by Elisa Braden
She shrugged, but her grin faded into wariness. “I’ve more interest in yer kitchen than yer money, English. This place isnae fit for aught but burnin’ water. How are ye not starvin’?”
“Explain about the window.” With a glare, he edged closer.
She blinked up at him. Retreated a step before her cheeks went fiery, her chin defiant.
“I gave you what you asked, Miss Tulloch. Or, more precisely, what MacPherson sent you here to gather. Now, you will explain why the tower window keeps cracking. Then, you will leave.”
“Angus didnae send me. If he knew I’d come, he’d be—”
“Yes, yes. Denials noted. The window, if you please.”
She glowered. “’Tis cursed.”
With a gusty sigh, he bit down on a foul epithet. “I thought you knew something useful.”
“Such as?”
“Damp weather compromises the frame. Or the stones must be reset. Or the glass must be thicker.” He tilted his head, holding her gaze. “Anything but this superstitious nonsense.”
“A family was murdered in this house. An entire branch of the MacDonnells—”
“Delve into any plot of land in Britain, and you’ll discover death forms the soil beneath our feet. If this place is cursed, we are all cursed.”
She shook her head. “Nae like this. Do ye ken why they call this place Glendasheen?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“It comes from the Gaelic, Gleann Taibhsean. Pronunciation changed a bit over time, I grant ye.”
“Try your bizarre seduction on some other chap.”
“Valley of ghosts. Ghosts. That’s what it means.” She paused. Blinked. Her eyes rounded beneath a frown. “Wheesht. Did ye say ‘seduction’?”
“I’m afraid I’ve work to do.”
“Bluidy hell, English.” She laughed. “First compromisin’ then seduction. Are ye still believin’ I’m here to trap ye into marriage?”
“In my experience, a woman only asks about a man’s wealth when she seeks to marry it. And a lady never asks.”
She held her arms out to her sides and looked down at herself. “Well, now, I havenae the sort of acquaintance with fine ladies and proper gentlemen as ye, English. And I must admit ye’re bonnie as a wee daisy clutched betwixt the teeth of a wee faery floatin’ over a wee waterfall made of sunbeams.” She grinned up at him. “But if this is seduction, I’m dyin’ a spinster.”
He refused to join in her amusement, despite the deep, agonizing itch she sparked throughout his body. “Play the cheeky Scotswoman if you wish,” he gritted. “I know seduction when I see it.”
“Evidently not.” She shook her head in a pitying way. “Ye’re alone too much. Up here in yer castle, nobody to talk to apart from ghosties and yer own sad self.”
“It would be best if you left now,” he snapped. “Before the weather turns.”
She crowded him, reaching up to lay a hand on his shoulder. The position put her body too close to his. “Ye should find a woman to tup ye once in a while, English. Clear yer head.”
The outrageous statement, combined with her outrageous nearness, scattered all thoughts but one—the one he shouldn’t have.
With a fond pat, she sidled past him on her way to the scullery door. “I’m afraid it cannae be me, temptin’ though I am with my many, many charms.”
Her taunt struck him like a stag that hadn’t been watchful enough.
“Oh, and English,” she said, pausing in the doorway as morning light set her hair aflame. “When ye practice the hammer throw, loosen yer hips.” She demonstrated by moving her own hips in a circle.
His mouth went dry. Everything else went hard.
“Then counter the weight of the hammer and extend yer reach.” Again, she demonstrated, stretching her right arm opposite her jutted left hip. “Long strokes. Just at that fine edge betwixt a tight grip and losin’ control. That’s the secret.” She demonstrated the winding motion and the release.
It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
“Keep trainin’, John Huxley.” She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “If ye hope to win against Highlanders, ye’ll need all the practice ye can get.”
Chapter Four
TlU
Being hoisted seven feet in the air then hauled like a bag of tatties wasn’t Annie’s favorite method of disembarking from the MacPherson Distillery wagon. But it did seem to please her brothers, so she allowed it.
Presently, she steadied herself by clasping Campbell’s thick neck while he lifted her down. Her eldest stepbrother was also the tallest at eight inches above six feet, so it felt a bit like being on horseback. Except horses didn’t have Campbell MacPherson’s grim glower.
She patted his powerful jaw as he lowered her gently to the ground in front of MacPherson House. “It wasnae yer fault.”
He grunted. “Whose, then?”
Three of her brothers had returned safely from a delivery to Edinburgh. The fourth, Broderick, was in a fair spot of trouble. Shooting an exciseman was no wee matter to be resolved with a bit of coin. Broderick had been detained pending trial, even after the MacPhersons had applied maximum pressure to their contacts within the government.
“Skene,” growled Alexander, hauling a cider barrel on his massive shoulder. “Bluidy putrid pile of shite. I’d lay odds that’s who set him up.”
Rannoch carried a second barrel inside. His usual wicked grin was gone, replaced with a deadly glint. “We’ll see how certain the evidence is when Skene’s ballocks are lyin’ betwixt his boots.”
“Damage is done,” said Campbell. “Isnae Skene we’re fightin’ now, but the bugger who laid his fist on the scale.”
Annie followed her brothers through the door and busied herself removing her hat and donning an apron. It was best to remain distracted, else she might curl into a wee knot of dread and pain.
First Finlay, now Broderick. Losing one was unbearable. Losing both would kill her.
The third of four brothers, Broderick was the best of them all—generous, charming, easy-tempered for a MacPherson. When Campbell went too quiet, Broderick played his fiddle fit to make stone weep. When Alexander descended into one of his black moods, Broderick found him a task that didn’t involve killing. When Rannoch tupped the wrong man’s lass, Broderick made peace.
And when Annie spoke in passing about needing a new kettle, Broderick returned with a shiny new copper one.
Och, brother, ye shouldnae spend yer money on me.
Ye always take good care of us, Annie. If I cannae spoil ye from time to time, then what’s the point of havin’ money at all?
He was the face of the MacPherson Distillery, the presentable one. And a rival band of smugglers, of which Skene was the leader, had arranged for an exciseman to pay an unexpected visit during the MacPhersons’ recent delivery. Broderick had handled the man in his usual fashion with a discreet payment. But as he left the warehouse, someone had fired upon the exciseman—someone other than Broderick.
Campbell, Alexander, and Rannoch were convinced it was David Skene, who despised all MacPhersons, and Broderick in particular. He’d been a rival for years, causing mischief for the distillery through territorial scuffles and thievery. Every now and then, the MacPhersons swatted him like a bothersome midge. Skene’s smuggling operation always reemerged and the mischief resumed.
But none of Skene’s attacks had been this severe. Unless the MacPhersons found a way free him, Broderick could hang.
Angus had gone to Edinburgh to meet with solicitors and ram a few heads together, hoping to discover the identity of Skene’s influential partner. The “putrid pile of shite” obviously had one. Skene was clever and vicious, but Broderick’s troubles seemed too well orchestrated.
Skene had someone powerful in his pocket. And that man was pressuring the courts to charge Broderick with murder, even though the exciseman had not yet died from his wound. Campbell had assigned guar
ds to the exciseman and paid a surgeon to keep him alive. Only God knew whether he would recover.
She’d kept busy since her brothers’ return a few days past. She’d washed and mended their trews and plaids, stirred up a bit of salve for their aches and scrapes, fed them enough lamb pies and hare stew for ten MacPhersons, and forced each of them to vent their frustrations by adding to the wood pile rather than draining the whisky supply.
Busy was better. It shoved helplessness down beneath the surface.
As she followed her brothers into the kitchen, she ordered two hired lads to tend the horses. Then she fetched flour from the larder and began making bread.
While Rannoch and Alexander carried the cider down to the cellar, Campbell sat at the kitchen table, his massive arms folded over his chest. “I should return to Edinburgh.”
She added salt to her bowl. “Nah. Ye should stay here and manage the new shipment, as Broderick asked ye. We’ll need the funds to fight this.”
As usual, Campbell bore his burdens with as few words as possible. But she knew that jaw. The tension there spelled violence. He and Alexander had once been soldiers—among the deadliest of their Highland regiment. Campbell could kill Skene five times before dinner and scarcely mind the mess. So could Alexander, albeit with less mercy and more mess. Unfortunately, Skene’s death would create more problems than it solved.
“Give Angus a chance to do what Angus does,” she advised, stretching to reach another bowl from the shelf above the sideboard. Campbell stood and retrieved it for her, plopping it on the table before resuming his seat.
His silence was his reply.
She let him stew a bit while mixing her eggs, butter, and milk. “Mind the shipment first,” she cautioned. “Whilst the solicitors work to free Broderick, we’ll deny Skene what he was after.”
Campbell’s eyes narrowed. “Shutting down the distillery.”
“Aye.” She retrieved her bottle of ale-yeast and poured her wet ingredients into the flour before working the mixture with her hand. “Once this delivery is made, ye can send Alexander to do some persuadin’.”
“Why delay? I’ll go tonight,” came Alexander’s reply as he and Rannoch returned from the cellar. Each of them carried a bottle of whisky.
“Och, now,” she chided. “Nae before dinner.”
Rannoch was the first to protest. “Annie, ’tis Halloween—”
“Put the bottles down,” she barked, wiping her sticky hands on a towel before laying damp linen over her dough. “Come sotted to my table, and ye’ll eat elsewhere.”
Alexander scowled, looking every inch the ruthless, black-hearted MacPherson that he was. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
She rounded the table to poke him in his black-hearted chest. “Ye ken I would, Alexander MacPherson. Now, go wash. Ye reek of horse and peat smoke.”
Rannoch smirked in his brother’s direction.
“What are ye grinnin’ about?” she said. “Ye smell worse.”
Her youngest brother sniffed his plaid and grinned wider, his handsomeness a wicked thing. “Yet, the lasses cannae resist, eh?” He swooped forward and lifted her off her feet before she could escape. Then, he heaved her up onto his shoulder as he had when they were wee. “If we cannae have whisky, then ye must make gravy,” he growled playfully. “One way or another, I mean to be sotted ere midnight.”
Rannoch was only an inch shorter than Campbell, so her perch on his shoulder was dizzying. She chuckled and swatted the back of his head. “Put me down, ye dafty.”
He’d always been good with distractions, and his antics lightened her heart for a moment. “Ah, there’s a smile, sister,” he said as he stooped to set her down. “I’ve missed it since we arrived home.”
After shooing the two younger men out to wash, she resumed preparing dinner.
“He’s right,” said Campbell. “Ye have been melancholy.”
She gathered onions from the basket and began chopping. “The news about Broderick wasnae exactly glad tidings.”
“Da said ye havenae mentioned yer laddie in weeks.”
The MacPhersons knew about Finlay, and they accepted she had a friend they could not see. She’d never been certain whether they, like the villagers, thought she simply imagined the boy, or whether they believed she really did have a ghostie attached to her. But they gave her no trouble about it, and she didn’t press the issue by insisting they believe her.
“What’s wrong, Annie?”
She continued chopping, her knife thudding into wood. “’Tis the onions. They make me weep.”
“Nah. Ye were sad before the onions. Before we told ye about Broderick.”
Her knife halted on a downward slice. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she swiped them away with her wrist. “He’s gone,” she whispered.
“Yer laddie?”
She nodded.
Silence. “Have ye asked Mrs. MacBean about it?”
Campbell and Broderick had helped rebuild the woman’s cottage, so they were familiar with Mrs. MacBean’s “expertise” in otherworldly matters.
She nodded again and resumed chopping in angry slices. “Daft auld woman’s no help at all. A few days ago, she had me burying charms and chanting spells in the churchyard up by the castle. I dinnae ken who’s the greater fool, her or me.”
Campbell’s expression darkened. “Ye went there alone?”
“Aye.”
A pause. “Did ye see Huxley?”
She avoided answering, instead scooping the onions into a pot and starting on the potatoes. The MacPhersons were a mite protective. Better for Huxley’s health if they never got any wrongheaded notions about her and the Englishman. “I did everything Mrs. MacBean instructed, with naught to show for it.”
“Perhaps her remedy takes a while.”
“How many bride charms has she given ye?”
“A dozen or so.”
“And have ye a bride?”
His response was a grunt.
Campbell was a strong, braw male in his prime. Like all the MacPherson brothers, he had heavy muscles, a full head of dark hair, stone-chiseled features, and a jaw fit to power a mill. He was five-and-thirty. He should be married by now, charms or no.
She quartered the potatoes and tossed them into the pot. “According to Mrs. MacBean, Halloween is Finlay’s best chance to return. She told me that’s when the realms are easiest to bridge.”
“Tonight, then.”
She nodded, her stomach cramping. What if he didn’t return, tonight or any other night? What if she never saw the Fin Grin or held his wee hand again?
“Would that I could retrieve him for ye, Annie.”
Her heart squeezed so hard, she had to set down her knife and lean against the table. She raised her head to meet Campbell’s gaze, which remained solemn and steady. She nearly crumbled. Her hands curled upon the table’s surface. Her eyes swam. By sheer will, she managed to blink the tears away before they spilled.
“Would that I could thank ye for it, brother.”
Late that night, after her brothers had gone into the village to enjoy the bonfires, whisky, and likely a willing lass or two, Annie curled up beside the hearth in her bedchamber and struggled to stay awake. The day had been long and, with all the fashing about Broderick, her eyes were heavy. But she didn’t want to miss Finlay.
She watched midnight come and go before her laddie finally found his way back to her. He appeared near the edge of the wood beyond Glendasheen Castle. She’d been riding a stag near the loch.
Dreaming, of course. Stags didn’t let you ride them, much less decorate their antlers with daisies. But this one carried her to Finlay, who emerged from behind a tree holding something in his fist. She slid from her perch, sobbing and aching at the sight of him.
He raced toward her, his blue eyes lighting with joy. “Annie!”
“Oh, thank God,” she panted, tears streaming now. “Thank God, thank God.” She fell to her knees upon
yellow leaves and opened her arms to catch him.
He was warm. Finlay was never warm, but here, somehow, he was.
She clutched him so tightly, he wriggled. “I’m sorry.” She kissed his cheeks over and over. Cupped his dear, sweet face between her hands. Ran a hand over his hair. “Finlay. Are ye all right? God, how I’ve missed ye, laddie.”
His wee hand stroked her brow, her cheek. His smile was wide and a little crooked. The Fin Grin. “Nae more than I’ve missed ye, Annie.”
As always, his voice sounded young, but his eyes spoke of centuries.
She could scarcely keep herself together. Seeing him again—the boy who’d been with her always—was a reminder of all she’d lost when he’d disappeared. Her friend. Her wise companion. Her confidant. He’d seen everything that had happened since her mother’s death.
Grisel MacDonnell’s spiteful attacks.
The vicious gossip amongst the lasses of the village.
The loneliness. God, the loneliness.
Dinnae touch Mad Annie, or ye’ll go mad, too!
Finlay had witnessed it all, holding her hand and lending her courage. Without him, she was truly alone.
His hand stroked her cheek again, small and warm. “There isnae much time,” he said gently. “I must tell ye …”
“No, Finlay. Dinnae leave again.” She squeezed him harder. “Please.”
He shook his head. “I want to stay. But I …” He grew breathless, as though he’d been running uphill. “Too weak. Cannae remain with ye the same way as before. Crossin’ betwixt one world and the other … takes great power. Even here in Glendasheen.”
She stroked his beloved cheek, which had begun to pale. “What must I do?”
He held her gaze. Brushed away the tears she couldn’t stop. “I stayed with ye, Annie. Long as I could.”
“Stay longer,” she gritted. “What must I do to keep ye with me? I’ll build a thousand bluidy circles. I’ll recite silly rhymes ‘til my voice runs raw. I’ll—”
“Ye must marry.”
The odd floaty feeling she usually experienced in dreams whipped away, replaced by the distinct sensation of being kicked in the stomach. “M-marry? I dinnae want a husband. I’ve a houseful of MacPhersons to take care of. Besides, a husband will want to … do things. Perhaps pleasant. Perhaps not. But he’ll nae like … well, ye wouldnae understand, wee laddie that ye are. Trust me. In the eyes of most men, I’m—”
