The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Must marry a lord.”

  Another kick. Another moment to catch her breath. “Wha … Fin. What the devil are ye …? Nah. That’s pure rubbish. The only laird I know is Gilbert MacDonnell. He already has a wife. A bit puny for birthin’, aye, but they’re wed, right enough. Besides, his title is naught but ceremonial. No land to speak of. He’ll be lucky to have a lad to muck out the stables after his debts are paid.”

  “Annie.”

  “I cannae marry a short, daft laird who isnae a laird at all but a wee tartan peacock.”

  “A lord, not a laird. Not … MacDonnell.”

  “Lords marry ladies, Fin. The silk-wearin’ sort. Not madwomen from the arse crease of Scotland.”

  “Must marry a lord. Must bear a son. Destiny.”

  Her breath left her chest in rapid pants. “A son. Are ye … are ye sayin’ …” She swallowed, her mind reeling. “Ye were meant to be laird, aye? Ye were killed before ye’d completed yer destiny. Is that what ye mean?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against her shoulder. “Wish I could be with ye, Annie.”

  Even within the dream, she felt her heart pounding. “Ah, God, Fin. Ye wish to be reborn to—to me?”

  He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t correct her.

  “Finlay.” She drew back to look into his sweet eyes. Heavens, he was pale. “Ye need me to marry a lord so ye can be reborn and take yer rightful place. Is that what ye’re sayin’, laddie?”

  It had to be. Why else would he make such a bizarre demand? Why else would he speak about destiny?

  He closed his eyes again. “Cannae wait long, Annie. Will sleep now. Gather strength.”

  “No. Please—”

  “I leave because I must.”

  She sensed him fading, and her heart howled its desperation as she tried to gather him close. Her hands moved through air.

  “Marry a lord, Annie.” His voice had faded to a whisper, yet it thrummed with odd power. “Destiny waiting.”

  Her Fin had fought to stay with her, and the effort to remain tethered these many years had worn him out. Now, it was her turn to fight for him.

  And she was a quivering coward. In her past battles, she’d known how to fight because her best weapons had been the ones used against her. When the battles went badly, she’d had the MacPhersons at her back and Fin by her side.

  This was something else altogether.

  In the dream, she couldn’t hold him any longer, for he’d faded into light and mist. She felt only a bit of coolness against her cheek. And inside her hand, where he’d always offered her comfort, she felt his absence.

  But this time, he left her a gift. A reminder.

  When she awakened to darkness, her face wet and her chest aching, she opened her palm. And saw a wooden thistle.

  Chapter Five

  TlU

  Standing on a scaffold three stories high while raising a pane of glass from the ground with a rope and pulley, John couldn’t afford distractions. Yet that was precisely what the bright flash of scarlet approaching along the castle road constituted—a dangerous distraction.

  He lost focus long enough for his grip to slacken. The rope burned his palm. The glass he’d been hoisting swung into the scaffolding’s lower brace with a crack.

  Damn Annie Tulloch and Angus MacPherson and every Scot ever born.

  John lowered the now-useless glass to the ground, glanced at the tower window he’d intended to repair for the fourth time. Then, he cursed. Aloud. For long minutes.

  “Is that you foulin’ the air with yer vulgar tongue, English?”

  “This is my castle. Who else would it be?” he grated, leaning a hand against said castle and eyeing the web of cracks in the last pane of glass he’d installed.

  “Och, I can fair see up yer skirts from here.” Indeed, her chuckle now floated up to him from the base of the ladder.

  He hadn’t bothered to look down, as he feared what he might do if he glimpsed her smirk again. “We agreed you shouldn’t come here alone, Miss Tulloch.”

  “Nah. You agreed. I let ye think ye were right. Sometimes a man needs a wee victory amidst all the losin’.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Now, there’s a ripe question. Come down and let’s discuss it.”

  “No.”

  “Someplace warm would be grand. ’Tis colder than Grisel MacDonnell in ten feet of snow. I’m breathin’ frost and pissin’ icicles out here.”

  “Then, turn round and head back to—”

  “Yer kitchen is a disgrace to kitchens—”

  “—MacPherson land where you belong. I’ve no time to deal with you today.”

  “—but the hearth is goodly sized. That’s where I’ll be when ye come down and stop yer fussin’.”

  “No one invited you. Go home, Miss Tulloch.”

  “I’ve a proposition for ye, English,” she said, her voice traveling toward the entrance. “And some bread, if ye find that more temptin’.”

  He closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Gathered his control.

  In the end, he wasn’t certain which promise made him follow her—the bread or the “proposition.” He wanted it to be the former. It should be the former. She made the best bread he’d eaten since he’d left France.

  But he suspected it wasn’t the bread that drew him.

  Upon entering the kitchen, his body reacted to the scarlet-haired tyrant with a hunger that had nothing at all to do with his stomach.

  She bent forward, poking at the low fire. As usual, her plaid swaddled her from shoulders to knees. Today, she’d added a blue knitted scarf, lowering it off her hair. Fiery strands flew outward in a messy dither.

  He frowned. The plaid was thick wool, so it would provide some warmth, but she should have a cloak. A hooded one lined in fur, preferably. And she should be wearing a gown with layers of fine wool and soft linen, along with stockings to insulate her legs and feet.

  Furthermore, she shouldn’t be jaunting up to his castle in the middle of November without a chaperone.

  She shouldn’t be taunting a man like him.

  And she certainly shouldn’t be bending over in front of him. It gave a man indecent notions.

  He shook his head and forced his gaze away from her hips. She had, indeed, brought bread, he noted. At least ten loaves overflowed the basket on the table.

  “Och, ye’re quick, English. I reckoned ye’d sulk a wee bit longer. Hungry, eh?”

  She’d turned and now grinned at him with a teasing blue glint.

  His hands clenched before he forced himself to relax. The itch would go away when she did, he assured himself. The sooner he heard what she had to say, the sooner she’d leave.

  “The bread is appreciated, Miss Tulloch,” he said. “However, I find your continued visits intrusive and vexing.”

  “Do ye? Aye, I suppose ye would.” She searched his kitchen before snatching a knife he’d left on a shelf nearby. Then, she began slicing one of the loaves. “Look, English. You and I arenae so different.”

  She’d removed her gloves, he noticed. Her hands were bare around the knife. Small yet strong. Her knuckles were almost … pretty.

  “Ye’ve made a poor bargain with Angus. If ye hope to win, ye’ll need help.”

  “Are you offering?”

  “I’m comin’ to that.”

  “Get there quickly, Miss Tulloch. I’ve tolerated a great deal, but my patience is at its limit.”

  Cornflower eyes lifted to his. The knife paused. “As I said. Nae so different.” With swift efficiency, she retrieved a pan, a plate, and a jar of butter before continuing, “Now, Angus said ye must win one event, so that’s in yer favor. But which one? The hammer? The stone put? The caber? Nah. The one he chooses.” She clicked her tongue. “Bad bargain, English. He’ll make it nigh impossible to guess, which means ye must be skilled enough in all of them to defeat a MacPherson.” She buttered the slices and
placed them in the pan then held the pan over the fire until he heard sizzling. “Impossible. Ye’ve nothin’ but heaps of impossible waitin’ for ye, followed by cartloads of defeat. Humiliation, too. Dinnae forget that.” She flipped the bread with a flick of her wrist then shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Unless ye have a secret weapon.”

  “You,” he said dryly. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “My generosity is a bit overwhelmin’, I ken.”

  “I won’t marry you, Miss Tulloch.”

  She’d turned away from the hearth while they were talking, so he had the pleasure of watching her jaw drop. As she was in the midst of sliding the bread from pan to plate, one slice skidded onto the table. She didn’t notice, too busy glaring at him. “I dinnae recall askin’.”

  He leaned forward and snagged the plate of toasted bread. “Then, what do you want from me?”

  “Ye claim to be a gentleman, aye?”

  “A fact we’ve established.” He bit into her bread and nearly groaned. Buttery. Warm. A hint of crunch over a cloud of softness. It was worth every second of vexation.

  “Have we, now?”

  “You’re not in my bed, despite repeated attempts to land yourself there.” He took another bite. “I’d say that establishes my gentlemanly credentials rather well.”

  Her frown suggested confusion. But she couldn’t be confused. Coming here was a provocation. Feeding him was flirtation. Talk of “propositions” and grinning with that secret, shared humor was outright seduction. Not to mention all the references to his “bonnie eyes” and his “tender bits.”

  No, Annie Tulloch knew what she was about. It was as blatant as her hair.

  “Better women have tried such tactics with me,” he continued. “Women who knew their craft as well as you seem to know breadmaking.” He saluted her with his toast. “Delicious, by the by.”

  Blue eyes narrowed to a glint. The pan thudded onto the table.

  “They failed.” He kept his voice hard. Better to be clear. “You will fail. Stop trying.”

  “I want to marry ye—”

  He smirked around a new mouthful. “I knew it.”

  “—like I’d want a disease involvin’ pustules in unmentionable places.”

  Swallowing nearly choked him.

  “Given how many ‘better women’ have tossed their skirts to the skies for the honor of landin’ in yer bed, I’m guessin’ I cannae have one without the other.” She leaned forward, glaring across the table. “I’ll take neither. Guid luck to ye, Mr. Huxley.” With a nod, she bent to retrieve her gloves from the corner where she’d tossed them, giving him another spectacular view of her backside.

  Then, she raised her scarf over her hair and left his kitchen.

  Left him. Alone.

  She’d called him Mr. Huxley. He’d grown accustomed to “English.” On her lips, those two syllables lilted with amusement. The sound was almost … affectionate.

  Inexplicably, he wanted to hear it again.

  Glancing down at his toast, then at the basket of bread she’d made for him, then at the pan she’d used to cook for him, he discovered his appetite had vanished with her.

  Bloody hell.

  “Miss Tulloch!” he called, abandoning his plate. No answer. He started after her, lengthening his strides to cover more ground at a faster pace. She was small. Surely she couldn’t have gone far.

  Outside, wind sent a cold, stinging blast through his heaviest coat. “Miss Tulloch!” He scanned the lawn before loping toward the castle road. Beyond the second clump of birch, he saw her tugging her scarf around her cheeks as she charged away from him.

  He sprinted to catch up with her. “Stop,” he panted. “Stop, woman. Good God, you move fast when you’re angry.”

  “Ye wanted me gone. No point dawdlin’ about it.”

  “I don’t want you gone.”

  “It’s what ye said.”

  He clasped her elbow, pulling her to a halt. “You mentioned a proposition.”

  Her lips were tight, he noticed, tight and pale. She refused to look at him, instead gazing out across the loch. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Nonsense. You didn’t walk all this way in the frigid damp to abandon your purpose.”

  She snorted. “My proposition requires that ye be a gentleman with some knowledge of proper manners. ’Twas my mistake.”

  Rarely had John been accused of poor manners, but the uncomfortable prickle of heat rising from his neck suggested Annie’s charge had merit. He had been rude. A natural reaction to her hoydenish ways, perhaps. Still, he didn’t like the paleness of her lips, the bruised quality to her glare.

  “Perhaps I was … too plain in my speech,” he conceded.

  “Perhaps ye were an arse.”

  He found his lips twitching. “Perhaps I was.”

  She sighed then glanced down to where he still held her elbow. For some reason, he’d been absently stroking her with his thumb.

  “My bones are pure ice, John Huxley. Invite me to warm myself by yer hearth, and I’ll consider forgivin’ ye.”

  He released her, bent into a deep bow, and gestured toward the castle. “My dear Miss Tulloch, won’t you join me by the fire?”

  Her chin rose along with the corners of her mouth. “Very well, English. If ye insist.”

  By the time they arrived back in the kitchen, he’d begun to question the wisdom of his invitation. Whether Annie meant to tempt him or not, he found her bizarrely arousing. The way her lips pursed around simple words—aboot and luik and looosin’. Or the way she touched him as casually as she might stroke a pet. Or that amused chuckle after she’d lobbed an effective insult.

  God, maybe he should go for a swim. The loch was frigid this time of year.

  “… is why ye need me, English. The caber toss is more about aim than distance. I ken ye think ’tis merely the liftin’ ye must master, but that’s only the beginning.”

  He blinked, realizing he’d been staring at her the way a cat might watch a tasty, unsuspecting bird. Meanwhile, she pottered about his kitchen, rearranging his pans and crockery while lecturing him on how Scots prefer to heave logs.

  He cleared his throat. “So, you’re offering to teach me the proper techniques for each event.”

  “Aye.”

  “Forgive me, but aren’t the games a male domain?”

  “Aye.” She grinned over her shoulder. “And a splendid spectacle they are.”

  Why her comment should make him want to grind his teeth, he couldn’t say. He rubbed a hand over his beard and shrugged off the odd resentment.

  “But what ye’re really askin’ is how I ken enough to train ye. Simple. I’ve watched the MacPhersons train—and win—for nigh on twenty years.”

  He nodded. Having applied her advice on hammer throwing, he’d noticed improvement in both control and distance. She knew her subject well. “And the favor you would ask in return?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she wandered into the larder he’d recently cleared and called out her displeasure. “Ye need more shelves in here. Explains why ye’re so dainty. Scarcely enough storage to keep the rats satisfied.”

  “Miss Tulloch.”

  She emerged shaking her head and dusting her hands. “I’ll speak to Angus. Ye should be permitted to hire a lad or two. Mayhap a maid or cook.”

  “The second half of your proposition?”

  At first, she avoided his gaze. But eventually, she came to stand before him. Her cheeks were flushed. The heat from the fire, perhaps. “I would have ye instruct me,” she declared.

  He frowned. “In what?”

  “How to be a lady.”

  For a moment, he simply glared. It was one thing to continually call him “bonnie” or “dainty”—which, at six feet tall and a stone shy of two hundred pounds, he decidedly was not—or complain about his “soft Englishman’s hands.” But implying he wasn’t a man at all was going too far.

&nb
sp; “Enough,” he uttered. Before she could smirk, he moved into her, forcing her to stumble backward. Then, he braced her lower back and turned their positions until he could bracket her against the table.

  Her eyes flared as he loomed. Leaned in. Brought their mouths within inches and let her feel the difference in their sizes.

  “English? Wh—what are ye—”

  “I must seem rather civilized to you, Miss Tulloch.” He kept his voice low and calm, though even he could hear the darkness threaded inside.

  Bewilderment crinkled her brow. “Aye,” she said cautiously.

  “Civilization is useful.” Slowly, he let himself smile. “Until it no longer serves a man’s purpose.”

  “Have ye been eatin’ many queer-lookin’ mushrooms of late, English?”

  He couldn’t help himself. Crowding closer until the folds of her plaid pressed flat against his coat, he lowered his head and watched pink bloom bright in her cheeks. “I am a man,” he murmured in her ear.

  “A-aye.”

  “Say it.”

  “Why?”

  He nuzzled the fiery wisps along her jaw. “Just say it.”

  “Well, I can feel yer whiskers, right enough. Most women cannae grow a beard. Except Grisel MacDonnell’s mother. I’ve long hoped Grisel might inherit the ability. She’s most deservin’.”

  Annie’s scarf was bundled around her neck, and the rest of her was swaddled in wool. But he wanted to kiss her … absolutely everywhere. Her throat, her breasts, her thighs. Between her thighs. He wanted to strip her bare right here in his shambles of a kitchen then carry her upstairs to his shambles of a bedchamber. He wanted to prove he was a man and she was a woman and this agony of desire was natural. Not shocking or inappropriate or indecent.

  “Admit I am a man, Miss Tulloch. A simple request.”

  “A daft request.”