The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  She shot him a sharp, blue glare. “Ye’re mockin’ things ye dinnae understand.”

  He shrugged on his coat and offered his hand to assist her over a fallen log.

  She ignored him and managed on her own.

  “Miss Tulloch, I’ve been to many places.”

  A snort.

  “Everywhere I went, people believed with great certainty in things no one can see but which must be real. Realms beyond my imagination exist, they told me. Places where creatures of myth and magic dwell. Ghosts and ancestors. Angels and demons. Shapeshifting mule women and impish sprites who will clean your laundry if you leave them a bowl of fruit.”

  “Well, that sounds daft. ’Tis milk that pleases them most.”

  “When you’ve heard a thousand of these stories without seeing a single impish laundress or, for that matter, your spectral grandfather returning from the grave to reveal where he stashed the good cognac, one does begin to question whether it’s all a lot of rubbish.”

  She went quiet.

  He watched her hips and noted how her neck had stiffened. “I meant no insult.”

  “Nah, of course not.”

  “I’m merely saying every culture I’ve encountered has similar tales. And none contain the slightest jot of proof or rationality.”

  Spinning to face him, she raised her chin and countered, “Have ye ever asked yerself why ye hear the same tales over and over, John Huxley? Hmm?”

  He frowned. “People need stories to explain things they don’t understand. Why a flood happens, for example. Or why a crop fails and a village starves. They want misfortune to make sense. But it doesn’t. It just … happens.”

  She huffed and shook her head. “So, ye ken everythin’, and all these people ye’ve met in all these places ken nothin’. Is that it?”

  “No. That’s not what I—”

  “Aye, we rustic sorts are no cleverer than the dirt we muck about in.” She kicked a clump of said dirt. Half-frozen leaves flew.

  “I never said—”

  She stomped toward him, poking his chest with an angry finger. “Or perhaps we’re all mad,” she hissed. “And ye’re the only sane one.”

  He captured her hand. “If I asked you to believe in some outlandish thing you’d never seen, for which there was no proof apart from superstition, would you do it? Would you leap from the top of the waterfall if I promised wings would sprout from your shoulders?”

  She blinked. Slowly, her eyes lost their fire. “Unlikely.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, stroking the back of her hand. She really should have a cloak. Her fingers were like ice. “That would not make you right or wrong. Merely sensible.”

  Her eyes lowered until he couldn’t see the blue any longer, only gingery lashes against creamy skin. “Fair enough, English.”

  He frowned, noting how she’d gone from defiant to muted in seconds. He didn’t like it. Worse, he didn’t like being the cause.

  Gently, she tugged her hand away and started down the trail, pausing a moment to gaze at the churchyard. Then, she ran a hand over her ribs and disappeared amidst the pines.

  John followed slowly, examining the churchyard he often ignored, trying to see what Annie saw. There was nothing. Nothing but arches for windows that had long since shattered into dust. Nothing but weeds and crumbled stones and rust. The decay of an abandoned faith.

  Annie saw magic amidst the ruins. John only saw emptiness.

  Shaking his head, he quickened his pace. But at the last bend in the trail, just before the churchyard disappeared behind thick saplings and heavy pines, he heard an odd, mournful caw. He stopped. Retraced his steps. Peered through an opening in the brush.

  There, atop the tallest arch, perched a raven. Or, at least, it had the shape of one. But its feathers weren’t black. They were white. Its beak was pink. And its eyes were pale—perhaps even blue. He drifted closer, curious about the bird. He’d never seen one like it before, though he’d heard tales of such oddities from a naturalist chum at Oxford.

  A white raven. How rare. How extraordinary.

  The bird called again, scratchy and swooping, like a widow weeping for her lost man. Several more times: caw, caw, caw. The white bird turned its head this way and that. Then, it looked down upon him. Blue eyes flashed. Were they blue? Yes, he thought so.

  Rain struck John’s cheek. He reached up to wipe away the drop. Felt a sudden, frigid gust. And when he looked again at the peak of the tallest arch, the bird was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  TlU

  Halfway through their fourth round of Lady Lessons, Annie concluded their bargain had been a bad idea. Granted, she was exhausted from staying up the previous night. Angus had arrived home with wretched news about Broderick, and she hadn’t been able to sleep.

  But Huxley’s mood was even blacker than hers. It seemed the more time they spent together, the worse it got.

  “Again, Miss Tulloch,” he ordered from his dark, imperious corner of the drawing room. “This time, do refrain from stomping as though the floor were infested with spiders.”

  She gritted her teeth and crossed to the fireplace before “gliding” back to the lone chair at the other end of the room.

  He sighed. “We’ve discussed this. When you prepare to take your seat, it is a gentle pivot upon your toes, not a flat-footed visit to the privy. Where are the slippers I asked you to bring?”

  “I told ye—”

  “Told you. Not ye. You.”

  “I told you I havenae any slippers.”

  “Haven’t any.”

  “Aye. That’s what I said.”

  He rubbed a hand over his beard—a sure sign of frustration—before bracing his hands on his hips. “All ladies wear slippers, particularly indoors. Half-boots are acceptable for walking dress or riding. Tall boots are not acceptable in the slightest.”

  By God, if he weren’t the only man for a hundred miles who knew the difference between a teacup and a tankard, she’d use her unacceptable boots to stomp his infuriating—

  “Again,” he snapped.

  She started forward, her throat burning.

  “Chin level with the floor. Lower your gaze. Modesty at all times, Miss Tulloch.”

  She raised her chin, lowered her eyes, and tried her best to glide the way he’d shown her—like she was floating. Or balancing a full chamber pot on her head.

  “Do not swing your arms.”

  She stopped mid-glide. Pivoted on her toes. Glared at the man who’d become her nightmare. “If I dinnae move my arms, I’ll look like an eejit.”

  “Nonsense.” He closed the distance between them in two strides and reached for her wrists. His grip was warm and firm when he bent her arms and folded her hands at her waist. His fingers lingered upon hers for long seconds to show her precisely the position he wanted.

  John Huxley, she’d discovered, was a thorough man.

  “There. Pretend you’re carrying a small bird. Step lightly, now.”

  His nearness sent disturbing waves of heat over her skin. The sensation was worst wherever he touched her. Almost tingly. She’d noticed it more and more since that day in the square. At times, such as now, her mind filled with wool and she couldn’t think of a single word to say. At other times, such as the day he’d backed her against his kitchen table and trapped her between those powerful arms, she wondered if she was mad, after all.

  Only a madwoman grew hot and dizzy from the scents of autumn air and fresh-cut pine and a man’s sweat. Only a lunatic thought touching him was worth any risk—and kissing him might be worth more.

  She blinked away the wooliness as he moved back to his corner.

  “Proceed.”

  She nodded, starting forward. “A wee bird,” she whispered. “And a chamber pot on my head.”

  “Shoulders back.”

  “Aye, shoulders—” Her knee bumped the chair, scraping it noisily across the floor.

  �
��Blast. If you wore proper skirts, this wouldn’t happen.”

  “If you’d let me look where I was goin’ instead of starin’ at the floor like a pure dafty—”

  “My instructions were clear, Miss Tulloch. You shouldn’t be staring at the floor, but rather keeping your eyes modestly averted—”

  She grabbed the chair and plopped down on the seat, hooking her elbow over the back. “Why would skirts make any difference?”

  “Skirts give you warning. They get there first.”

  “They catch fire.”

  Now, his hand scraped down his entire face, not merely his beard.

  She grinned. “Do ye ken how many good women have died wearin’ proper skirts round a busy kitchen, English?”

  “God, you are the most vexing—”

  “Too many. I’ll nae be among their number, I assure ye of that.”

  “Your plaid could catch fire.”

  “Aye. But it willnae.”

  Bonnie hazel eyes flared bright gold with increasing temper. “And why is that?”

  She debated whether to tell him the truth. But, in the end, his opinion of her could hardly get worse. Honesty it was. “’Tis magic.”

  “Magic.”

  “From the nether realms. I’ve a friend who dwells there. He blessed this plaid ages ago. Said it would protect me.”

  Another swipe of a lean hand across a handsome, exasperated face. “Must you attempt an outrageous distraction every time you fail a lesson? I don’t have a bloody eternity to waste.”

  “Och, English. Your vulgarity fair singes my wee, virgin ears.”

  “I suspect no part of you matches that description.”

  At first, his snarled jab stung. Then, it made her angry. Then, she noticed he was staring at her bosoms. He did quite often, actually.

  Did he suppose large bosoms meant she’d lie with anybody? Even if she’d wanted to—and she’d seen enough of men’s faults to know better—the MacPhersons would geld every man in the glen first.

  Then there was Fin. No chaperone could be better than an ever-present ghost who looked like a sweet, innocent laddie.

  God, she missed him.

  Which was why she needed to swallow her anger and resume her Lady Lessons.

  She must remember why she was doing this. For Finlay.

  Still, Huxley needed to be set straight. “Is this how ye speak to yer sisters, John Huxley?”

  Hazel eyes dragged up to her face. “No.”

  “Well, now, perhaps it isnae me who needs the lesson in proper manners, eh?”

  A ruddy flush climbed past his beard onto his handsome cheekbones. “My sisters have better sense than to provoke such behavior. They are not hoydens.”

  “And I’m not a tart,” she retorted. “Manners or no, I dinnae deserve to be called one.”

  His shoulders stiffened. After a long, hard silence, he nodded. “Quite right. I apologize, Miss Tulloch. My comment was thoughtless.”

  Thoughtless. Not wrong, she noted. Merely a slip of the tongue.

  Distantly, she heard knocking.

  Huxley frowned and glanced through the drawing room doors toward the entrance hall.

  “Expecting company?” she asked.

  He shook his head and went to answer the front door. She followed closely, curious if her efforts on his behalf had yielded fruit.

  It appeared they had.

  “Mr. Huxley?” inquired the short, brown-haired crofter holding his cap. “My name is Dougal MacDonnell. I’ve heard ye might have a bit of work for me.”

  “Aye, he does,” she replied, ducking beneath Huxley’s arm. “The kitchen floor is a disgrace. And the larder needs shelves.”

  A hard hand gripped her arm, tugging her backward, but not before Dougal gaped and exclaimed, “Mad Annie. Is that ye?”

  “Do not call her by that name again,” Huxley’s command whipped over her head as he pulled her back against his body.

  “Och, aye.” Dougal lowered his head. “Sorry, Annie. Just surprised to see ye here.”

  She started to answer, but Huxley pulled her farther from the door and tucked her behind him. Then, he snapped, “She is Miss Tulloch.”

  “Easy, English.” She patted his arm, noting how hard the muscles were—unusually so. “I’ve kenned Dougal since we were wee.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “He needs work. You need workers.”

  “Your father—”

  “Angus has agreed ye should be allowed to hire whoever ye like.”

  Until now, Huxley’s glare had been boring a hole in Dougal’s forehead. Suddenly, it turned on her. “What changed his mind?”

  She shrugged. “I might have mentioned ‘twould be to his benefit if ye restore the castle so he doesnae have to.” She smiled. “Assumin’ he wins the wager, of course.”

  His gaze lingered upon her, assessing and a bit puzzled. Then, it hardened. “Return to the drawing room,” he murmured, nudging her in that direction.

  “Dougal has two brothers and several cousins with bairns to feed—”

  Huxley’s stiff posture and flickering jaw signaled his anger, though she found it baffling. She’d done him a favor.

  “Miss Tulloch. The drawing room. If you please.”

  She sniffed. “Fine. Just dinnae let Dougal talk ye into hirin’ his sons for yer stable. Laziest laddies I ever did see.”

  In the drawing room, she practiced her “glide” from one corner of the room to the other. After seven or eight circuits, she discovered exaggerating her movements made them easier, though no less foolish. “Wee bird and chamber pot,” she whispered over and over, her neck lengthened in a swan-like fashion. Then, when she felt perfectly ridiculous, she glided to the chair. “Pivot on toes, float onto seat.” She spun and sank down. Because of how she’d positioned her hands, they landed neatly in her lap.

  Her eyes widened. She’d done it. By heaven, she’d mastered sitting. She laughed aloud.

  “You’ll need skirts and slippers.” The deep, masculine murmur came from the doorway.

  She popped up and spun, sending the chair screeching across the floor again.

  His arms were crossed, his expression dark and unreadable. “Have you ever had a proper fitting before?”

  She swallowed, her heart pounding harder than it should have from gliding and sitting. “For boots.”

  He eyed her feet and shook his head. “We must find you a dressmaker.”

  “I can sew my own—”

  “A milliner, too. Inverness may offer someone acceptable. Edinburgh would be better.”

  Annie hated this feeling—as though she’d been shipwrecked in a foreign land where nothing was familiar, but she was expected to speak the language. “I dinnae see why I cannae make my own—”

  “Because you would be mocked. Leave the gowns to those who understand current fashions.”

  “I hate shoppin’. It’s too costly.”

  He frowned. “The MacPhersons are far from poor. Doesn’t your father give you an allowance?”

  Her chin went up. “Stepfather. Angus pays the bills I have sent to him.”

  “Then, he’ll pay this one.”

  An embarrassed flush heated her face. “I dinnae want him to.”

  “Why? He knows about your intention to pursue a lord, yes?”

  She looked down at her boots.

  “Miss Tulloch.”

  Then, she looked at the Englishman’s boots. They were superior to hers, she noted. Probably made in London.

  “Miss Tulloch.” His voice was lower now. Closer. His boots moved within a few inches of hers. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because he might take it as a rejection of everything he’d given her. And she couldn’t bear to hurt that beloved old man.

  Huxley’s sigh ruffled the hair along her forehead. “It’s understandable you’d wish to minimi
ze expenses for your family’s sake, but you haven’t chosen a meager endeavor. You’ll need his support. I’m certain if he knew you intended to marry, he would be pleased to—”

  “Do ye ken what Angus said when I first met him?”

  A pause. “Tell me.”

  “The day before they married, my mother explained we were leavin’ Inverness to live with a new family. She said I’d have a father and four brothers.” She’d been nervous, her mother. Her fingers had fluttered oddly, tucking her red hair behind her ears and fussing with the collar on Annie’s cape. “I kenned why. She was a widow. We’d run out of peat more than once.”

  She remembered her mother making a game out of the cold, swaddling Annie in several blankets and pretending they were on an expedition through a frozen wilderness. Och, Annie. Do ye see the bear? Perhaps he’ll be a friendly sort. Perhaps he’ll have a wee cub ye can cuddle. While Annie laughed and played, her mother had frantically tried to finish her sewing before the light disappeared. In winter, without candles or wood or peat, Lillias Tulloch’s hours to earn a living were short. She hadn’t had the luxury of remaining unmarried.

  “She met Angus when he came to town for supplies. He threatened a shopkeeper who was fussin’ over a bill she hadnae paid. Then he paid it. Then he offered her a position as a governess for his sons.” Annie smiled. “When she explained she had a daughter, he offered to marry her. All within an hour of first settin’ eyes upon her. He’d never admit it—to this day, he claims he only married her because his sons needed civilizin’—but I think Angus was smitten from the first.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She needed a husband.”

  “Hmm. What did you think of him?”

  “I didnae meet him until the day of their wedding, outside the kirk doors. Angus and his sons came walkin’ up the road wearin’ their kilts and lookin’ like a band of black-haired giants from a storybook.” She chuckled at the memory. “I was so frightened, I started greetin’.”

  “Greeting?”

  “It means weepin’. I was wee.” She shrugged. “I’d never seen a man his size before. But Angus wouldnae have it. He went to his knee right there in the dirt. He showed me his wrists and said, ‘Have ye ever seen such a big set of bones as these, lassie?’ Of course, I hadnae. But it stopped me cryin’. Then, he says, ‘Feel it. Go on, feel it.’ My hands were so tiny, even two of ‘em didnae cover half of his wrist. Then, he says, ‘From now on, yer mam and ye are a part of me as much as these bones. And ye need never fear again, for I’ll stand betwixt ye and all the dangers of the world.’”