“How long ago did your parents pass away?”
She shifted under that unwavering stare that seemed to see far too much. “My mother died when I was a bairn. My father died two years ago.”
Also all true.
“I’m surprised you didn’t come to your uncle then.”
“My father had married again. I stayed with my stepmother.”
“Do you miss her?”
For tact’s sake, that question was better left unanswered. “She died, too. Last January.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank ye, sir.”
“So you were cast on local charity?”
“No, sir, I have a stepbrother.”
“And is he still alive?”
“Aye, sir,” she said tight-lipped.
“You seem to have had a lot of bad luck with relatives dying around you.”
“That’s nae reason to mock me, Mr. MacNab,” she said sharply, before she recalled that a mere stableboy would never rebuke the laird’s nephew for his lack of manners. All her instincts screamed at her to run, but something in that steady gaze kept her pinned to the snowy ground, shifting from foot to foot.
“Perhaps not.” He kept staring at her.
She’d had foolish dreams of one day appearing before Quentin MacNab as Christabel Urquhart and dazzling him with her charm and beauty. In dreams, she always chose to be charming and beautiful. Why not? But now that she’d attracted his notice, she wished him to Hades.
She needed to get away from him. And she needed to do it now.
“It really is going to snow, sir, and we’ve wandered a long way from the house.” As if to confirm that, a few soft flakes brushed her nose and settled on her eyelashes.
At last he glanced about the woods. His expression told her 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.