Kissing the Countess Read Free

glass of whisky only made him more aware of the chill invading his feet and hands, and the hunger twisting in his belly. He could not blame Arthur for giving up adventure for a hot toddy and warm toes by the fire.
    Evan liked a little danger now and then. But the afternoon's challenge had a little more sting in it than he had expected.
    Looking around, he felt the isolation keenly. He clung to the shoulder of the ancient stone mountain like Jack on the sleeping giant. There was no quick or safe way down or up from here.
    He had returned to settle some estate matters and to try himself against the mountain that he remembered so well from boyhood. Having scrambled in the Alps and climbed in various parts of Scotland, he had found nothing to compare to climbing the Torridon Mountains of northwest Scotland. Of lesser height than towering Alpine peaks, lacking that pristine fantasy beauty, the Highland slopes had a dark, ancient, powerful majesty that humbled the climber. The raw, primeval strength of these hills seemed to have erupted from the heart of the earth itself.
    Blowing on his cold, bare fingers, for he preferred to climb without gloves, he stared into the vat of milky fog around him. Groping, he found another hold, pulled up. He had the security of a rope around his waist, its upper end knotted to an iron claw hooked over a rock above him. Easier to go up, he knew, than down just now. At least he could see a little ahead, while the visibility below was obliterated. Once he found a safe perch, he would rest and wait for the mist to clear, then climb down.
    Grim, determined, he ascended by increments. This section was difficult with or without mist and slippery surfaces. The lower climb had been a steep but simple hike. Had he known that sleety rain, deep fog, and cold temperatures would sweep in so quickly, he would not have come up so high, scaling the rock wall that led toward the split upper peaks of the rocky mountain.
    He tugged on the rope, feeling the secure pull of the iron claw above him, and inched upward. He plunged his fingers into snow, found a new grip. Focusing on the next hold, the next upward surge, he moved.
    The sleet came fast now, pattering the rock, making each hold slick. He could see the mountain top now, towering above. Far to the left, he glimpsed rugged snowy slopes. He had climbed higher than he had realized in the mist.
    The wind shoved at him, knocking him against stone. He lost his hold and slid downward, but the rope held. Finding niches for hands and feet, he moved upward again.
    Reaching the wedged claw, he yanked it out and tossed it higher, where it snagged on a shelf. He tested it, moved upward, then felt the claw slip. He grabbed. The ice was honeycombed here, rotten with rain.
    His support collapsed, the claw sprang free, and he slid violently downward. The rock had just enough incline that he was able to grab rock, tufts of grass, and somehow stay with the incline as his body made a rough and undulating path in the snow like the tracks of a sled.
    Bumping, bouncing, he descended helplessly, unable to stop his downward hurtle. Soon he expected to careen wildly out into the misty air and plummet straight down.
    When the instant came and he sailed, he felt panic—then a strange peacefulness as he surrendered to the fall.
    Then he slammed hard against a ledge and sank into its support and into darkness.
    * * *
    "You've a long walk down to Glen Shee, Catriona. You may not reach home before the storm hits," Morag MacLeod said, gathering her plaid shawl over her rounded shoulders and gray hair against the cold drizzle. Standing on the hillside, she peered at the misted glen below. "Sstay the night in our little house and wait out the weather. My husband and I like your company, too."
    "Thank you, Morag, but a little rain will do me no harm." Catriona drew her own plaid higher over her head. "My father and brother are waiting supper for me. I'd best hurry."
    "Let your aunt, that old witch,