The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Huxley turned, blinking as though he’d forgotten he’d anchored her by his side to “observe.”

  “I’ve never been to an opera, English. And I dinnae intend to go. Why should I pay for a gown made especially for doin’ somethin’ I’d never do?”

  “Ladies in London—”

  “I’m nae goin’ to London.”

  “Edinburgh, then. Regardless, London sets the fashions.”

  She crossed her arms and glowered up at the man who knew far too much about ladies’ clothing. “I thought that was Paris.”

  His sigh was pure exasperation.

  “Isnae that where yer mistress was from?”

  Ruddy color stained his cheekbones. “Former mistress. You asked how I knew so much about—”

  “The modest one, aye?” She snorted. “Doesnae sound so modest to me.”

  “Modiste, Miss Tulloch. She was a modiste.”

  “I dinnae need an opera dress.”

  The yellow-haired dressmaker, who’d been gaping throughout their exchange, decided to add her nonsense to the conversation. “You may call the ensemble an evening gown, if you prefer, Miss Tulloch. One needn’t wear it solely to the theatre.” Mrs. Baird was pleasant for a shop owner. She had a bonnie face that made it difficult to tell her age. And she spoke with the light Scottish inflection Huxley had been encouraging Annie to adopt.

  Annie hated her. Which made no sense, since the woman had been perfectly polite since they’d entered the Inverness shop an hour earlier. She hadn’t sneered at Annie’s hair or mocked Annie’s trews or implied Annie was mad even once. Rather, she’d welcomed them into her shop with a warm smile. Mrs. Baird had remarkably lovely teeth.

  Another reason to hate her.

  The shop was a pleasant place, large and airy with white draperies everywhere and clean windows looking out on High Street. It was the kind of place where her mother might have worked, had she not had Annie to care for.

  Annie imagined it was the kind of shop Huxley’s not-so-modest mistress might have run in Paris.

  Her stomach burned. She narrowed her eyes upon Mrs. Baird before replying, “Mornin’ dress. Evenin’ dress. Dinner dress. Walkin’ dress. What a load of shite.”

  The woman’s yellow eyebrows arched. Huxley ran a hand over his jaw.

  “I’ll nae be changin’ my gown every time I visit the privy. I’d never get anythin’ done.”

  Huxley’s jaw flickered. “Please excuse us, Mrs. Baird.” He grasped Annie’s elbow. “We’ll only be a moment.”

  The yellow-haired, bonnie-faced, white-toothed woman smiled. “Of course.”

  Annie’s stomach burned hotter as Huxley tugged her to the opposite corner of the shop, near the windows and the small sofa where Mrs. MacBean appeared to be dozing. “Well, now, ye appear to be developin’ quite the affection betwixt ye, English. Ye’ve a taste for dressmakers, I see. Mayhap ye should make her yer mistress.”

  He spun her to face him. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

  “Nothin’ at all.”

  “Do you want to be a lady or not?”

  Her chin went up. “Aye.”

  “Then, you must dress like one.”

  “A gown or two will do fine.”

  “No. It won’t.” He released her arm to prop his hands on his hips. Then, his gaze flickered to the window as though he was having trouble looking at her without throttling her. “You clearly don’t understand the task you’ve taken on.”

  “Are ye callin’ me daft?”

  Bright hazel eyes came back to fix upon her. “I’m saying you will fail. Is that what you want?”

  She snorted. “Now, who’s daft?”

  “Bloody hell, woman.” His glower darkened into a storm. “Listen carefully. Ladies do not concern themselves with their skirts catching fire in the kitchen. Do you know why?”

  She didn’t bother answering. It was usually best not to interrupt when a man was having a wee fit of temper.

  “They do not cook. Rather, they order their cook to cook. They do not clean. That is what maids are for. Neither do they concern themselves overmuch with ‘getting things done.’ Because most of their tasks have no particular timetable. They manage their household. They plan entertainments. They embroider. When the weather is fine, they ride or take a pleasant walk.”

  “Fascinatin’.”

  “They wear morning gowns whilst they drink tea and write gossipy letters to their cousins. They wear walking gowns whilst they visit shops and spend their husbands’ money. They wear evening gowns for dinner, ball gowns for dancing, and opera dresses for attending the theatre. Ladies strive to be pleasing, modest, and inoffensive. They do not speak of visiting the privy or use the word ‘shite.’”

  The burning in her stomach hardened into stone. He’d told her this endeavor would suffocate her. Suddenly, she could feel it doing precisely that.

  His eyes lit. “Ah, understanding at last.”

  “So, I’m to be useless.” She flicked the white curtain on one side of the window. “Bland and decorative. Like draperies.”

  “Precisely.” He didn’t appear pleased about it. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he wanted her to abandon her goal. But that would mean he preferred her as she was, which made no sense at all.

  She crossed her arms. “Well, I dinnae ken if I can be bland, English.”

  This time, he was the one who snorted.

  “But decorative. Perhaps that I can do.”

  That straight, refined nose flared. Hazel eyes ran from her forehead to her feet. For some reason, she felt his gaze like a stroke. “I agree. First, you’ll need to be … fitted.”

  She frowned. Why was he speaking to her bosom? “Aye. But I cannae afford all those gowns. Angus will have a bluidy apoplexy.”

  “Do not concern yourself with the expense.”

  She chuckled. “Ah, ye’re amusin’, English. I havenae married a lord just yet. I’m afraid we rustic, non-decorative sorts must earn our livin’ before we spend it.”

  “I will take care of it.”

  He spoke the absurdity so calmly, she needed a moment to recover. Another moment. Or three.

  “Dinnae be daft.”

  “Husband hunting season begins in spring. Gowns take weeks or months to make. You haven’t time to—”

  “You are not payin’ for my clothing, English.”

  “Oh, but I am. This is part of your training.” Slowly, he smiled. “As your instructor, I insist.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  The blend of arrogance and satisfaction in his gaze confounded her. He appeared to believe he’d won a victory. “When you marry, your husband will pay for all your gowns. He’ll consider it a routine expense.” He leaned closer and flicked the same curtain she had earlier. “Like buying new draperies.” His grin sent a swooping pang through her belly. Daft, charming Englishman.

  She squinted at him, shaking her head. “Just how wealthy are you, English?”

  “Wealthy enough.”

  “Well, it’s driven ye mad.”

  “Only you could accomplish that, Miss Tulloch. Only you.”

  An hour later, Annie awakened Mrs. MacBean from her nap, and they headed out of the dressmaker’s shop and into the draper’s shop next door.

  Huxley’s behavior continued to baffle her. She cast a glance at the odd Englishman, who’d worn that same triumphant expression ever since she’d tacitly agreed to let him spend ridiculous sums on her gowns. What did he think he’d won?

  Watching him discuss rich, plum silk with the gentleman behind the counter, she shook her head again, unable to untangle the answer. It wasn’t only his claim on her dressmaker bills, either. When Mrs. Baird had started to take Annie back into a curtained area for measuring, he’d tried to follow them.

  His triumphant gleam had dimmed briefly when Mrs. Baird halted him with a starchy glare and a firmly closed curtain. Before that, his eyes burned a h
ole in Annie’s plaid. What did he suppose she hid beneath it—gold bullion?

  Perhaps that was why he was so eager to pay for her gowns. He thought she kept treasure stitched into her trews. In truth, all she had beneath her clothes were drawers and serviceable linen stays. The corset had no boning, no real structure. She’d crafted it to lace in front, so it was easy to manage on her own and supported her bosoms enough for comfort. But Mrs. Baird’s dubious, careful glances had told her she’d best order new undergarments if she didn’t wish to be embarrassed.

  She wondered if Huxley intended to pay for her corset. Perhaps her petticoats and stockings, too. The thought made her chuckle.

  “Och, lass. Are ye findin’ that yellow tartan amusin’?” Mrs. MacBean asked. “’Tis a pitiful choice of color, I’ll grant ye. Reminds me of milk gone sour.”

  She examined the old woman, who’d been both patient and generous to accompany Annie all the way to Inverness. “Which one do ye favor, Mrs. MacBean?” she asked, waving to the long wall lined with wool ranging from deepest blue to boldest red.

  Mrs. MacBean gave the bolts a long, considering perusal. Then, she pointed to two, both tartans in shades of brown and green. “These are bonnie. Mayhap ye could make yerself one of those fancy walkin’ gowns out of ‘em.”

  Annie raised a brow. Apparently, Mrs. MacBean wasn’t as sound a sleeper as she let on. “A grand idea,” she murmured, watching the old woman drift toward a display of linen.

  Glancing back to ensure Huxley was still huddled in conversation with the bespectacled draper, she continued along the wall until she reached the tartans at the end. There, in the shadows, she found the one she wanted.

  It was a simple pattern woven of midnight blue and pine green. Similar to her plaid, but perhaps even richer, the wool was soft and fine. She rubbed it between her fingers. It would pleat beautifully.

  Annie waited until Huxley was distracted by more of Mrs. MacBean’s bawdy tales about his “uncle,” then completed her purchases. She tucked the paper-wrapped bundle beneath her arm just as Huxley approached.

  “Night falls early this time of year,” he murmured. “We’d best depart soon.”

  She nodded, ignoring his curiosity about her purchase, and led the way to his cart. She’d already clambered up into the cart’s bed when Mrs. MacBean called up to her.

  “Och, lassie. Might I persuade ye to trade places with me? I’m fair weary after our long travels.”

  Annie frowned. She didn’t look weary. She’d spent two hours in the dressmaker’s shop napping. But old people tired easily, and it was no bother to comply, so Annie made up a pallet of blankets and straw for the woman then climbed onto the bench. Huxley handed her another blanket as he took his seat and started the horses forward.

  Odd how large he seemed beside her. Their thighs were different sizes—his were thick, indeed. Thick and muscular. The length between his hip and knee was nearly twice hers. Then there were his shoulders. Were they wider than when she’d first met him? Possibly. He’d been working like a bloody draft horse to restore his castle. Additionally, he’d been heaving cabers and stones every day, as she’d instructed. That would add muscle to any man. She blinked as she realized she was staring at his jaw. The one that flickered when she vexed him. The one that made her glow.

  She sighed. It was daft to moon over the Englishman. The man’s sole aim was to sell his land and leave. Her sole aim was to marry someone else. Besides which, he seemed a mite cynical toward women—especially ladies. Which was strange, considering he was so knowledgeable about them.

  Still, he was the bonniest man she’d ever seen. His lashes were a pure luxury. His eyes, with their gold-glowing, changeable hues made her think of a woodland sunset. And his lips—good God, they were—

  “Do you intend to use that blanket? Or merely clutch it like your favorite doll?”

  She frowned. “Why did ye insist on payin’ for my gowns, English?”

  He cast her a sideways glance. “Perhaps I like the thought of you being beholden to me. Perhaps I’m betting it will ensure you keep your end of our bargain.”

  She snorted. “Ye wasted yer coins, then. Ye dinnae need such a debt. I’ve given ye my word.”

  “Hmm. I prefer more tangible bindings.”

  Why was he staring at her hands that way? She couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Well, whatever the dressmaker charges ye—”

  “The draper, too.” His mouth quirked. Again, that hint of triumph entered his expression. “Don’t forget him.”

  Odd, exasperating Englishman. “I’ll be payin’ ye back for everything ye spend.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Aye, I will.”

  He didn’t reply, but his answer was clear. He wouldn’t accept repayment.

  “Look, English. As matters stand, you payin’ for my clothing makes it appear I’m yer …”

  His jaw hardened. His thighs flexed. He stared straight ahead. “My what?”

  Mistress. His mistress. But she couldn’t say that. There was too much between them, too much that tempted her to brush the lock of hair from his forehead or soothe that hard jaw with her hand.

  “Kin,” she finished. “Mayhap a sixth sister.”

  Those bonnie eyes lit and burned. “Nobody would mistake you for my sister, Miss Tulloch.” He licked his lips, stared at hers, then tore his gaze away. “Nobody would be that blind.”

  She swallowed and let silence fall between them as they crossed the bridge and left Inverness behind. Wind came up, damp and icy. She shivered and unfolded the blanket he’d handed her earlier. A bundle of letters tied with twine tumbled onto her lap.

  “What’s this?” She plucked them up to examine them.

  “My correspondence, obviously.” He frowned and reached for the bundle. But, seeing his eagerness to remove them, she held them away.

  “Are these from yer family, English? This top one appears written by a woman. A lady, perhaps.” She grinned as he frowned deeper. “I’ve heard ladies enjoy writin’ letters with their mornin’ tea.”

  “It’s from my mother.”

  She plucked through the corners of the stack. “And this one?”

  “My father.”

  The last four were from three of his sisters and his boyhood friend, Robert.

  She examined the bundle carefully. “Fine paper, these. Every single one.” She wrapped the bundle in a second blanket and tucked it into the corner of the cart beside Mrs. MacBean. “Yer sisters married well, then.”

  His tension eased once the letters were out of sight. “You might say that.” A small smile curved his lips. “The oldest, Annabelle, married my best friend.”

  “Robert?”

  His smile widened as he nodded. “They live near my parents in Nottinghamshire. Their youngest son is named for me.”

  “They called him ‘English,’ then?” she teased.

  He laughed. It was the first time she’d seen him do so with such ease. “Only you are permitted to use my special Highland moniker, Miss Tulloch.”

  His broad grin struck her speechless.

  She swallowed, tilting dizzily at the sight. Dear God, did he realize the effect he had merely by smiling? She hoped not. It was dangerous—a bit like being blinded by the sun.

  “They called him John,” he said proudly, his smile lingering as he turned to watch the road. “Last I saw of him, he could fit in my pocket.”

  Annie spent the next two hours querying him about his family. Apart from the occasional odd hesitation and careful dodge, he seemed eager to tell her about them. First, he shared stories about his childhood in Nottinghamshire: fishing with his hands in a rock-strewn river, sledging with his sisters when they had a good snow, playing soldiers with Robert until well past dark, and crashing his neighbor’s phaeton into a hedgerow.

  “To be fair, I was twelve,” he explained. “I’d never so much as ridden in a phaeton, let alone driven one.”
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  Then, he described his parents. His mother was fond of long hugs, strategic meal planning, and cats, which made his father sneeze. His father, according to Huxley, had a decidedly tolerant disposition.

  “My family was always a bit unusual in that regard. Mama and Papa preferred to allow their children to grow in their own directions.” Huxley chuckled. “It made for a number of eccentricities.”

  “How so?”

  “All sorts of ways, really. Kate is the youngest. She quotes Shakespeare in casual conversation and attempts to sing far too frequently. My second-youngest sister, Eugenia, is obsessed with hats. So much so that she worked as a milliner until she married last spring.”

  Despite the chill of the evening air, his affection for his family warmed her. She wanted to hear more. “What is she like?”

  “Eugenia? Charming. Opinionated—about feathers in particular. Never minces words. You and she would get on famously, I expect.”

  Annie doubted it. She’d never gotten along with other females.

  “Let’s see. My third-youngest sister, Maureen, enjoys cookery even more than you do. Every Christmas, she makes these little cakes.” Sadness clouded his smile.

  Christmas was only a week away. Annie imagined he would miss spending it with them. Perhaps she’d invite him to dine with her and the MacPhersons. They weren’t his family, but at least he wouldn’t be alone. Yes. That was the solution. She’d insist he join them for Christmas dinner. And Hogmanay, too. And Twelfth Night. Did he bother celebrating Twelfth Night?

  Before she could ask, he continued, “Jane is the second-oldest. She and her husband live in Yorkshire with their vast brood of offspring. Jane would collect every book in the kingdom if she could. Despite having two libraries, she insists her husband’s definition of enough is never quite enough.”

  Annie raised a brow. “Two libraries? I’m beginnin’ to understand why a bill from an Inverness dressmaker doesnae so much as flutter those bonnie eyelashes of yours.”

  His smile faded. His jaw flexed. It was a long while before he answered coldly, “Whatever wealth I own has been earned, I assure you. Every farthing.”

  She frowned. Obviously, she’d touched a sore tooth. “I didnae assume otherwise. Now, who drowned yer drawers in starch all of a sudden?”