Why the bloody hell had he kissed her? He was lucky he’d been able to escape outdoors before she wanted to talk about it. Barran clomped across the ground, barely noticing the freshly fallen snow or the clouds laden with more above. He’d never been a man for kisses—at least not those other than required by the height of passion. His interest in a woman lay in places other than her lips—well, unless those lips were . . . His mind filled with a sudden image of Emma on her knees, of those rosy lips parting of their own accord.

So why had he kissed her? And why had he enjoyed it so much? It hadn’t been much of a kiss, barely a brushing of lips. It should have meant nothing. His hand rose and brushed his mouth, remembering the softness of her lips, the lushness. God, what was happening to him?

He’d kissed her for the briefest of moments and he was filled with the desire to do it again. He stopped moving, letting the cold seep into his body, his entire body. Do it again. Do it again and more. Those lips, those plump lips.

He shook his head, knowing the futility of such a fantasy. Although if she were his wife . . .

Wife.

Was he really considering such a thing? Did he have a choice?

He’d spoken in the heat of the moment yesterday, but even then he’d understood what he was saying, what he was promising—and why he was promising it. He might not have created this situation, but that didn’t mean he could leave Emma to face it alone.

And of course, there was Mounthaven. If the earl wished them wed, he would not be able to demur.

He owed the earl more than he could ever repay—another thing he had his mother to thank for. If only she’d been willing to help him before death and inheritance law had left her no choice in the matter.

Shaking his head at the thought, he walked back to the road and stared down it. The fresh snow was smooth and clear. Not that he’d expected anything different. He doubted that travelers came this way more than once a month and it likely wasn’t even that often at this time of year. If Robbie had not stocked the cabin there’d likely have been nothing in it but dust and dead spiders.

He turned west, looking at the rising hills. It was two days until his sister’s wedding and it seemed increasingly impossible that he’d be there in time to stop it. A knot formed deep in his guts. Catriona and Robbie.

He’d trust the man with anything—except his sister.

But it seemed this was another place he might have no choice.

On his own, he might make it in time. Although as he examined the snow-laden sky for the first time, even that was doubtful. One thing he was not was a fool and only a fool would travel these hills in a heavy snow—a fool or a desperate man. And he had been desperate.

But . . .

He turned and stared back at the cottage.

Weddings.

Lady Emma.

Could a man’s whole world change in less than a day? Hell, any man who had survived Waterloo knew the answer to that, probably any man who’d ever been to war at all. It didn’t take a day. It took only the barest of instants.

Instants, that instant when he’d seen despair on Emma’s face and then watched her put it away, watched her try to face the world with no sign of how she’d felt inside. Or how she’d walked on that injured ankle with almost no complaint. He’d known soldiers who whined for hours if they got a blister. And the way she’d nestled into his arms, the trust he’d felt as her body relaxed against his.

He stomped his feet, trying to warm them. He had better things to do than stand there like a fool, dreaming about a woman he wasn’t quite sure he even liked, a woman he was going to marry.

He stomped his feet again, harder.

Well, he’d best get some more wood for the fire, even if he had to chop it himself. Maybe he’d even cut Emma a bit of greenery if any could be found. It was almost Christmas.

And, truth be told, the more work the better. His body could use some heavy exertion to keep his thoughts from just how sweet Emma had felt pressed against his cock when he’d awoken. Blast. He hadn’t been going to think about that, or about how good it had felt to hold her as he slipped off to sleep, or about the funny little sounds she made as she slept, or about how he’d felt when he’d seen that first morning smile, or about . . .

Damn. It really was time to chop that wood.

* * *

Emma stood in the middle of the cabin not knowing what to do. It was not a sensation that she found comfortable. Her ankle throbbed, but today the pain was bearable. The boredom was not. She’d always kept herself busy. There had always been menus to be planned, gowns to be selected. And books. When all else failed there had always been a selection of novels available. Now the only book she had was the Bible in her reticule. She’d left London with a couple of the newest novels packed in her portmanteau, but they now resided with her missing maid. Could the girl even read?

Now that was a spiteful thought and unworthy of the woman she wanted to be. She was just so darn frustrated. She couldn’t even get out of her gown on her own. Barran had left without looking for the tea and she was desperate for a cup. Lifting the pitcher of water, she filled the tin. The water was cool, as was the room. She took a sip. It wet her dry throat but did not dissuade her desire for tea.

Would anything hot do?

Could she manage to heat some water over the fire?

And if she could heat water could she make tea?

There was no reason she couldn’t and it was time that she learned. It was most unlikely that a maid was going to suddenly appear and offer some to her. If she wanted tea, she would make it. There was no reason to wait for Barran.

She glanced about the cottage. All she had to do was find it.

Barran had said there was probably some about. It should not be hard to find—and then it should not be hard to make. And what was tea but hot water and dried leaves? There wouldn’t be milk, but that shouldn’t be an obstacle to her plans.

Glancing at the hearth, she pursed her lips. Now that might be a problem. Only the smallest of coals still glowed, assuming that was not merely the light of the sun sneaking in through the shutters. She’d never lit a fire—and certainly not a wood one. The rooms in her father’s London home had always been warmed by coal. The maids normally took care of such matters before she even stirred in her bed, but surely she’d seen it done at some point, hadn’t she?

And what of tinder and flint? Barran must have had some last night. She’d heard it when he lit the candle, but she didn’t see it about. She walked over to the hearth, glancing about.

Nothing.

She checked the table. No.

He hadn’t left any clothing about, wearing it all back out into the cold, so he must have it in a pocket.

Moving to some rough cabinets she found the bag of supplies. Dried bread or biscuits of some kind. A very large hunk of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. A half dozen apples. A dark sausage. A couple of small packages wrapped in waxed cloth. And several bottles. The first appeared to be wine. She pulled the cork of the next. Whiskey. And the next. More whiskey. Exactly how much did the mysterious provisioner think that they could drink?

Ah, there was a packet of tea. She sniffed the leaves. Hearty and strong.

And she could boil water in that kettle sitting there to the side of the hearth.

Yes, there was a hook set into the hearth.

Now, if only she could figure out the fire. It couldn’t be that difficult. Although, given that she hadn’t figured out how to untie the back of her traveling dress in two days, difficult was taking on a whole new meaning. Perhaps if she hadn’t yanked the laces so hard the first night, it might have been easier. Now, she was sure, they were so knotted that it would take a saw to ever free her again.

She pulled briefly at the fabric beneath her arm, trying to shift it so that it would stop rubbing, and then turned her attention back to the hearth. Hmmm. There was some wood, not much, but surely enough to last until Barran returned and wouldn’t he be pleased to be greeted with a warm drink.

Bending over, she lifted a log and placed it over the glowing coals—and waited.

And waited.

Not even an added puff of smoke.

Did the maids sometimes use smaller sticks? She seemed to remember something of that. And yes, there were twigs in that bucket. She picked some up and added them to the logs.

There was a puff of smoke as an edge of bark sizzled to life—and then burned out.

Nothing more.

Sitting back on her heels, she allowed herself to feel more defeated than she had since her cousin first told her she would have to leave the only home she had ever known.

She gave herself approximately two minutes of self-pity and then pulled in a deep breath. People lit fires every day. It should not be that difficult. There must be a way.

What did she know about fire? Well, not much but . . . The whiskey. She would use the whiskey. Surely that would start a fire. She’d seen enough Christmas puddings lit with strong spirits.

Christmas. It was Christmas Eve—and she was stuck here. Alone. Well, alone except for Barran, but he hadn’t given any indication he even knew it was nearly Christmas. A moment of depression took her, but she shoved it aside.

Grabbing one of the heavy bottles, she returned to the hearth and knelt, leaning forward to douse the wood with potent alcohol. Gads, it stank; the stench left her nose burning. And she wasn’t sure she’d done anything more than drown the remaining embers—and splashed herself as well, coated the stones of the hearth, and made the whole room smell like the inside of a taproom.

And then the first blue flicker appeared.

Had she really seen that?

Yes, there, just at the base of the twigs, where the embers had burned the hottest.

A flame, a true flame.

She smiled—and then gasped as the whole hearth filled in a wave of blue flame, a single hot sheet of fire.

And then the stones. Flames raced toward her.

She fell back, but it was too late, the splashes on her dress seemed to catch from the air itself.

A cry left her lungs. Not yet pain, or even really fright—alarm at the speed with which it was happening.

Another cry—and this time there was fear. A few spots of her skirt had caught and she could feel the heat against her skin.

She grabbed her bodice trying to rip it down. Those blasted laces held firm,

Ripping frantically, she tried to find some bit of reason, some thought of what to do.

The skirt. It was only the skirt. She twisted, trying to figure if there was a way to smother the flames, just as a cold, cold bucket of water poured down on her.

“Leave you alone for a blasted moment and you try to burn down the place. What are you, an idiot? Or are you drunk? That better not be my best whiskey that I smell. And how can you be drunk within half an hour of my leaving—but who but a sot would set herself on fire?”

The words echoed about her but, after the first, she paid them no heed.

“Foolish, foolish woman. Idiot . . .” Barran’s words continued as he grabbed hold of her skirts and began to examine them for any remaining danger.

There was none. In fact, only a few brown-edged holes indicated that anything had happened. Well, that and the fact that she was as soaked as if she’d jumped in an ice-covered stream fully clothed. “I could have managed on my own. You didn’t need to throw a whole bucket over me.”

“Didna I?” His soft brogue only made the matter worse and left her feeling even more the idiot.

She huffed but didn’t answer, rising to shake out her skirts. Her ankle wobbled and against her will she fell in his direction.

He grabbed her easily, acting as if she weighed no more than a blowing leaf. He’d acted that way yesterday, too, carrying her with as much ease as if she’d been a babe. Surely he couldn’t be that strong? Instantly, she was aware of the hard muscle beneath her hand, of the warmth of his chest, of the strong beat of his heart. He’d worked up a sweat before returning to the cabin. Her gaze focused on the steady pulse beating strong in his neck. Her tongue itched to reach out, to taste, to feel.

“You’re chilled through.” He exclaimed suddenly. “I know the water was cold, but . . .”

He sounded so concerned that it was impossible for her to hold on to her ill feelings—and then there were those tingles starting up again. “I’ve been cold since I awoke. It’s why I started—or was trying to start—the fire.” She glanced at the wet hearth. A few patches still glowed, but mostly it was a wet mess. “Well, that and the desire for tea. You did mention it and I’ve never before started my day without.”

He looked down at her, his arms still wrapped tight about. “You’ve never missed your tea?”

Stung by that note of disbelief, she answered, “And have you?”

A harsh chuckle resounded in his chest. “More times than you can count. And that’s not including my years in the army when I was lucky if there was water worth drinking at any time of day. Tea was only a pleasant memory.”

The thought was almost more than she could encompass. Life without tea. Oh, she knew it was trivial, knew that people went without far greater things than tea. She’d lived in London for most of her life. It would have been impossible not to see exactly how desperate some people’s lives were. For a moment she let her head lean against him, avoiding his eyes. It felt so wrong to feel so deprived of something as simple as a cup of tea, but that simple cup of tea could mean so much. It told her that there was at least one thing that was as it should be in her world, one thing that had not changed. It told her that there was hope. She shivered at the intensity of the feeling.

“We must get you out of that wet dress,” Barran said, his voice echoing in the ear still pressed against his chest.

Get out of the dress, she could think of few things more wonderful. It itched and rubbed and she swore if she never wore a corset again she’d sing to the angels. The current styles might be far more comfortable than those of a few decades before, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be worn without removal for over two days—if she hadn’t been so tired she probably wouldn’t have slept at all. And she was cold, more than cold. The only time she’d felt anything close to warmth in the last days had been when she’d awoken with Barran’s limbs tangled about her own, but that feeling had left as soon as he tromped out of the cabin.

“Well . . . ?”

“Well what?” she answered.

“Are you going to take it off? Should I turn my back? If you wrap yourself in your cloak you’ll be well enough covered and a good deal warmer than in that dress.”

“Perhaps I should just put the cloak on? That would warm me. And perhaps you could get the fire going?” She glanced at the damp mess.

“I’ll certainly get the fire going, but that won’t help enough if you stay in that wet dress. Take it off.” There was an unmistakable tone of command in his voice.

She kept her head lowered and spoke quietly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I need a maid, and even with one, I doubt she could manage the laces. I seem to have knotted them or tightened them or something. They don’t seem to want to pull at all.”

A deep sigh. “You can’t get out of your dress.”

“It’s designed for help, most dresses are.”

* * *

Emma couldn’t get out of her dress. Barran didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity. He’d rushed in here and seen her burning and . . . He didn’t even want to think about what he’d felt. He knew he’d reacted harshly, but she could have injured herself badly or even died. He swallowed, lumps in his throat. And now she was upset because she couldn’t get out of her dress—and yes, it was probably true that most women needed help. He’d certainly unlaced—and relaced—enough corsets and gowns in his time to know the truth of that, but he’d never known a woman to be actually stuck in her gown.

Emma’s dark curls tickled his chin. He wished he could see her face. He sensed that her feelings of despair and need were genuine and far stronger than either a need for tea or knotted laces should call for. There was more to the woman than he had first imagined. Was it simply the difficulty of being stranded? Did she feel worried, endangered? Was she frightened—of him? She had cowered when he’d first yelled. And what had caused those extreme emotions he’d seen flicker across her face last evening? He hated the thought that she might find him frightening or dislike being stranded with him. “Turn about and let me see those laces. And then if you’re good, I’ll set the fire and make your tea.”

“You’ll do that anyway,” she grumbled but turned her back to him.

“Probably,” he admitted. He pulled at one of the laces. “What did you do, glue these together?”

“It was probably easier before they were wet.”

That might be true, but he’d the feeling they’d still been felted together. He pulled again. There was not even the slightest bit of give. “They’ll have to be cut.”

Another grumble. “That I could do on my own.”

“Could you?”

She tensed beneath his touch and did not answer, her shoulder drawing tight.

“Be still a moment.” He pulled his knife from its place at his belt and brought the tip to just beside the knot. A single flick and the first lace cut but still did not slide free. He leaned forward and examined the problem. Not only were the laces felted, but the eyelet holes had also shrunk tightly about them.

She started to pull away, but he held her still, aware of just how fragile she felt beneath his hands. And despite everything, the scent of lilacs still clung about her—admittedly mixed with char and whiskey. But he’d never minded the smell of a good whiskey. “I am going to have to cut more. The whole mass is tangled.”

She trembled slightly but did not pull away. He reached up and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, rubbing briefly.

He placed the knife above the second lace and a sudden wave of lust swept through him. He’d been so worried before that he hadn’t quite taken her in. He’d felt the terror of seeing the flames flickering on her dress and then the need to comfort her, but now he realized how warm her skin was despite the damp chill, he realized how the wet dress clung to her, he felt her quiver with more than cold beneath his touch. And then the sight of the sharp knife against the fragile back, the pale skin of her neck. He’d never even thought of a knife in a sexual matter, certainly had no desire to cut her or mark her, but still he could not deny the hot and heavy throb of his cock as he looked at the hard metal against her white skin. There was such trust in her as the cold steel touched her. She did not pull away in the slightest. Quickly, he cut the remaining laces and, as her gown suddenly fell loose, stepped away. He started to reach for her, wanting to soothe the marks the dress had left, but then pulled his hand back.

What was he doing? “I’ll start that fire. I’ll need more wood and to refill the bucket.”

Her eyes darted to the small stack of remaining wood. He might not have brought more in earlier, but there was certainly enough to start the fire before they’d need more. Without a word, he hurried from the cabin.