The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  His hands curled into fists upon the table. God, she was infuriating. And God, he was hard as stone feeling those lush, soft breasts brushing his chest. “Do me the courtesy of answering, if you please.”

  Her exasperated sigh washed warm over his lips and jaw. “And they call me mad.” The hoarseness in her voice, along with the way she arched against him, contradicted her words. “Very well, English. Ye’re a man. Happy?”

  Yes and … no. If she’d held out much longer, he’d have an excuse for satisfying his craving. A mistake, of course. Annie Tulloch was the last woman he should want, much less bed.

  But want her he did.

  He must extract himself. Distance himself.

  She cupped his jaw, her touch light. Tentative. Then, her hand slid down the side of his neck and flattened on his chest.

  The unexpected caress nearly buckled his knees.

  “Ye ken I only meant to tease ye a wee bit, English. ’Tis plain ye’re not a woman, though ye’re bonnie enough to make one envious.”

  He stood rigid for a long minute, breathing her clean, sweet scent and willing his body to obey him.

  She slid her hand down his ribs and gave his belly a pat. “A fit man, indeed. We’ll have a goodly start on yer trainin’. There, now. Feel better?”

  His control was shredded, so he couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping. It emerged as a rusty cough while he braced himself against the table. “You manage men quite well, Miss Tulloch.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “So, what do you really want from me in exchange for helping me win my wager?”

  She stiffened. “I told ye.”

  “I thought you were insulting me again.”

  “Dinnae be daft. I need someone to teach me to be a lady. Ye’re a gentleman.” She paused. “Most of the time. And ye have five sisters. Surely ye ken what’s necessary.”

  Slowly, he forced himself to back away from her. To look her in the eye. To assess her seriousness. “Why me? Why not the laird’s wife or some other female?”

  Annie’s eyes hardened. “No females.”

  “It’s true I know a great deal about … ladies. But a genteel woman will have knowledge I cannot possibly—”

  “I dinnae get on with other women.” Her chin tilted to that familiar, defiant angle. “’Tis you or nobody, English. Ye’ve fine manners when ye’re not out of temper. I only need ye to teach me the important bits.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “Doesnae matter.”

  “It does.” He frowned at her, frustrated now for a different reason. She made no sense. “Do you intend to travel to London? Edinburgh? Attend a soiree? Be presented at court? Each of these will require different skills—”

  “I intend to marry a lord.”

  He’d been stomped by a horse once. The ill-tempered Arabian had taken exception to the heat, thrown him off its back and broken two of his ribs for good measure. Annie’s declaration had a similar, lung-flattening effect. Which explained his taut, painful silence before he could inquire, “Anyone in particular?”

  “Nah. I dinnae ken many titled men.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the table, nibbling her lower lip. “Only Gilbert MacDonnell, really. His title is naught but a jest. And he’s married. And daft.” Her nose scrunched. “His friend, perhaps. The Lord Lockhart. We spoke that day in the square. I wasnae at my best, but mayhap he willnae remember.”

  The prickling fire in John’s chest should have died the moment she mentioned Lockhart. He should be glad she wanted his help with pursuing another man. A Scottish lord.

  Yes, relief would be the proper response. She’d told the truth; she didn’t want to marry John. And he had no intention of marrying her. So, they were in agreement. No reason to feel … whatever this was.

  “I should think you’d prefer a Highlander,” he murmured.

  “Oh, aye. But beggars cannae be choosers. Too few Highland lairds have kept their titles, and those that have behave more like Londoners, with their hired men removin’ their clansmen so they can fill their lands with sheep.”

  “Yet, you intend to marry for a title.”

  She sighed. “Aye. I must.”

  “Why?”

  “Now, that’d be my business.”

  Frustrating woman. “And you want me to train you to be a lady so you may lure one of these men to the altar.”

  Her temper caught fire, resulting in a hard shove to his chest. “I’m nae aimin’ to nab his purse, English, so ye can stow yer suspicions up yer—”

  “Calm yourself. I made no mention of—”

  Her chin tilted defiantly. “I’ll be a good wife.”

  They all thought that. “Of course.”

  “I’ll feed him proper.” She nodded to the basket of bread on the opposite end of the table. “I’ll let him do all the touchin’ and ruttin’ he wants.”

  A second flood of prickling fire chased the first, stronger this time. He blinked. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say or why he suddenly wanted to beat a man he’d never met until nothing remained but a pair of boots.

  “Whoever I wed will be pleased as a cow rootin’ in the oats bin, ye can be sure of that.”

  John couldn’t look at her any longer. He stalked to the hearth and began stabbing the coals with the iron. Sparks flared upward.

  “A lord will wish to marry a lady.” Annie fell quiet for a heartbeat. Two. “I’m many things, English, but that isnae among them.”

  Something twisted hard inside his chest. He thought of his sisters, particularly shy Jane and rebellious Eugenia, who had struggled with being accepted. They’d found husbands, to be sure, and married well. But before their matches, they’d suffered for being different. And unlike Annie, they’d been trained in gentility from the cradle.

  Returning the iron to its holder, he pivoted to examine her—the red hair, ragged and banner-bright. Eyes so direct, they stripped a man of his will. A mouth that scalded without mercy. And her clothing. Good God, she needed a modiste. Did she even wear a corset?

  He tore his gaze away from her bosom. Best not to think about that.

  “This won’t be easy, you know,” he warned. “You’ll have to change …” He shook his head and swiped a hand over his beard. “… everything. The way you speak. The way you dress. The way you walk and sit.”

  “Aye.”

  “Titled men are a hunted breed.” He should know. “They’re cautious. Discriminating. Proper decorum is merely the start—every young lady manages that much. To win a lord, you’ll need to be charming. Flattery, not insults. You understand?”

  She swallowed. “I ken.”

  He came around the table to examine her more closely. The woman wore breeches, for God’s sake. Breeches. Her boots were worn and muddy, her belt plain, her gloves cracked. All easily remedied by a dressmaker, of course. But her figure was plumper than the current fashion. Her walk was more striding than elegant. And while her voice was melodic, her brogue was thick. She’d have to soften it.

  “Enjoyin’ the view, English?”

  When he raised his gaze, he kept it direct and hard. “You’re going to hate this. It will suffocate you.” For some reason, the thought stung. “Are you certain it’s what you want?”

  Before she answered, he noticed her right hand curling then stroking the side of her waist. “Aye,” she said, chin rising. “Make me a lady and I’ll make ye a Highlander. That’s my offer.”

  His first instinct was to decline. But John had always despised losing. Whether it was a cricket match or a horse race or a negotiation over shipping costs, he played to win.

  Over the past few weeks of throwing hammers and lifting logs and heaving thirty-pound stones, one thing had become clear: Without help, he would lose MacPherson’s wager. Badly.

  The cost of Annie’s help would be high. Could he spend hours every day for months alone with her? Yes. Could he do so without giving i
n to his bizarre, Annie-fueled lust? Less certain.

  She moved closer, gazing up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers. Then, she swallowed hard. A tiny, vulnerable crinkle appeared between her brows. “Will ye help me, English?”

  His decision clicked into place against his will. “Very well, Miss Tulloch.” Damn, he was going to regret this. He knew it, sensed it, like a storm rolling toward his ship. “When should we begin?”

  Chapter Six

  TlU

  “What a wee caber ye have there, English. I ken ye’re a dainty sort, but surely ye can do better.”

  John gritted his teeth and let the one-hundred-fifty-pound log he was holding topple into the grass. It landed with a resounding thud. “How big would you like it, Miss Tulloch?”

  “Och, the bigger the better. A man isnae a Highlander until he kens how to handle sizable wood.”

  He chanced a glance behind him at the mouthy woman who thought she was terribly amusing. She wore her usual garb, her usual smirk. And she was staring at his backside.

  “Are you here to train me or hurl insults?” He raised his voice to be heard over the waterfall.

  Sparkling blue eyes shifted up to his face. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “A bit of both, I suppose.” Grinning, she sauntered deeper into the clearing where he’d been practicing his tossing. Her boots rustled amidst frozen grass. Her breath plumed white amidst the frigid air. Her hair was copper fire amidst a background of dark pines, crystalline river, gray rock, and white cascade. “This is a grand spot, English.” She sighed and spun in a circle. “I’ve only ever been here in summer.”

  The waterfall tumbled off a heavily wooded slope, landing in a deep, rocky pool after a twenty-foot drop. The small brook snaked through his land, tumbling down the valley until it branched into the river that fed the loch.

  “So peaceful in winter. Just wind and water. ’Tis magical,” Annie murmured, turning to face him. Her eyes were intensely blue and bright this morning. Her cheeks were pink, as was the tip of her nose.

  John had been working for an hour already. Even without his coat, the chill didn’t bother him. But she was much smaller and wearing only a plaid for warmth. Striding to where he’d laid his coat on a large boulder, he offered it to her.

  Red brows arched in surprise. “If ye want that cleaned, hire a maid.”

  Hissing an exasperated breath, he draped it around her shoulders. “You should have a cloak. A plaid is insufficient in this weather.”

  Oddly, she didn’t reply, but her breathing quickened with little white puffs.

  As he adjusted his coat’s buttons, he wondered what smelled so good. He’d noticed it before when she was near. Had she been cooking something before she came? She smelled … sweet. Clean. He frowned. Was it apples? Honey? He leaned closer, breathing deep. Sugar? No, richer than sugar. More floral and golden. Caramel, perhaps?

  Whatever it was, it made him hungry. Ravenous, even. His hands tightened on the wool until they formed fists. He swallowed then saw she was staring at his mouth.

  Immediately, he released her and stepped back. Turning before she noticed how her scent affected his body, he lifted the caber and propped it against his shoulder. “Come show me the proper way to toss this thing, Miss Tulloch.”

  For the following hour, she instructed him with methodical patience and seriousness.

  If only his mind were so disciplined.

  “Lace yer fingers, English. That’s it. Sliiide them down to the base. Now, when ye’re ready, use yer thighs the way I told ye. ’Tis more a lift than a lunge. Ye dinnae want to lose control of yer caber, or this will be over before it starts. Good. Steady. Steeeaaady. Aye, ye have it. Deep breath, English. Deeeep.”

  “God Almighty,” he muttered, wondering why everything she said had erotic overtones once it entered his ears. Perhaps he was deranged. Frustrated, certainly, but he’d never had this particular problem before.

  “Focus, now,” she advised, positioning herself ten feet to his right and pointing toward the west end of the meadow. “Start runnin’. But remember, it isnae speed ye’re after so much as a proper angle. Ye need thrust, English. Good, strong thrust.”

  Bloody hell. His hands were sweating. Slipping. He wished he could blame the weight of the caber or the fatigue of his muscles. But it wasn’t that. It was her.

  He started forward. The caber tilted. Began to overset.

  “Now, English! Toss it now!”

  Planting his feet and heaving the thing with all his might, he watched as it tumbled end-over-end before landing with a teetering thud.

  At the three-o’clock position. It was supposed to land at twelve.

  “Well, now, ye did fine, English. Just fine.” She huffed as she trotted over to stand beside him, her hands on her hips. Then, she patted his shoulder in a comforting fashion. “If distance were the aim, ye’d be a champion tosser.”

  “Distance is not the aim.”

  “No, indeed.”

  Flexing his sore hands, he cursed. “It is harder than it looks.”

  “Aye. Most things are.”

  “What did I do wrong?”

  She stroked his arm—short, soothing caresses of her fingers. “Nothin’ a thousand Scotsmen havenae done a thousand times. Dinnae fash.”

  He frowned. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes other men made. He wanted to be better. Do better. Win. “Explain,” he demanded. “If you please.”

  Sighing, she reached for his hand.

  Her constant touching was a problem he didn’t know how to solve. He craved the pleasurable sensations she caused. Yet, he must maintain a proper distance if he wanted to keep his lust under control. Balancing the two urges was harder than landing a caber at twelve o’clock.

  “When ye fight the weight of the wood,” she said, “all ye’ll do is lose. Instead, ye must use it to build the momentum ye need. It starts with yer grip.” She opened his fingers and demonstrated by clasping his hand. Then she tapped her knuckles against his midsection. “Dinnae hold the caber too high on yer body. No higher than yer navel, ye ken? Work with the weight, nae against it.” She tapped his shoulder next. “Position it here. Find which spot gives ye the most control. Betwixt these two muscles, perhaps, or against this bone.” Finally, she laid her hand on top of his shoulder blade, which, by necessity, meant her left breast brushed his ribs. “Ye’re grippin’ too tight at the beginnin’, which causes the caber to rise too high, which makes it a bit wobbly from the outset. When ye start yer run, ye’re wantin’ everything to go perfectly, but it doesnae, which means ye panic a bit and run too long. By the time ye toss the bugger, it’s tiltin’ every which way. So, ye add too much thrust at the wrong time, hopin’ to make up the difference. That’s why ye have no trouble with turnin’ it over but cannae control how it lands.”

  She’d said much that was useful and helpful and wise. He knew that. But his head felt three feet thick.

  “Are these errors solvable?” he asked.

  “Aye. Mostly, ye must practice. That’s what everybody must do, even the MacPhersons. Practice until it feels like ye were born with a caber in yer wee fist.”

  God, she smelled good. And she was so damned soft. And he loved the sound of her voice, with the trilling Rs and the long, rounded Os. He wanted to plant his shoulder in her belly, pick her up, and carry her off somewhere warm.

  Perhaps he’d been in the Highlands too long. He was a civilized man, for God’s sake, not a barbarian.

  “Och, ye’re hot as can be, English.” She squeezed his upper arm and patted him again, her fingers testing the hardness. “Get some rest. We’ll practice more tomorrow.”

  Blast. She was right, but he didn’t want her to leave.

  She pivoted and headed toward the boulder. “I left some stew for ye at the castle,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I noticed ye ate the bread already. I brought more loaves, but ye should hire a cook.”

  Her voice might as w
ell be the sound of the waterfall for all that he heard of it. His attention had riveted to her hips. The way they swayed with a captivating twitch. His blood pounded hot until he could feel it pulsing his skin.

  She stripped off his coat and laid it across the rock. Her fingers traced the folds as though reluctant to leave it behind. “Perhaps I should have a cloak, eh?” Her grin weakened his knees.

  “You’ll need a dressmaker,” he called, his voice embarrassingly rough.

  “Nah.” Her chin went up. “Nothin’ a dressmaker can do that I cannae do cheaper.”

  A small smile tugged at his lips. “If cheap were the aim, Miss Tulloch, I’m certain you’d be champion.”

  She laughed. Not a chuckle or a giggle, but a full, rich laugh that rang in harmony with the water. “Ah, ye’re amusin’, English.”

  He strode toward her, plucking up his coat along the way. “What if it rains tomorrow? Or snows?”

  “Then, we’ll begin my lessons.” She cast him a sidelong glance as they started down the castle trail. “Ladies are indoor creatures, aren’t they?”

  His mood darkened at the reminder. Annie Tulloch changing herself into a watercolor miss indistinguishable from any other woman felt wrong. Her reasons for doing so felt worse, like destroying a vivid Goya painting to sell a common gilt frame.

  They passed the churchyard as the trail curved south. Annie slowed. “Do ye intend to restore this as well, English?”

  He frowned at the tangled, crumbling mess of weeds and gravestones, old arches and toppled gates. “Not much to restore, really.”

  “Aye, I suppose that’s true.” She sniffed and stepped over a root. But her gaze, he noticed, remained on the old church. “’Tis haunted, anyhow. Ye wouldnae wish to disturb the spirits.”

  He sighed.

  “I’ve told ye already, English. This glen is hummin’ with ghosties.”

  “Right.”

  “Didnae Wylie ever tell ye about the bats?”

  “Yes. He told me.”

  “Aye, well, they were real. And the damage was considerable. Gives me the shivers.”

  “You know, bats do occasionally take up residence in old structures. No spirits required.”