The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Skene is a smuggler. A few years past, he offered to transport MacPherson whisky up to Inverness and down to Glasgow. Broderick declined. Skene hates him. Until now, he’s been naught more than a pest.”

  “So, you suspect he’s behind Broderick’s arrest.”

  “Aye.”

  John frowned. “Has he a partner?”

  She snorted. “Yer thought is the same as mine. That rat-faced bugger is certainly hateful enough to do this to Broderick. But is he smart enough?” She shook her head. “Not likely.”

  “The courts are surprisingly difficult to manipulate. If it were easily done, I’d have settled my land dispute with Angus months ago.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Annie,” he murmured. “Whoever is helping Skene must hold a good deal of sway with the justiciary.”

  “I ken.” She sniffed and straightened her blanket.

  “He’s either blackmailing someone or wielding significant coercion. The kind of coercion only a peer can manage.”

  “Aye.”

  “Do not put yourself between these men.”

  “Broderick is my brother, English. I’ll do what I must.”

  Like bloody hell she would. John would speak to her father. The MacPhersons should be warned. They should protect her from men like Skene. And the harpies in the village. And her own infernal recklessness.

  Behind them, blankets and straw rustled as Mrs. MacBean stirred from her long doze. “Are we nearly there, Mr. Brodie?”

  He’d given up on correcting her in favor of keeping their conversations brief. As it was, he’d never look at butter or root vegetables the same way again.

  “Not long now, Mrs. MacBean. Fortunately, you slept through the more tedious parts of our journey.”

  “Hmmph. That’s just what yer uncle used to say.”

  “Dear God,” groaned Annie. “Not this again.”

  The old woman patted his shoulder fondly. “Did I ever tell ye about the size of John Brodie’s caber, laddie? Now, that was a sight to behold.”

  TlU

  From the moment John delivered Annie to MacPherson House until the moment he walked out the door, he doubted he’d survive the night. On one hand, it was gratifying to know he wasn’t the only one Annie brought to the point of bellowing madness. On the other hand, while she casually dug her own grave, she also dug his.

  Minutes after she led him into the small parlor, three towering MacPherson brothers flanked the door with their arms folded, glowering menacingly in John’s direction while Angus questioned Annie.

  “I left ye a note, auld man. Is it my fault ye dinnae bother with readin’?”

  “Yer note said ye’d gone to the dressmaker.” Angus’s rumbling voice reached a roar. “Ye didnae say in bluidy Inverness!”

  “I didnae say it was here, either.”

  “And ye went with him!”

  “We had a chaperone.”

  “She’s half blind!”

  “She sees well enough to make yer liniment.” Annie shrugged. “Most days.”

  Angus began to redden with rage.

  Annie, of course, could not resist making it worse. “Ye’re just vexed because I’m helpin’ him win yer wager.”

  “I’m vexed because now ye’ll have to marry the sodding—”

  “Rubbish.”

  “—Englishman, which means I’ll never be rid of him.”

  John cleared his throat, preparing to object—or at least correct Angus’s assumptions.

  Annie answered first. “I’ll not be marryin’ Huxley, ye crabbit auld man.”

  Angus crowded his daughter until half of her stood in his shadow.

  She merely raised a brow.

  “Ye’ll marry him if I say ye will.”

  Her chin rose. “That would be daft.”

  “If he’s touched ye, lass—”

  “He hasnae. For God’s sake, he’s nae courtin’ me. He’s teachin’ me.”

  “To do what?” Angus roared.

  “Land myself a lord!” Silence fell, thick with the tension between father and daughter. “I want to marry a lord.”

  From Angus’s sudden stillness, John surmised it was the first she’d told him of her endeavor. Internally, John winced. Angus might be wealthy for a Highlander, but his origins were humble. He had little use for titles and less regard for their unearned power. Hearing that his daughter pursued a husband from the peerage must have felt like a rejection.

  When he finally turned his furious black gaze upon John, the man’s eyes were nearly bulging. Yes, indeed. Rejection and rage. And, because Angus would sooner die than vent that rage at Annie, John became the sole, unfortunate target.

  He attempted reason first. “Calm yourself, MacPherson. There’s no need for violence.” John retreated toward the windows, giving himself room while he braced for attack. Could a man prepare for four sets of MacPherson fists doing maximum damage? Probably not. “I was the one who insisted she obtain a chaperone.”

  Breathing like a bull, Angus shot a questioning glance toward Annie, who nodded.

  “Miss Tulloch seeks to marry a peer,” John continued. “I’ve some … connection to that world. She asked if I might serve as a tutor in matters of decorum.” Unbidden, his eyes returned to Annie, whose hair was damp from the misty night and whose plaid could use a proper washing. Her gaze narrowed as though anticipating harsh judgments of her appearance. If she knew what he really thought—what he really wanted—she wouldn’t be glaring. She’d be blushing.

  Her father was more perceptive. “Huxley, I’ve warned ye already,” Angus growled. “Ye keep those bluidy English hands off my daughter, or it willnae matter whether yer connections include that fat king of yers.” The man stalked toward John, leaning close and quietly growling, “Or an earl’s whelp.”

  John froze. He knew?

  John glanced behind him at the three towering brothers. Rannoch seemed amused. Alexander seemed murderous. Campbell seemed forbidding. Nothing unusual there. Did they know, too?

  Did Annie? She was frowning at her father, arms crossed, head shaking. Annoyed, perhaps. But no. John didn’t think she knew.

  Angus continued his threats at a volume only John could hear. “Unless ye mean to put yer ring upon her finger, lad, ye’d best keep yer distance. No matter who a man is, gelded is gelded, I reckon.”

  His ring? Cold flooded his body. No. He didn’t want a wife. He especially didn’t want one as frustrating and fiery and foul-mouthed as …

  Annie. There she stood, chin tilted and cornflower eyes flashing.

  “Och, ye’re waddin’ up yer drawers fer nothin’, auld man,” she scoffed. “Huxley is too bluidy proper to luik in my direction.” She came forward and tugged Angus’s arm, trying to pull him away from John and soothe him at once. “Dinnae fash.”

  Angus didn’t budge. “He wants ye. I can see it.”

  “Nah. ’Tis likely he’ll marry some milk-faced lass his mother serves up at a Nottinghamshire supper.” Those cornflower eyes caught him unawares. They should be teasing. Amused. They were not. Rather, they seemed melancholy as the moon. “Isnae that so, English?”

  Something foreign moved through him. He couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. All he knew was that the wistful note in her voice made him want to howl. And lift her off her feet onto his shoulder. And haul her out of her father’s house back to his castle. Then, he wanted to …

  His breath halted. His hands clenched into fists.

  He wanted to … God, he wanted to …

  Claim her.

  Yes, that was it. The knowledge surged. Thrummed. It took everything he had to hold still.

  What the devil was wrong with him? He didn’t know, but something obviously was. She was bent on marrying a title—any title—regardless of the man who came with it. He’d spent his life avoiding women like her.

  Apart from which, her father had just threatened to remove what Annie calle
d his “manly bits.” And he heard at least two of her brothers making growling noises near the door. And her hair was a ragged, damp mess. And she couldn’t get through a sentence without cursing. And, despite his best efforts, he suspected she’d never be comfortable dining at his mother’s table.

  And the way she’d spoken to a simple, freckled boy about his new pup had stirred something inside him he didn’t understand. Something needful. Near painful.

  “I should go,” he rasped.

  He didn’t belong here. Annie didn’t belong to him. Or with him. Or beneath him, moaning his name. Yet, he’d spent the day buying her gowns, envisioning her in each one. Fantasizing about how azure silk would look with that fiery hair. Contemplating what a proper corset might do for her lush bosom. Had he lost his bloody mind? Probably.

  “English?” Her brow puckered with concern. “Ye’ve gone a bit peely.”

  “I should go,” he repeated, pivoting toward the door.

  “Angus didnae mean it. He’s just fashed I’ll marry ye and he’ll have to pay someone to cook his dinner.” She followed him to the door where her brothers waited like ominous sentries.

  From inside the room, Angus spoke. His voice was remarkably quiet and threaded with steel. “Ye’re not to see her again, Huxley. No more teachin’. No more visits.”

  Annie spun to face her father. “Dinnae be ridicu—”

  “Haud yer wheesht and listen, lass,” he barked. “Ye seek him out again, and I’ll make that bonnie face of his far less bonnie. That’s a promise. Ye ken?”

  “But I—”

  “Dinnae try me, Annie.” His voice was harsh. Unyielding. “If ye want to keep yer place in my house, do as I tell ye!”

  Shock widened her eyes and rounded her lips. Watching her expression, John knew Angus had never before made such a threat.

  “Da,” she whispered as though it was the only word she had left.

  John hated the hurt on her face. He wanted to gather her in and hold her tight until it disappeared. He’d felt the same after the women in the dress shop had ridiculed her.

  But she wasn’t his. He must remember that. He might have fooled himself for a while, savoring their game more than was wise. She might make him feel alive after a long stretch in the grave.

  But she bloody well wasn’t his. And he was damaging her by pretending differently.

  Using her distraction as an opportunity, he nodded his understanding to Angus, who looked devastated to have wounded his daughter but determined not to show it. Then, John slipped between the tallest two brothers and made for the entrance hall.

  Just as he exited the front door, Campbell caught up with him. “I need to speak with ye.”

  Silent and unsmiling, Campbell MacPherson was intimidating on a good day. Now, in the frost-coated dark, the man seemed more monster than man.

  “Your father made himself clear.” John tugged on his hat. “I’ll keep my distance. Nothing more to say.”

  “Annie mentioned ye ran into David Skene on yer return from Inverness.” Amusement entered the other man’s voice. “She said ye handled yerself in a right entertainin’ fashion. Two pistols. A wild tale about Spanish brigands.” He paused. “Ye kept her safe. I’m grateful to ye.”

  “There was never any question,” John replied softly. “And the wild tale was true.”

  This time, the pause was longer. “Da believes ye’ll use Annie to gain an advantage then cast her aside when ye return to England.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “A man bent on such a scheme would have no use for a chaperone. He’d take what he wanted because he could.”

  “Indeed.”

  A nod was followed by another deep, considering silence. “Skene’s attacks have been bolder than I anticipated.”

  John scowled at the memory of Skene’s hand reaching for Annie. “You’d do well to dispatch that problem sooner rather than later.”

  “Aye. We plan to.”

  John hesitated, willing his next warning to remain where it belonged—in his head. But out it came, dark and true. “If he comes near her again, I will do it myself.”

  Campbell stilled then edged closer. In the faint light from the windows, John could just make out his expression. The heavy brow was furrowed and the jaw was hard, but he wasn’t threatening. At least, not toward John. “Do ye ken which lord Annie aims to wed?”

  “No.” Another surge of resentment made him grind his teeth. He’d felt it before. It was stronger now. “My impression is that she seeks the title, not a specific man.”

  “’Tis likely Skene has a backer. We dinnae ken who, but he’s almost certainly titled.”

  “I concluded the same.”

  “Broderick is in danger.” A wince around the man’s eyes spoke of anguish carefully disguised. “Skene’s gang runs a portion of the Bridewell. We must find a way to free him. Soon.”

  John glanced at his cart then at the windows of MacPherson House. Then, he eyed the man before him and sighed. “Miss Tulloch’s title hunt may succeed, but it’s unlikely to bear fruit before summer.” He hesitated before making his offer. God, he was an idiot. “When you’ve run out of options for freeing your brother, come see me. I have connections which may be of use.”

  Campbell nodded.

  John climbed onto his cart and took up the reins. Then, he paused. “MacPherson.”

  “Aye?”

  He hesitated. Bloody hell, he shouldn’t be doing this.

  She wasn’t his. Only an idiot would intervene where no one wanted him.

  An idiot. That’s what he was.

  “The first dressmaker your sister visited today was here in Glenscannadoo. The women in the shop made things extremely unpleasant for her. I gather this was far from the first time such abuse has occurred.”

  Campbell didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes mirrored John’s fury. Good. She should have told her family long ago.

  John named the women involved before continuing, “I plan to speak to the man who owns the shop’s building. Such poor business practices shouldn’t be tolerated in a fine place like this, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Aye,” came the low growl. “I do.”

  For the first time since arriving at MacPherson House, John felt satisfaction curving the corners of his mouth. “Splendid.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Do give my best to your brothers.”

  “And my sister?” Campbell’s question was weighted with meaning.

  His smile faded. His chest tightened.

  She wasn’t his.

  The truth was she never would be. So, he snapped the reins, drove into the dark, and let silence be his answer.

  Chapter Eleven

  TlU

  When a man hired a cook, he hoped—no, expected—to recognize the dishes on his table as food. John had been many places and eaten many unusual things. But the bowl of grayish, mealy soup before him was a mystery.

  He set his youngest sister’s letter on his desk and peered at the tray his new cook had laid before him. Proudly, no less.

  “What is it?” he inquired.

  Marjorie MacDonnell, Dougal’s mother, grinned until her angular cheeks rounded. She used her apron to wipe her hands. “Skink, sir. Cooked as ye’d find it round Moray.”

  Just how badly did these Scots hate him? Enough for poison?

  He eyed the steaming bowl of whatever, which smelled like old fish and cold ashes. His stomach winced. “My thanks, Mrs. MacDonnell.” He slid the tray to the other side of his desk.

  “Ye dinnae favor finnan haddie?”

  If he knew what that was, perhaps he could say one way or the other. But the evening had grown late, and he was tired. “I haven’t much appetite, I’m afraid.”

  She frowned like the mother she was. Then, she laid a roughened hand upon his forehead. “Nae fever,” she diagnosed, clicking her tongue. “Yer appetite’s been poorly for nigh on two months now. Man yer age should be eatin’
twice what ye do.” She patted his shoulder. “I ken what ye need.”

  He doubted it.

  “Somethin’ a bit sweeter, eh? My shortbread would tempt a dead man to rise for breakfast.”

  Given that her regular bread was dry crust all the way through, he suspected the only thing that would prompt a man to rise was being pummeled by the weighty loaves.

  The woman tapped her chin. “A wee bit late to start on it tonight. We’ll plan for tomorrow instead.” She patted his shoulder again before moving to the study door. “Had ye hired me ere Hogmanay, I’d have made ye my clootie dumplin’. Now, there’s a rare treat.”

  Clootie dumpling did sound closer to what he was craving than gray skink, but he didn’t think Mrs. MacDonnell had any solutions to offer him.

  Only one woman did. And God, he missed her more than he should. Crusts of hard, dark bread mocked him from the tray near his elbow.

  Annie’s bread was a thing of splendor.

  He wished it was all he missed. He wished he’d kissed her properly when he’d had the chance.

  Running a hand over his face, he shoved up from his chair and wandered to the hearth. Before he could stop them, thoughts of her invaded his mind like mist over the loch.

  How was she faring? He wanted to know. Was she practicing her glide? Had she managed to curb her vulgarities? Did she still go silent now and then, thinking of Broderick’s suffering?

  He had no way of knowing. They’d both kept their distance. The few times he’d glimpsed her crossing the village square or riding beside her brothers in the MacPherson wagon, she’d appeared the same. Thinner, perhaps. Whiter. That banner-bright hair was more neatly trimmed around her cheeks, he’d noticed.

  Winter had been hard. Twice, snow had come in great loads, lingered a week or two then melted and refrozen. The glen’s third blizzard presently gusted outside, a final blast before spring.

  John was accustomed to being alone. He’d often been so during long weeks at sea or crossing mountain ranges from one country to the next. He’d never minded, really. Never pined for companionship. Rather, the lands themselves had fed him—an orange sun sinking behind umbrella-shaped trees, a dolphin leaping from impossibly blue water, a heated rainstorm scented with plumeria.