Anna Campbell

The Highlander’s Christmas Countess

The new stableboy has a secret!

Kit Laing is a genius with Glen Lyon’s horses and a favorite with his employer’s family, but he isn’t all he seems. In fact, the shy stablehand isn’t a he at all. Kit is actually Christabel Urquhart, Countess of Appin, on the run from a greedy, violent stepbrother with designs on her fortune.

And the laird’s handsome nephew has worked out just what it is.

Quentin MacNab, the dashing heir to Cannich, has had his suspicions about the new stable lad from the first. Kit is far too pretty to be a boy – and far too well spoken to be a servant.

Now passion and danger combine to create a Yuletide like no other.

When a snowstorm traps Kit and Quentin overnight in an isolated hut, the discovery of her true identity sparks a rushed marriage to stave off a scandal. But can the Christmas Countess learn to trust her charming new husband’s promises of protection? Or will their fragile alliance fall victim to the evil forces assailing her?

An international e-book release 17th November 2020

Buy ebook from Amazon U.S.; Amazon Australia; Amazon U.K.; Amazon Canada; Kobo U.S.; Kobo Australia; Smashwords; Barnes and Noble; Apple Australia; Apple U.S.

Buy paperback from : Amazon US; Amazon Australia; Amazon Canada; Amazon UK; Barnes and Noble; Book Depository; Booktopia

At last Mr. MacNab glanced about the woods. His expression told Kit that until now, he’d paid no heed to her warnings about the weather. “By Jove, you’re right. Why on earth didn’t you say something?”

She bit back a retort, then noticed the creases of amusement around his eyes. He was teasing her. Which, heaven help her, made him handsomer than ever. He was going to be a favorite with the ladies at the Christmas ball.

Through the worsening weather, they turned back the way they’d come, and Mr. MacNab took the handle of the cart, despite her attempt to retain it. Thickening snow tumbled down around them, turning the woods into a confusing white wilderness. The weather here on the west coast of Scotland could change on a sixpence.

At least the need to get back to Lyon House saved Kit from more questions, but as conditions soon became impossible, she couldn’t find too much satisfaction in the reprieve. Vision soon shortened to a few yards, then a few feet, and the temperature dropped with every minute that passed.

Kit stumbled to her knees as she rushed to keep up with Mr. MacNab. “Please lend me your hand, sir,” she panted.

He turned and set her back on her feet with capable hands. Despite their danger, a ripple of sensation ran through her at his touch. “This is hopeless. We’ll never make it back to the house.”

She stared up at him in dismay, as more snow settled on his hair and shoulders. “But what can we do? We have to find shelter.”

There used to be a woodcutter’s cottage just off the path here. Let’s leave the cart and see if we can find it.”

“We can’t see anything.”

“I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction. Will you trust me?”

“Aye, sir,” she said, to her surprise, meaning it.

“Take my hand and don’t let go.”

She curled her fingers around his. Despite the danger and two layers of leather gloves, she felt a jolt of heat at the contact. A jolt of heat and a surge of confidence.

Because she’d been watching Quentin MacNab just as closely as apparently he’d been watching her. One thing she’d noticed was that this was a young man remarkable for his competence. If anyone could get them out of this fix, he could.

Common sense told Kit that they only struggled through the snowstorm for half an hour or so, but the time stretched for what felt like forever. The wind had come up, whipping around her and making her shiver. There was no point trying to talk, even if she had the breath for it.

Mr. MacNab never released her hand. That firm clasp made her believe that they were going to make it through this icy wilderness.

Kit should be terrified out of her mind, but even as she sank up to her knees in snowdrifts and breathed air so cold it hurt her lungs, her stubborn heart told her that Mr. MacNab wouldn’t let her die.

“Oof!” She crashed into something and gave up what little breath she had.

The something was Mr. MacNab’s back. She fumbled to hold onto his thick coat and find her balance. He was shouting something, but even so close, the wind stole his words away. She followed as they stumbled forward, and it took a real effort not to cling to him like a frightened kitten.

She was half-blind with the snow and exhaustion, but soon even she couldn’t miss the dark shape that loomed out of the featureless whiteness.

Mr. MacNab released her hand to tug at the door. The small porch provided a bit of shelter, or else she feared the driving snow would have blocked the entrance.

“Damn it, open!” he muttered, and Kit was close enough to hear him this time. He must have been trying to tell her they’d reached the cottage when she ran into him.

She thought she’d been trudging through the snow for a month. It seemed to take another year before the rough wooden door creaked open. The cottage’s bulk offered slight protection from the wind, but now she’d stopped moving, she became aware of just how cold it was. If they couldn’t get inside quickly, they were in real danger of dying.

“We’re in,” he said, but his words didn’t make sense to her.

“What…”

“Kit, hold on.”

She felt giddy as he swung her into his arms and carried her inside, into what seemed like a dark cave. The wind remained loud in here, but compared to outside, the quiet was shocking.

Kit couldn’t see a thing. After the struggle through the snowstorm, her sight needed time to adjust to the dimness. Through her frozen stupor, it took her a moment to realize that Mr. MacNab shouldn’t be holding her like this. His arms were sure and strong, even after their ordeal outside, but she was a stableboy and he was the master’s nephew.

“Put me down,” she forced through chattering teeth.

He must have better night vision than she did, because he set her unerringly on a wooden trestle bed in the corner. Although her limbs felt like wet string and her brain was sluggish, she struggled to sit up. It was cold inside the hut, but nowhere near as cold as it was outside.

She felt too vulnerable lying flat on her back. Because of course, she wasn’t a stableboy, but a girl in male clothing. While her mind made sense of little else, it recognized that she was alone and unprotected in a virile young man’s company.

Don’t be a goose, she told herself sharply. He thinks you’re a boy. Anyway, nothing you’ve seen indicates that he’s likely to hurt you.

“Ah, that’s what I thought. It’s still here.”

“What…what’s still there?” Cold and tiredness for once meant Kit didn’t have to add artificial depth to her voice.

“A tinderbox and fuel for a fire. It’s been set already. Hamish and Emily must use this place as a shelter. Once I get the fire going, I’ll shut the door. At least the hut is sound. I remember it from playing on the estate when I was a boy. Most years, the family came to Glen Lyon for summer holidays.”

“You…have a good memory. And a good sense of direction.”

Thank God he did. She mightn’t want to be alone with Mr. MacNab inside this hut, but it was better than dying out in the blizzard.

“I like to keep my eyes open to what’s going on around me.”

She stiffened, although surely that wasn’t a threat. He couldn’t have guessed her secret. Nobody else had. But the reassurances felt hollow.

There were a few scrapes and a crackle, followed by a faint golden glow. Enough light for Kit to make out Mr. MacNab’s outline crouched over the hearth.

Compared to the laird, who was a blond giant, Mr. MacNab was much more man-sized. But in this confined space, he appeared dauntingly large. Kit wrapped her arms around herself – for warmth and to quiet her misgivings about how this crisis was going to play out.

“There. That’s done it,” he said with satisfaction, as the flames caught the kindling. He rose with the athletic grace that she’d noticed from the first and crossed to shut the door.

Immediate calm descended like an axe, although it only seemed calm in comparison to the cacophony outside. “Come close to the fire and thaw out.”

“Aye, sir,” she said, but when she stood, her legs threatened to fold under her.

Before she landed on the ground in a humiliating huddle, Mr. MacNab was at her side and catching her elbow. “I’m so sorry, Kit. I should have seen the weather was worsening and taken you back to the house. You did warn me. This is all my fault. I wanted to get you alone so I could talk to you.”

Her earlier fear rose up to devour her. “I think you should let me go, sir. I can walk.”

He ignored her protest and as he helped her to totter toward the fire, she was almost grateful. After he settled her on a three-legged stool, he dragged another one over for himself.

The hut was simply furnished. The bed with its straw mattress. A couple of stools. A rickety table against one wall.

Mr. MacNab removed his wet greatcoat and hung it off a hook beside the mantelpiece. Beneath it, he wore an elegant dark green coat and serviceable black breeches. He sank onto his stool with a weary groan and cast her a concerned glance.

“Here.” He held out a silver flask. “It will help.”

She accepted it. Despite the crackling fire, she felt frozen right to the bone. “Thank you, sir.”

Her hands shook as she raised the flask to her lips. After living with her stepbrother, she was familiar with the scent of whisky.

She took a mouthful and nearly spat it out. How could anyone like this filthy stuff? It tasted like medicine. She swallowed it in a gulp then started to cough. Blinded by tears, she felt Mr. MacNab gently remove the flask from her grip.

She sucked in a breath of air. “That’s horrid.”

He laughed. “A man develops a liking for it.”

Neil certainly had. He always stank of stale spirits. The reminder of what she’d escaped firmed her determination to cling to her disguise. “I can’t imagine why he’d want to.”

Mr. MacNab laughed. “Is it making you feel better?”

She opened her mouth to say no, then noted the warmth spreading inside her. When she stumbled inside, she’d felt like a block of ice. Now her blood started to flow again. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”

“Good.” Mr. MacNab lifted the flask to his lips and drank.

She must be feeling better. The foolish girl inside her couldn’t help noticing that he drank from where she had. It was as close as she was ever likely to come to receiving a kiss from Quentin MacNab.

Oh, don’t be so soppy, Christabel Sophia Urquhart.

“Would you like some more?”

There was a nice little warm space in her stomach that made the awful taste worthwhile, so she surprised herself by saying, “Aye, please.”

He smiled with approval and passed over the flask. She took a cautious sip and managed not to choke this time. When she handed it back, she watched him screw the silver cap back on. There was a wicked luxury in being able to study him like this. Everything he did had this marvelous economy of movement that stirred something deep inside her.

Because she was too afraid of people noticing her unsuitable interest in the laird’s nephew, she’d only glanced at him in fits and snatches so far. Here in this cottage, she could gaze her full.

Even better, for once, Mr. MacNab wasn’t asking any questions. A companionable silence fell, and Kit let her mind drift. It was warm near the peat fire, and the hut kept the dreadful weather at bay. For the first time in weeks, the tight knots of fear in her stomach loosened. When she breathed in, she felt that at last she took in a full measure of air.

“Watch out,” a soft, amused voice said, as a strong hand straightened her on the stool. “You’re about to slide to the ground.”

“Oh, dear, I think it’s the whisky.” Kit blinked owlishly at him and despite everything, pleasure flooded her.

He offered her such a pleasant view. Those spare intense features with the sharply defined cheekbones. A nose that was just large enough to lend his face character. Eyes full of kindness and intelligence.

He smiled. “I’m now questioning the wisdom of giving you a second dose.”

“I’m not used to spirits.”

“So I see.”

“Do ye think we’ll be here for long?” Although even as she spoke, she recognized it as a child’s question. How could he know?

“Sometimes storms go for an hour, sometimes they go for days.”

Days? Her whisky-induced wellbeing evaporated. How on earth could she keep Mr. MacNab from discovering she was no stableboy, if they were stuck here for days? Even a few hours represented danger. “We cannae stay here that long.”

“Let’s wait and see.” As his eyes rested on her, they were searching. “No point panicking yet.”

She couldn’t imagine Mr. MacNab panicking in the middle of an earthquake. She, on the other hand, was getting more frightened by the minute. “My…my uncle will be worried.”

“I’m sure he will be, but if he and my aunt and uncle have any sense, they’ll guess that we found this hut and it’s better if we all sit the blizzard out, at least for the moment.”

He sounded so sure, she derived a scrap of comfort from his answer. Until she remembered dangers beyond the weather. “We might be here all night.”

“We might.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly she was cold again, despite the fire. “At least we’ve got plenty of peat.”

“We can share the bed, too. Body heat is the best way to keep warm.”

No, no, no, no, no. “It’s no’ fitting, Mr. MacNab.” Alarm made her voice shake. “You take the bed, and I’ll stay beside the fire.”

“Practicality trumps propriety here, Kit.”

She frowned in puzzlement. It seemed an odd thing to say to a stableboy. “I’m a mere servant.”

“Are you indeed, Kit?” His gleaming hazel eyes fixed on her. “Or should I say rather…Miss Laing?”