by Elisa Braden
MacDonnell had included preposterous terms in the deeds: Each man must live upon the land for two full years; if he left for longer than a week, he forfeited his claim and his funds. For parcels with contested offers, ownership was decided at the Glenscannadoo Highland Games, a summer clan gathering in which men performed feats of strength, speed, stamina, and musicianship.
Nearly three decades past, Angus MacPherson had won his first parcel of MacDonnell land by flinging a hammer farther than any other competitor. He’d won his second by tossing a tree with astonishing precision, and his third by swimming the width of Loch Carrich in record time.
Ewan Wylie had won the land around Glendasheen Castle by being a proficient bagpiper.
With their past rivalry over Angus’s first wife, relations between the two neighbors had been rife with bitterness and mutual theft. Unfortunately for John, their long feud meant he was trapped here in Scotland, unable to leave for longer than a few days, lest his claim be challenged by MacPherson’s rapacious solicitors. The legal battles were ongoing. His negotiations with the surly old Scot were pure frustration. And his castle was a cold, damp shambles only slightly more welcoming than the Highlanders themselves.
He should be sailing to Antigua. He should be haggling over the price of carpets in a Constantinople market. He should be finding sweet release inside a Spanish courtesan or a French mistress—even a London mistress would do.
For John Huxley, this sort of deprivation was unnatural. And he couldn’t even blame Scotland. In truth, his drive to seek out new horizons had begun withering years before he’d arrived in the glen. Ewan’s death had worsened the strange void inside him, and a year of bad weather and isolation hadn’t improved matters. But the place wasn’t the problem. He was.
“Annie’s cookery will give ye notions,” Angus muttered. “But dinnae go lustin’ after a second helping. We’ll dine. Then ye’ll leave. Ye ken?”
The mention of Annie in the same breath with lust made John blink. He squelched the unwanted sensation snaking from his belly to his groin and lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Duly noted.”
An hour later, he understood Angus’s warning. Annie Tulloch’s venison was tender, simmered in a seasoned onion gravy, and better than anything he’d eaten in Paris or Tuscany. Each bite made his toes curl inside his boots.
Her bread was even better. Soft. Warm. Yeasty and light. He wanted to bloody weep.
She smirked at him across the heavy, scarred dining table and poured herself a cup of cider. “Slow down, English. Cannae be certain yer delicate constitution will tolerate proper Scottish food.”
She had a dot of flour on her chin, a stained apron tied over her plaid, and a scarf tied over her hair. She looked shapeless. A mess.
And he couldn’t stop stealing glances. Every third bite, he surreptitiously examined the ragged, fiery fringe brushing her forehead. The elfin nose. The rounded cheekbones and cream-flushed skin. She wasn’t ugly. Nor plain—her coloring was far too vivid. In truth, her features were rather pleasing if one ignored her brazen, inflammatory mouth. Overall, her face bore the fullness of a robust appetite and vigorous health. The rest of her was similarly fulsome. In fact, he’d guess her figure edged toward plumpness. A guess, merely. The woman might as well be wearing draperies.
Another bite of venison, and he dared a glance at her bosom, disguised beneath layers and folds. He hadn’t forgotten the proportions. The abundance.
God, he was losing his bloody mind. Time for a trip to Glasgow. The widow he occasionally visited there would stop these asinine musings.
“Ye’ll nae get what ye’re after, Huxley,” grumbled Angus from his left. The glowering Scot cut into his meat, his knife scraping the plate. “’Tis only a matter of time before that cursed castle breaks ye. Best ye sell the land to me and be done with it.”
Before answering, John used his bread to soak up the last of his onion gravy, both mourning and savoring the bite. “As I’ve explained, I cannot.”
“A man of yer word, eh?” Angus waved his knife in John’s direction. “Aye, well, another winter will loosen that cork a bit, I’ll wager.”
“Perhaps the two of ye should wager,” Annie said. “Whoever wins, at least it would bring yer daft male nonsense to an end.” She drank her cider then raised a sarcastic brow at each of them. “Have a tug-o-war. Rope’s in the stable.”
“Och, I’ve no wish to humiliate the lad.”
Ignoring the dig, John wiped his mouth with the dingy cloth next to his plate—the MacPherson version of a napkin, he supposed. “Whilst I appreciate the suggestion, Miss Tulloch, my terms must remain steadfast.”
Amusement pursed her lips. He noted the upper was thinner than the lower. Neither was plump. But they were forever quirked or moving. Now, she licked a drop of cider from the corner of her mouth and jabbed, “And in January, when yer drawers freeze to yer arse ‘til yer tender bits are all numb and frosty, surely those fine, gentlemanly principles will keep yer cockles warm, aye?”
Why was he staring at Annie Tulloch’s mouth? God, he needed to visit Glasgow. He needed to leave Scotland. Her madness was catching. “Your concern is sufficiently warming, I daresay.”
She frowned at his dry tone. “Somebody should be concerned about ye, English. Never seen a man so bluidy weary of his own existence that he’d run at Angus’s temper like he was beggin’ to be put out of his misery. Have ye no kin to speak sense to ye?”
The lad from earlier ran in to clear his plate, but John lifted it above the boy’s head before rising and helping himself to another serving of venison, bread, and cider from the dishes at the center of the table. If the MacPhersons weren’t going to bother with manners, he saw little point in controlling his appetite.
“Yes,” he answered, after devouring his next three bites. “Rather an abundance of kin, as it happens.”
“Five sisters,” Angus interjected, his suspicious gaze ricocheting between Annie and John. “Married, are they?”
“Four are, at last report. The youngest hasn’t yet settled on a husband.”
“Nor ye on a wife,” Angus said. “Yer mother cannae be happy about that.”
“Everyone would be better pleased if I were free to leave Scotland. You and your fellow Scots. My family. Me.” He shot Angus a dry glare. “Perhaps I’d be at liberty to secure a wife were I not yoked to a property I’ve little desire to keep.”
It was both true and a lie. Everyone would be happier if he returned to England—except him. And on certain days, when his loch reflected blue instead of gray, he considered keeping Ewan Wylie’s wild, beautiful land. But a wife? He’d no more desire to marry now than when his father had recommended it ten years ago, or when his mother had demanded it five years ago.
Annie glanced at Angus before crossing her arms over her bosom. “Make him an offer, auld man. Even the Laird of Daftness gave ye a sportin’ chance to bargain for this place, foolish though his conditions were.”
Releasing a disgusted snort, Angus shoved back from the table. “Ye’ve gone soft, lass. Coddlin’ Huxley like yer favorite wee lamb.”
“He’s put up with yer rubbish long enough. And I’ve listened to the same argument too many times.” With a scrape of her chair, Annie stood, took a long drink of her cider, tipping the cup back until John saw her pale throat ripple. Then she slammed the cup down on the table. “Finish it.”
Angus went silent, staring at his daughter with a worried glower. “This isnae like ye—”
“I’m losin’ my patience.” She was also losing her color again, her mouth losing its quirk. “He paid me a kindness today. He deserves somethin’ in return.”
“He’s had a fine meal—”
“Make an offer. Or ye can bluidy well make your own gravy from now on.”
“Christ on the cross, lassie, dinnae say such foul—”
“Go on.” Her chin jutted a challenge as she met Angus’s ferocious glare with her own.
> Angus slid his wrath in John’s direction. “Fine. Here’s a wager for yer bonnie lamb. I’ll agree to divide the commonty rights as Huxley last proposed.” Slowly, Angus grinned. It was not a pleasant sight. “Provided he meets the terms of the original deed. Two years’ residence.” He paused, appearing to savor the moment. “And he must win the event of my choosin’ at the Glenscannadoo Games, else forfeit the land to me.”
When Annie sighed and came around the table to pat John’s shoulder in sympathy, he knew he was in trouble. “Well, we tried. I reckon England’s winter will be kinder to yer frilly petticoats than Scotland’s. Ye can be thankful for that much.”
Slowly, John set his fork beside his plate. The china was chipped in two places. The fork was tarnished and bent.
His gut began burning. Hardening. The itch grew unbearable. “Perhaps I would be. But I do not intend to leave Scotland before winter.”
Hands on hips, she bent forward and caught his eye. “No? Ye watched the games last summer, aye?”
“Yes.”
“And ye saw the MacPhersons trounce every last man the way I stew onions for my gravy—’til they’re all soft and puny.”
He had, indeed. Angus’s sons had trouble finding competitors, as few men wished to suffer such humiliation. They dominated every event, from the foot race to the bagpiping.
But John Huxley had been issued a challenge. True, it had been a long time since he’d felt the adventuring fire. And perhaps this fire was momentary, a flash of irritated pride at MacPherson’s grin and Annie’s remark about petticoats. But it was there.
After a long, cold, dry spell, the fire was there.
“We have a wager, MacPherson,” he said, plucking up his knife to butter his bread. “May the best man win.”
Chapter Three
TlU
Yellow leaves crunched beneath Annie’s boots. Last night, it had iced rather than rained, making the cart path through the narrow glen a test of boots and balance. Blowing out a breath that fogged white in the cold, she climbed over a fallen log and glanced ahead toward the loch.
It sparkled blue amidst frost-dusted pines. Bare white birch danced in its reflection. This loch was smaller than Loch Carrich, though still long and deep, a watery gouge at the center of a curving valley filled with all manner of wonders.
Two of them crossed the path ten yards in front of her. A stag and a doe.
She halted. Waited. They were cautious, making their way down to the loch for a morning drink, likely. After a pause to blink in her direction, they continued on. Just then, a fawn left the brush where he’d been hiding and followed his mother.
“Would ye look at that, Fin?” she breathed. “A family.” Without thinking, she reached for Finlay’s hand. Her fingers curled in upon themselves. Empty.
God. Nearly a month without him, now. She swallowed and forced herself to continue on. To move.
Hurting helped no one, least of all Fin.
Today was about helping him find his way back to her. She slipped on a patch of ice. Slammed an elbow into a birch trunk. Shoved herself forward. Cursed everything and everyone who had been so bloody useless.
Mrs. MacBean. Angus. Herself most of all.
She’d gone over and over Mrs. MacBean’s books. Most of them were pure nonsense. She’d discovered a decent salve for her stepbrother Broderick’s shaving rash, but apart from that, useless.
Two days ago, she’d stormed out of Mrs. MacBean’s cottage when the old woman couldn’t remember whether the book she’d dug out of her flower bed addressed ghosts or faeries. Turned out it was a guide to Glaswegian breweries and public houses. Apparently, there was some fine beer to be had near the rope manufactory if one didn’t mind the stench.
Yesterday, Annie had stormed back into Mrs. MacBean’s cottage with five fresh loaves of bread and a demand: “Dinnae tell me what ye’ve read,” she’d snapped, dropping her basket on the table. “Tell me what ye ken.”
Mrs. MacBean’s good eye had looked her up and down. “About ghosties? Not as much as ye’d suppose.”
She snorted. “Nae doubt of that. Just tell me what ye ken. Apart from where to have a pint in Glasgow.”
“They’re slippery. Waitin’ til dark to appear. Never stayin’ long enough for conversation. Unsociable pranksters, the lot of ‘em.”
“Finlay isnae like that.”
“Aye, lass. He’s not.”
“He enjoys a good jest now and then.” She’d remembered his Fin Grin. His laughter when he was giving some unsuspecting MacDonnell the chills. She’d swallowed a lump. Blinked until the watery haze passed. “But he’s a braw laddie.”
“Right ye are.” The old woman’s bony, spotted fingers had drummed on the arms of her chair. “Mayhap he’s nae like other ghosties.” The old woman’s gaze fell to where Annie’s hand reflexively covered her ribs. “What do ye ken of the lad?”
“He’s been with me since I was wee.”
“Since yer mam died, aye?”
Annie nodded. “His mam died, too, before he did. He stayed behind to … find her, I suppose. Then he couldnae find his way out.”
“Likely he felt a kinship, ye bein’ so close to his age. Losin’ yer mother. Must be why he attached to ye.”
And he’d been connected to her ever since. Until last year, when she’d begun to lose him, their tether deteriorating and Finlay struggling mightily to keep it intact. Losing his color. Losing his hold. Fading away.
Gone.
“I’m sorry, lass. I was certain the thistle amulet would work.”
“They werenae meant to be worn, ye daft auld woman. I had to use Angus’s liniment to clear up the chafing.”
“Many a Highland clan wears them proudly.”
“On their banners. Because a prickish weed that injures ye when ye step on it is a fitting emblem for this place. They dinnae wear the nasty things round their necks.”
Confusion had clouded the woman’s brow. “Mayhap a carvin’ of a thistle would have sufficed.” She’d shrugged. “These are deep mysteries we seek to plumb, lass. Dark forces and hidden realms. Answers willnae come easily.”
“Or, in yer case, at all.”
“Now, if ye kenned where he was buried, that would be somethin’.”
Annie had glared hard at the old woman. “I told ye where he was buried a year ago, the first time ye asked.”
Mrs. MacBean had blinked, her milky eye beginning to wander. She’d scratched her head. “Ye did?”
“The auld churchyard, up near the castle.”
“Oh. Well, why didnae ye say so?”
Now, the morning after her conversation with the half-mad, all-befuddled Mrs. MacBean, Annie ventured from MacPherson land onto John Huxley’s land on a daft mission. The castle sat at the northern end of the loch, isolated deep in the valley, a half-hour’s walk from MacPherson House.
What would she say to Huxley when she arrived? She didn’t know. She hadn’t seen him since he’d devoured her venison with jealous zeal, then accepted Angus’s ridiculous wager. Afterward, he’d donned his hat, handed her the three skeins of thread she’d dropped in the square, and driven away in the pouring rain, uttering only a terse, “Good evening, Miss Tulloch.”
He was odd, the Englishman. Stubborn. Reserved, though she would have bet her best boots that reticence went against his true nature. She teased him about being so handsome he near blinded a lass, but in truth, his demeanor dulled the shine. If the man ever let loose with a genuine grin, God help every female with working parts.
As she rounded a stand of birch, the castle came into view. Craggy gray stone jutted upward between the loch’s shore and a backdrop of dark pines. Mist rose from the water like clutching fingers. Light danced through varying shades of white and green.
From this vantage, Glendasheen Castle looked fair enchanted.
The house wasn’t a true castle, of course, but a hunting lodge built by one of the MacDonnell ancestors. T
he roof, newly repaired with black slate, was a series of steep gables, including a hexagonal tower on one corner. The windows were all narrow, but there were a goodly number, and they glinted with new glass. The garden around the house’s ground floor had been cleared of brambles and castoff fieldstone. Instead, it now had a shorn lawn, low hedges, and several old pines.
She wondered if Huxley had made similarly impressive progress on the interior. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys, so the place hadn’t killed him yet.
Good. She liked the man, though he was addled to accept Angus’s wager. Stay in the glen through a Highland winter, only to be humiliated in front of the entire village before losing his land entirely? He must enjoy suffering.
By the time she arrived at the castle’s heavy oak door, her nose was numb and her teeth were grinding against a chatter. She lifted the iron knocker and pounded it seven times.
No answer.
Seven more times. “Huxley!” she bellowed, glaring up at three stories of gray stone and fanciful pointed arches. “Ye’ve a visitor!”
Nothing.
Damn the man, she would have liked to warm herself by the fire before mucking about amidst the dead. “Dawdling Englishman,” she muttered, making her way toward the pine woods beyond the garden, where the old churchyard lay. “Cannae even drag yer arse out of bed to answer the bluidy door.”
Past the main stand of trees flanking the castle, a weed-choked clearing dotted with decrepit stone markers and birch saplings surrounded the skeleton of the old church. Two high walls still stood, but everything else was rubble. Every spring, the ruins filled up with ferns and moss. Birds nested in the crannies and took flight whenever someone drew near. She’d always felt the place had a bit of magic in it. But as autumn wore into winter, it just felt frozen.
