Ye deserve better.” Grief cut through his words, his voice husky. “The man who kisses ye should be someone ye trust. Someone ye love. Someone who keeps your rules because he respects ye. Someone who lives up to the vows he made to you on your wedding day.”

Kate’s retort died in her throat, her pulse pounding there. Four years ago he’d left and hollowed out her heart, but these words . . . his sincerity—they seemed capable of filling up the cavern of emptiness that had inhabited her chest for so long. And that possibility both frightened her and made it impossible to speak.

The fire crackled, and a log collapsed, sending a shower of sparks upward. The light of the flames played on Callum’s face, emphasizing the stubble on his jaw, but he didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink. “I am not yet that man, but I aim to be.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll not touch ye again. I’ll not flirt. I’ll not try to get ye alone. And, much as I might want to, I’ll not kiss ye.”

Why did she feel a hint of disappointment when she ought to feel nothing but relief?

Callum abandoned his chair and dropped to his knees at her bedside. He reached out to take her hands but then pulled back, as if remembering the vow he’d just made. “Do ye know why, Katie?”

Kate shook her head and blinked, trying desperately to hold back the tears forming on her lashes. A strange buzz of warmth spread through her limbs, almost as if she had taken a sip of whisky. She gripped the sheets covering her chest, aching for the answer and yet fearing it.

Callum’s gray eyes shone silver with emotion. “Because, saints help me, I’m falling in love with ye.” He heaved out a breath, as though it pained him to say it. “I’ve seen what love can do. My father uses it to twist and manipulate, to slowly choke out the life of those he claims to love. Yet, even knowing what I do, I cannae hold it at bay.” His chest rose and fell, and if Kate had had the strength, she might have reached out and touched him.

“Ye are afraid of loving me, and it’s no wonder, given what I did tae ye. After the most intimate of acts, I turned my back on ye and made a mockery of our vows.” He bowed his head. “For four years—four and a half years—I put asunder what God had put together.” He lifted his head, his face aglow with firelight. “But lay not one more day at my charge. I am ready, here and now, to make things right between us. For now. Forever”—he let out another breath—“if ye can somehow find it in ye to put away the past and forgive me.”

The look on his face was so intent, so resolved, Kate couldn’t look away. His words were earnest, manifest in ways she could have painted if she’d had a brush in her hand—the set of his jaw, the lines about his mouth, the knitting of his brows. And his eyes. Gray-lit windows that gave her a glimpse into his very soul. And that glimpse said that every one of his words was heartfelt.

Callum pulled back, his features lined with exhaustion. “I should not have kept ye awake, but selfishly, I could not wait another day to make my feelings clear.” He got to his feet and gave her a pained smile, one that pulled at her heart and made her throat tighten. “Harriet will spend the night with ye. And I will sleep in the nursery to make sure Charlotte isn’t frightened if she wakes.”

Within a few seconds he was gone, his absence a tangible thing. It stole the warmth of the fire, and the stinging agony of before returned, only this time it was not in her hands and her feet but in her heart.