The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Amusement quirked her lips as he laid his purchases on the counter. “Ye’d do better buyin’ oiled canvas, English,” she advised. “That roof of yours cannae shelter ye from a bird’s wayward shite, never mind the rain.” She flicked the fine linen with her finger and looked him up and down. “Petticoats’ll flatter yer bonnie figure, no doubt. But they’re bluidy useless against a Highland winter.”

  His mouth twisted, not precisely a smile.

  But, then, she and he weren’t precisely friendly.

  Hazel eyes flickered over her. “Miss Tulloch.”

  “Mr. Huxley.”

  “How is your father? Feeling more amiable, perhaps?”

  She chuckled. “Stepfather. And ye know better than most Angus isnae amiable, even when the sky is shinin’ rather than pissin’.”

  “Pity.” His attention wandered toward Cleghorn, who’d emerged through the curtain and gone to remove a piece of rope from Ronnie’s mouth. “He should take my last offer.”

  The lines around John Huxley’s eyes suggested he’d once been a laugher—or at least a grinner—but she rarely saw it. For any Englishman, being trapped in the nether creases of the Scottish Highlands might do that, she supposed. He’d also spent the past year battling over property rights with the stubbornest Scotsman ever to don tartan. That would put anyone in a foul temper. Still, this was the same flat, cynical look Huxley had worn since arriving in the glen summer before last.

  He’d come to claim land left to him by a friend. The property, which abutted MacPherson land, shared commonty rights to the loch in the neighboring glen. Thick woodlands, abundant deer, clear streams, and access to the loch for swimming and fishing made Huxley’s land an ideal hunting property. Annie imagined the Englishman could demand a fortune from some fancy English lord, were Angus agreeable to settling matters. But he wasn’t.

  As things stood, Huxley couldn’t legally sell until the dispute over the commonty was settled, and Angus would only settle upon terms if Huxley agreed to sell the property to him. Huxley had promised his dead friend that he wouldn’t sell the land to Angus MacPherson.

  A year later, the stalemate hadn’t yet broken.

  Occasionally, John Huxley would pay Angus a visit, handing Annie his hat with that same calm, weary expression. The two men would argue a bit before Angus told him where he could stow his offer. Then, Huxley would leave. Each time she saw him, his beard was a little thicker, his hat a little grayer.

  But his expression never changed. She sometimes wondered what had made him so bone-weary—apart from Scotland’s inhospitable weather.

  Now, she tilted her head and rested a hip against the counter. “Ye’re stubborn as he is. Why not sell to Angus, eh? Ye could return to London, or wherever it is ye come from. Have a proper roof. Have a proper hat.” She scanned his face, noting the beard could use some trimming. Having seen the man bare-faced, she wondered if he’d grown it to disguise his preposterously handsome features. His eyes remained visible, of course, so it was a wasted effort.

  That hazel gaze returned to examine her. “I shan’t be selling to Angus MacPherson.” Although he said it without heat, she heard the weight of the surrounding mountains in his words.

  “Why?”

  “I vowed I would not.”

  She scoffed. “Ye promised an auld, jealous fool that ye’d spite the man who ‘stole’ his bride. Lot of male nonsense, if ye’re askin’ me.”

  “I don’t believe I was.”

  Sighing, she conceded the point. “Fair enough, English.” She patted the bolt of linen. “Dinnae forget the thread.” She plucked the ivory skein from her makeshift pocket then held it up in feigned surprise. “Och, no. Appears I’ve nabbed the last of it.” She clicked her tongue. “A pure shame. Yer petticoats willnae be so fine, after all.”

  His lips twitched briefly inside his beard. “You might be surprised, Miss Tulloch. I’ve a way with petticoats.” He glanced down at her trews. “I see you’re still developing similar talents.”

  Other lasses might be insulted, but Annie merely brushed the haphazard folds of her plaid and laughed. Had she been wearing it over skirts, the blanket-sized length of wool would be a proper arasaid, as other Highland women wore. But she hadn’t the patience for muddy hems and flammable layers. Too much work to be done. “Ah, ye amuse me, English. I must say, ye do.”

  He huffed—nearly a chuckle—and donned his hat. “Give my regards to MacPherson.”

  Cleghorn came to take Huxley’s coins, and Annie took her leave, waving Fin over to take her hand. Outside, beneath the shop’s eave, she paused. Huxley exited behind her and strode across the square to his cart. Her eyes followed him then caught on the two men standing near the MacDonnell statue. One was garbed in bright tartan, the other in refined riding clothes.

  “Lord,” came a whisper from her side.

  Her heart thudded.

  Finlay hadn’t spoken in weeks. Was this a sign he’d begun healing?

  Her eyes flew down, only to find the effort of a single word had cost him half his color. Worry sank its claws around her throat.

  “Aye, Fin,” she managed past the ache. “’Tis the Laird of Glenscannadoo, for all that means. Can a man be a laird when he hasnae but five or six acres?”

  Finlay peered at the popinjay gesturing grandly at his father’s statue.

  Gilbert MacDonnell had rounder cheeks than one usually saw in a man above twenty. Wispy brows disappeared into his skin. His nose was short, a perfect match for his stature. And his speech hinted at a lisp. She’d say he wore a clan chief’s costume if clan chiefs strutted about like wee tartan peacocks. Most had more sense.

  “No laird.”

  Three words in one day! “Not a real one, that’s for certain,” she murmured, trying not to draw undue attention. “He’s dressed like that ridiculous statue.” The cap, the kilt, the sporran. Even the brogues and stockings. The only difference was the tartan. Scarlet didn’t translate into stone.

  By contrast, the popinjay’s golden-haired companion wore a sensible hunting coat and fine-fitted riding breeches. She admired the gentleman’s backside for a moment before wondering who he might be.

  Fine breeches, indeed.

  Fin’s hand squeezed hers. She glanced down to see him mouth, “Must go.”

  “In a wee moment, laddie.” Nudging her hat higher upon her head, she squinted across the rain-spattered square to get a better look. The man was passably tall—at least ten inches taller than the laird. Of course, the laird was even shorter than Annie, so that was no great measure. The Englishman would top the well-dressed stranger by several inches. Still, she admired the lean elegance of his shoulders, the fine cut of his coat. The firmness of his seat.

  Nearby, two MacDonnell women exited the dressmaker’s shop. “Ye see there, Flora? Didnae I tell ye the laird had guests from Edinburgh?”

  “Edinburgh!”

  “Lowlanders. Titled ones.”

  Annie sidled to her left, tugging Finlay toward home. Only when she angled past the post did she spy the third figure in the trio. A woman—no, a lady—huddled close to the golden-haired man. Her gaze was patient boredom. Her neck resembled a swan’s. Her gown was silk.

  Silk. In the pissing rain of Glenscannadoo.

  And not just any silk, but quite the finest blue satin Annie had ever seen. It glistened like the loch on a summer afternoon. The golden-haired man held an umbrella above her head, his shoulders canted in a posture that suggested she was delicate. Important.

  Annie’s stomach panged oddly. He seemed to care for her, whoever she was. Whoever he was, for that matter. Annie still didn’t know.

  “Didnae ye say he’s a sir of some sort or other?” muttered Flora MacDonnell to her sister.

  “A Lord of Parliament. The Lord … now what was it? Scott? Seton?” Flora’s sister clicked her tongue. “Och, all those Lowland names sound alike.”

  “Lockhart,” grumbled Flora’s husband as he
exited the shop behind them. “The Lord Lockhart. Are you two done bletherin’, or am I to stand here whilst you inspect the man’s teeth?”

  Curious, Annie wandered beyond the eave, circling to get a better look at the golden-haired man. The Lord Lockhart. She’d never met a lord before. Even the Laird of Glenscannadoo hadn’t more than a feudal baron’s courtesy title. Certainly, he was no peer.

  Rain pattered her hat’s brim, dripping and obscuring her view. She should get Finlay home. This was no time for ogling strangers. Her laddie’s grip was loosening. She tightened her fist.

  Flora and her sister edged away from Annie as she passed. Idly, she wondered if Lord Lockhart’s face was as handsome as his backside. Perhaps he was married. Perhaps his wife was the lady beside him, shivering in the Scottish rain.

  None of it mattered, of course. He’d never look twice at Mad Annie Tulloch, nor would she want such a thing.

  Certainly not.

  But newcomers to Glenscannadoo were rare. The last one had been John Huxley, and he was English. These two were Scottish … of a sort.

  Crossing the square toward the road home, she drifted closer to the golden pair. Ignoring Flora’s whispers about madwomen who wore trews instead of skirts, she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Lord Lockhart’s profile.

  Aye, he was handsome. Lean nose, leaf-green eyes, and a curved mouth. His lips were a bit full for her liking—similar to overripe fruit. But all in all, a braw face, splendid backside, and, now that she was close enough to hear it, a pleasing voice, despite the Lowland accent.

  Wind came up, burrowing beneath her plaid until even her bones went cold.

  Bloody disagreeable Scottish weather.

  Moments later, something knocked into her from behind, sending her stumbling.

  Her hat flew. Her boots tangled with mud. Something yanked her plaid, tearing loose her makeshift pocket.

  “Ronnie!” she heard Cleghorn shout. “Come back here, ye wee dafty!”

  Awkwardly, she caught herself then reached behind her to brace the boy who gripped her waist with all his might. The noises he made resembled words, but they were malformed. One, however, she recognized.

  “In-ee,” Ronnie whimpered. “In-ee.”

  Only then did she realize what was missing.

  The wee, cold hand that always held hers … was gone.

  Frantic, she twisted, dragging Ronnie around in circles while she looked for another laddie—her laddie.

  “Finlay.” The word was nothing but air. All she saw was mud and cobbles and emptiness. She was choking. Staggering.

  Because she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t feel him.

  Cleghorn stomped out into the rain to retrieve his son, who wept and clung to her.

  “In-ee! In-ee gunn.”

  Cleghorn lifted his son into his arms, hauling him back to the shop while admonishing him for running off. Ronnie gazed at her over his father’s shoulder. Tears streaked his freckled cheeks. “In-ee gunn.”

  Light and sound swirled while rain drenched her hair and slid icy fingers along her nape.

  In-ee gunn.

  Finlay gone.

  Oh, dear God. Finlay was gone. She felt it. His absence. Their connection simply … missing.

  She swayed. Wiped a rivulet from her forehead. Another snaked down to the corner of her eye, blurring her vision.

  Finlay gone.

  Her laddie. Her friend. Gone.

  A handsome face appeared in her vision. Golden-haired. Green-eyed. Full-lipped. He frowned at her over the shoulder of a woman.

  The lady held Annie’s hat. “… yours, miss?”

  Annie took it. Nodded. Couldn’t speak.

  “… should depart soon,” said the man briskly, giving Annie the same look Annie might give a rat in her larder.

  “… appears a bit dazed.” The lady took the umbrella from him. Extended it forward to cover Annie’s head, too. She had the same leafy eyes and golden hair as the man behind her. Yet different, somehow. She wore kindness like silk—as though she’d been born to it. “May we offer assistance? My brother and I have a coach. Perhaps we could give you a ride home on our way to Edinburgh?”

  Grief thickened her throat. No sound could escape past the burning ache.

  Finlay gone.

  After more than a year, it had finally happened. He was gone.

  And no one knew. Because no one else saw him, apart from a simple lad and an old, daft woman.

  “… not have time for this … think we should leave her be, sister,” said the handsome man, drawing the golden woman away. Lockhart. He was a lord.

  Annie couldn’t bring herself to curtsy.

  A coach rumbled into the square. The two golden-haired Lowlanders murmured with Gilbert MacDonnell before climbing inside.

  Rain fell. Wind blew. The square emptied of all but her.

  Another shadow merged with hers, taller by a foot and doubly wide. Long, masculine fingers plucked her hat from her limp hand and set it upon her head. Broad shoulders stooped to retrieve her thread from the mud.

  “Here, now, Miss Tulloch,” the shadow said in crisp, English tones. “Don’t forget this. I’ve heard it’s the last of the lot.”

  Something in his voice made her seek out his eyes. Hazel—brown and green and gold, all at once. Too beautiful for a man, made more so by dense, dark lashes.

  And, oddly enough, they were not kind. Not chary like the golden-haired lord’s or gentle like his golden-haired sister’s.

  These eyes were simply calm, as though they’d seen too many storms to think one was any worse than another.

  “H-he’s gone,” she whispered, unsure why she bothered telling the Englishman.

  A crease formed between dark brows. “Who?”

  She shook her head. Deep and jagged, the wound that had been gouged minutes earlier widened inside her ribs—that place where Finlay had been tethered.

  Gone. Finlay gone.

  It hurt so badly, she nearly doubled over.

  She must find a way to bring him back. She must. But how? She’d failed to save him. Failed to halt his decline. Failed to hold him tightly enough.

  The Englishman continued frowning, but he didn’t keep after her. Instead, he glanced around the empty square, eyed her dripping hat, pocketed her muddy thread, and sighed.

  “My cart is this way,” he said, taking her elbow and turning her toward the corner.

  “Unnecessary, English.” Her voice sounded faint. Choked. She swallowed and breathed, took enough steps to keep pace with him. “I can walk the same way I came.”

  He didn’t slow, didn’t release her. “The cart is faster.” Calm hazel slanted down at her then forged ahead. “Perhaps your stepfather will be more amiable after I drop his daughter at his door.”

  Chapter Two

  TlU

  Everyone called her Mad Annie. Until now, John Huxley hadn’t understood why. True, she occasionally talked to herself. But she’d always appeared sane enough to him—fiery and foul-mouthed, impertinent and utterly unconcerned with convention.

  But sane.

  Now, the redheaded virago had gone dead silent. She sat beside him on the cart’s bench, soaked and gray, rocking subtly like a graveside mourner.

  It was bloody disturbing.

  He’d conversed with her a handful of times while meeting with Angus MacPherson. For all her fire, she was a little thing; the top of her head wouldn’t even scrape his chin. But her size was misleading.

  Angus MacPherson and his four sons were the real power in this wild, isolated Highland backwater. Hard, ruthless men with all the charm of dyspeptic badgers, the MacPhersons were, nevertheless, wily negotiators.

  And formidable opponents.

  None of them stood a hair shorter than six-and-a-half feet. None of them weighed a pebble less than sixteen stone. None of them was married, though Angus had been widowed twice. Obsessed with expanding their backwater empire, they
’d spent the past twenty years accruing MacDonnell land around Glenscannadoo and the neighboring valley, Glendasheen. The area’s residents—including the supposed clan chieftain, Gilbert MacDonnell—seemed happy to live under MacPherson rule.

  Yet, after a single visit to MacPherson House, John quickly realized who ruled the MacPherson men. And she wasn’t even a MacPherson. According to his solicitor, Anne Tulloch had been brought into Angus’s household with her mother around the age of five. A year later, her mother had died, widowing Angus and leaving Annie to be raised by five rough Scotsmen.

  She was quite the oddest female he’d ever encountered—and he’d encountered more than his share. Even so, John had grown accustomed to Annie Tulloch’s eccentric ways. Often, she was bizarrely attired in buff breeches, tall boots, white tunic, and a plaid that shrouded her in blue-and-green wool until the only way to know she was a woman was from the belt at her waist.

  He’d grown accustomed to the shocking brightness of her hair, raggedly shorn around her face and plaited down her back. Sometimes she covered it with a great, floppy hat, and sometimes she left it uncovered to flash like red fire.

  He’d grown accustomed to her lack of proper skirts, her unnervingly brilliant eyes, her sharp-tongued taunts about his manhood.

  Dinnae luik so gloomy, English. Angus is a crabbit auld man, be ye bonnie as a fresh-dewed lass or no.

  Did ye steal those boots from a Scot, English? They seem a mite big for yer wee, dainty feet.

  Next time, try flutterin’ those girlish lashes at him, English. Mayhap he’ll offer to let ye pour his tea.

  Most women thought him handsome, but only Annie Tulloch managed to turn it into an insult. And God, how she relished the insults.

  Brazen, mouthy woman.

  She ordered her brothers about like a tyrannical sea captain. She cursed her towering stepfather to his face before patting his cheek and asking if he needed more liniment.

  She dressed like a boy or, more precisely, an unkempt Highland ruffian who cut his hair with a dull knife. She was fearless. Fiery. Crackling with defiance and ignorant of basic manners.