The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “What of my father’s influence? He is an earl with a peer’s privileges. Might that benefit us here?”

  “Only if he were the witness in question.”

  Annie poured herself a cup of tea from the side table and took a sip before asking, “How can they charge Broderick with murder when they havenae found the evil bugger’s body?”

  “They cannae,” Broderick answered, speaking for the first time.

  Kate shifted to face him, unnerved to find him staring at her. Her heart lurched. Her belly quaked. What was he looking at? Without thinking, she twirled the curls near her ear. His gaze tracked the movement.

  “And they willnae,” he finished. “He’s nae dead.”

  It took a moment for his flat statement to digest, as she was busy trying to decide whether his eye color was black or merely dark gray. Then, his words registered. “He—he’s alive?”

  “Aye.”

  “How?” Kate shook her head. “How is it possible for anybody to survive …” She examined the hands resting on his thighs, huge and battered and powerful. “… those?”

  Broderick folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands out of sight. “Ye distracted me. I lost him in the dark.”

  “No. I saw him collapse.”

  “Aye. Then, ye started bleatin’ like a lamb missin’ its mother—”

  “I do not bleat.”

  “—and I turned to see what sort of puny animal was makin’ such sounds. Yer wee fit of fright cost me—”

  “The sight of you pummeling a man to death would frighten any sensible creature, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Right. And ye’re a perfectly sensible creature, eh? Wanderin’ alone on my land in the middle of the bluidy night, lost in the wood. A daft, wee lamb strayin’ too far from the pasture.”

  “Do you honestly intend to sit there, adding insult to the injury you’ve already done me?” She sat forward. “You really are beastly.”

  “Nah. I might be missin’ an eye, but I can see ye just fine.” His gaze dropped to her gown then returned to her hair. “Go home to England, Lady Kate. ’Tis where ye belong.”

  She straightened and arched a brow. “Perhaps you’re correct, Mr. MacPherson. But, as Mr. Thomson has stated, returning to Nottinghamshire will not stop the court from compelling my testimony. Nor, I suspect, will it prevent Sergeant Munro from accosting me every time I leave my home.”

  “Simple answer: Tell Munro ye dinnae ken anythin’.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t believe me.”

  “Tell him another story, then. Make him think ye’re lyin’ about somethin’ else—”

  “I have already done precisely that.”

  He frowned. “And?”

  “He has continued his pursuit.”

  “What sort of wild tale did ye tell?”

  She felt her cheeks burning. “It is not important.”

  His gaze intensified, wandering curiously over her neck and face. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t wish to.”

  “Ye must.”

  “No.”

  “If I’m to be convicted of murder on the basis of yer testimony, I should ken—”

  “I told him you fancy me.”

  Disbelieving silence fell.

  Her skin could light a thousand candles. She brushed her skirts and wound a curl around her finger before forcing her hands back to her lap.

  “Lass, the first time I ever clapped eyes upon ye was that night in the wood.”

  “Yes, well, I’d already told him I fancied Rannoch, so—”

  “Rannoch?”

  “—the subject was on my mind.” She shrugged. “It was extemporaneous.”

  He was glowering. With all his scars and the distorted nature of his features, his expression was initially difficult for her to read, but the longer they conversed, the easier it grew. Presently, he was either displeased or confused.

  “Extemporaneous means unplanned,” she offered helpfully.

  “What the devil possessed ye to make such a daft claim?”

  “I told you already. My tale was extemporaneous. Another word would be improvisational. It is a common technique for actors to use whilst—”

  “So, ye tell a constable ye fancy Rannoch,” he snapped.

  She blinked. That was his complaint? “I had to have some reason for pursuing Rannoch into the tavern.”

  “Pursuin’? What were ye—no. Never mind. Go to the Continent. Buy yerself some new frocks in Paris. Munro’s a bluidy-minded auld sod, but he’ll nae follow ye there.”

  “I don’t wish to leave.” She sniffed and brushed her skirts. “And I have no need of new frocks.”

  He shook his head, his frown deepening. “Christ on the cross, lass.”

  She’d heard Angus and Rannoch both use similar blasphemies when they were overwrought. She attempted to explain her reasoning. “Scotland is my muse.”

  His eye flared.

  “I am a playwright. An author. I must complete my manuscript.”

  Silence thickened. Broderick appeared at a loss for words.

  “I need only a month. Perhaps two. If Lord Lockhart is alive, as you claim, then it should be a simple matter of locating him.”

  Broderick tilted his head. “Brilliant. Why didnae I think of such a solution?”

  She frowned. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”

  “Nothin’ about this is amusin’.”

  “We agree.”

  “Except, perhaps, for ye claimin’ to fancy Rannoch.”

  “He is quite charming, you know.”

  He snorted. “My brother has tupped every lass in the county. He’s plowin’ his way through Perthshire as we speak.”

  “As I said,” she retorted pertly. “Charming.”

  He appeared to bite down on further commentary regarding his brother. “If ye willnae leave Scotland, then ye’ll simply have to refuse to speak to the constable.”

  “Every time I leave the castle, he waylays me. He is very … forceful.”

  Broderick tensed again, his gaze roaming over her. “Has he hurt ye?”

  “No. He grasped my arm a time or two, but I would not say—”

  “He put hands upon ye?” Spoken in that roughened rumble, low and menacing, his words sent a strange charge spiraling up her spine.

  “Let us say, I should like to ride to the village without fear of being accosted. Certainly, there must be some measure we can take to prevent Sergeant Munro from hounding me.” She glanced to her left, thinking she’d put the question to the solicitor.

  She found three sets of eyes staring at her and Broderick in silence. Annie, John, and Mr. Thomson wore varying expressions of fascination and perplexity.

  Annie spoke first. “Are ye certain ye havenae conversed with Broderick before now, Katie-lass? The two of ye seem a mite … familiar.”

  Kate frowned her confusion. Familiar? How ridiculous. He was slightly infuriating, and she’d responded appropriately. That was all.

  Before she could reply, Broderick took control of the conversation. “Thomson, answer the question. Can ye keep Munro away from her?”

  The solicitor hesitated, nudging his spectacles higher.

  “Out with it, man,” John insisted, still casting odd glances between Kate and Broderick.

  “I’m afraid not. By importuning Lady Katherine, Sergeant Munro is executing his official duties. There is no legal recourse.”

  “Blast,” John muttered.

  “That is, short of Mr. MacPherson marrying Lady Katherine.” The solicitor chuckled nervously.

  Wait. There was a solution? Kate sat up straighter, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. If there was a way to protect him while remaining in Scotland …

  But marriage? To the monster? She glanced to Broderick, who was scowling at the lawyer. Then she looked to Annie, who was scowling at Broderick.


  With a disgusted sigh, John stood. “Thank you, Thomson. You’ve been exceedingly unhelpful.”

  “Apologies, my lord.”

  “Wait,” Kate sputtered, following John as he led Mr. Thomson toward the door. “How would marriage change anything?”

  The solicitor turned. “A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband, my lady.”

  Hope soared, warm and tingly along her middle. “Even for crimes committed before the marriage?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Kate,” John chided. “You are not marrying Broderick. I’ll send you back to England. We’ll keep Munro occupied so he’ll be disinclined to follow.”

  “But I—”

  John ushered the solicitor out of the room as though the conversation were finished. But Kate was not finished. Thomson had given her hope. He’d given her a choice—run home to Mama and Papa to prepare for yet another disappointing season on the marriage mart; or stay in Scotland, complete her manuscript, and perhaps be relieved of the duty she’d been assigned at birth.

  She turned. Broderick and Annie argued in low tones near the fireplace.

  All Kate must do was marry … him.

  Annie poked a finger into Broderick’s chest. He enfolded her hand in his enormous paw and, with incredible gentleness, cradled it, nodding at whatever she said. The anger melted from her eyes, and she cupped his jaw, saying something that looked like, “Ah ken, brother. Ah ken.”

  He embraced her, kissing her temple.

  Kate watched as the monster of her nightmares held his sister as tenderly as she might hold one of her newborn nephews.

  Annie had explained a bit about what Broderick had endured, how Lockhart had targeted him out of jealousy, and how richly the lord had deserved his punishment. But Kate hadn’t understood. Not really.

  Not until this moment.

  Broderick was not a monster. He was a man. One who had been tortured, wrongfully imprisoned, and nearly killed. One dearly loved by his sister, his family. He must be protected, whatever the cost.

  She could do this, she thought. She could marry him. And it might not even be terrible. She could remain in Scotland as long as she pleased. She could write whatever stories took her fancy. She would not fall in love. She would not have to bear hordes of children. She would not have to endure white-soup suppers filled with vapid conversation. She could attend the theatre, spend her days riding and exploring, and perhaps travel wherever the wind took her.

  Her breath quickened. Their marriage would guarantee she could never be used as a weapon against him. And she’d never have to endure another season of tiresome suitors buying her Gunter’s ices and prattling about their winnings at Ascot. Because she would no longer be the last eligible Huxley girl. She’d be a bride.

  His bride.

  True, he was still the rageful beast she’d seen beating a man to the edge of death. His disposition might best be described as surly. He was even bigger than Rannoch, towering over her like a great, scarred oak. He was rude. Dismissive. And parts of her quaked in the most peculiar fashion whenever he spoke in that deep, damaged brogue.

  But she didn’t have to kiss him or lie with him or even live with him, necessarily.

  Indeed, if he was agreeable to a modest arrangement, Broderick MacPherson would make an entirely acceptable husband. According to Annie, his lands were expansive, his house quite fine, and his income reasonably secure now that the MacPherson Distillery was properly licensed. Despite his injuries, he appeared strong and fit—frightfully so. He was in his prime at two-and-thirty. Untitled, but that was no great matter. Titles were rarely worth the nuisance.

  Mama might be disappointed at his lack of wealth and manners. Papa might object to the distance from Nottinghamshire; he preferred to keep his girls closer to home. But her parents would come around. They’d accepted Annie readily enough.

  Now that she thought about it, this might solve more than the trouble with Sergeant Munro. This could be the answer she’d been looking for all along.

  Annie patted Broderick’s shoulders before crossing to the doorway where Kate stood. She squeezed Kate’s hand with a sad smile then departed for the kitchen to “make certain Marjorie MacDonnell hasnae ruined dinner.”

  Kate nodded and kissed her cheek before gathering a breath. Across the room, Broderick braced an elbow on the mantel and gazed down into the fire. Kate approached, feeling both excited and queasy.

  “Mr. MacPherson.”

  He turned. “Shouldnae ye be packin’?”

  “I—no, I … I have a topic to discuss with you.”

  Silence.

  “A proposal, really.”

  More silence. The way he glared down at her from his great height reminded her that it was a good thing she didn’t have to kiss him. She’d need a ladder and an entire bottle of wine.

  Best to come to her point. “I think we should marry.”

  Again, the silence.

  Had he heard her? She squinted up at him, trying to discern whether his ears had been damaged. She didn’t think so, but he wasn’t responding as she’d hoped.

  “Our sacred union offers multiple benefits,” she elaborated. “It would shield me from being forced to send you back to prison. Which I do not wish to do. Perhaps I haven’t been clear on that score. But it is true. I shouldn’t like to see you imprisoned. Again.”

  His expression remained unreadable. “Charitable of ye.”

  “Yes, well. I am fond of Annie. I don’t like for her to be distressed.”

  Silence.

  “Also, I do wish to remain here. In Scotland, that is. Our sacred union would ensure I am able to do so.”

  “How sacred do ye expect this union to be, lass?”

  “Oh. We needn’t live together or anything of that sort.”

  More silence.

  She clarified, “Our sacred union would be purely an arrangement. Mutually beneficial, of course. We may obtain an annulment at some future date, if you wish.”

  “If I wish.”

  “I’ll have no need of one. I shall be most content to be your wife for the duration.”

  His head tilted. “An hour ago, ye refused to look at anythin’ above my boots.”

  “I was frightened of you. If you’ll recall how you turned Lord Lockhart into a piteous, broken heap, you may begin to understand why.”

  “Hmm. But ye’re nae frightened of me any longer.”

  “No.”

  “Screwed yer courage to the stickin’ place, eh?”

  “Are you going to address my proposal?”

  “No.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Because it’s pure, daft madness, that’s why.”

  “Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.”

  “Ye belong in England.”

  She inched closer, even though it forced her to crane her neck to continue holding his gaze. “No, Mr. MacPherson. Scotland is where my spirit sings. Where my muse comes alive and breathes.” On impulse, she reached for his hand, shocked to find it so warm. Enormous, callused fingers clasped hers. His knuckles were the size of coins. Some of them remained split and scabbed. But his hand held hers loosely. Gently. The warmth reminded her of last night’s dreams.

  She raised her eyes to his. Though he had only one, it was thickly lashed, deep-set beneath a heavy brow, and brown. So dark a brown, it was black. Beautiful, really.

  “I want to stay.” Her whisper felt torn from her soul. “I need to stay.”

  For a moment, his jaw flickered. “Mad creature.” He dropped her hand.

  She frowned. Why was he so resistant? Their marriage would solve everything. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d have dozens more opportunities to marry. The scars distorted his features dreadfully. Most women would refuse to look past them. Was he concerned he wouldn’t benefit equally from their sacred union?

  Perhaps her offer had been insufficient. Perhaps he expected a wife to be
ar him children.

  Blast. Could she? She examined the enormity of him, pausing at his thick, muscular thighs and giving them due consideration.

  Ignoring the sudden strange twist in her belly, she tendered an offer. “We—we could have one or two, I suppose.” Surely, he could not expect more.

  “One or two what?”

  She couldn’t seem to look away from his legs. There was a long, thick bulge between them, tucked along one of the thighs. “Children.”

  Silence. The bulge appeared to shift and … lengthen?

  “You may have heard that we Huxleys are peculiarly fertile. I don’t expect much effort would be required on your part.”

  It grew further. She frowned. Just how long could it be? And it was thickening, too, she suspected. Yes, indeed. Thicker and longer than before. Already, she regretted her tendered offer. They did not appear compatible.

  “Huxley should have put ye on the first stagecoach headed south. Ye’re pure trouble.” He pivoted on his heel and strode for the door.

  Startled, she watched her only chance to remain in Scotland and his only chance to secure his freedom slipping away. “Mr. MacPherson.” She rushed to follow, determined not to let him doom them both. “Broderick.”

  He reached the doorway.

  “I—I will tell Munro everything!”

  That stopped him. Impossibly wide shoulders stiffened. Enormous hands curled into fists before relaxing. Slowly, he turned to face her.

  Oh, heavens, the fury in that dark, beautiful eye. “Are ye threatenin’ me, lass?”

  For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath. For another, she couldn’t form words. Finally, she managed, “No-ot exactly.”

  He prowled toward her. “Then, what exactly?”

  “Sergeant Munro is dreadfully persistent. I cannot evade his interrogations forever. I fear the truth may inadvertently … slip out.” Not a lie. The longer it went on, the greater the likelihood she would make a mistake. Everyone else thought Munro would give up if she returned to England. They were wrong.

  “Then, leave.”

  “No.”