by Elisa Braden
“You purchased a building so that you could evict its tenant.”
“Hmm. And Grisel MacDonnell has been finding Glenscannadoo a hostile place, indeed, since her husband took the children and left for Canada. Seems all he needed was a bit of funding for his passage. According to Dougal, Grisel has talked of relocating to Dingwall.” He sighed. “As punishments go, it is insufficient, I admit. But I cannot call them out. They are females, after all.”
“Indeed. But you felt it necessary to intervene on behalf of … Annie, was it?”
“I had to. They’d tormented her for years.”
Robert cleared his throat. “Has she family?”
John nodded. “A stepfather and four brothers. Good men. Large. A bit rough. One of them is in a spot of trouble. I’m considering stepping in. They haven’t asked yet, so I’m still thinking about it.”
“Right. And her mother?”
“Dead.” John ran a hand through his hair. “Little wonder Annie’s run a bit wild. Raised by rough men. No mother.”
Silence thickened in the room until the only sound was the crackling fire. “Hux.”
John looked up.
“Is she married?”
His gut tightened. “Not yet.”
“Then why isn’t she here instead of me?”
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t want to marry her.”
“No, of course not.”
“Damned right, of course not.” John glowered while Robert sipped his whisky. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I took her shopping.”
“What were you two shopping for?”
“There were three of us. She had a chaperone. I insisted.”
“You did.”
“We were buying her gowns. The woman wears breeches, for God’s sake.”
Robert smiled, his eyes sparking with amusement. “Is that so?”
“Breeches and boots and a plaid. I had to do something.”
“By ‘do something,’ you mean …”
“Buy her new clothing. What she wears is a disgrace. She’s apt to catch her death every time she walks from MacPherson House to the castle. She needs proper gowns and a cloak.”
“So, you paid for her gowns.”
“Thirty-five dresses?” He snorted. “She would hardly have bought them otherwise. No, if it were up to her, she’d have sewn a gown or two for herself and left it at that. I doubt she’d have even bothered with the silk stockings or petticoats, let alone the slippers.”
“Hmm. I see the dilemma.”
John frowned. “You do?”
Robert nodded, pressing the rim of his glass against his lips and lowering his brows thoughtfully. “She is an unusual woman, as you say.”
“Yes. Extraordinary, really.” He blew out a breath, wondering why his chest hurt. “I want to … every time I see her, I want to … and when she’s gone, I cannot … but it’s been months since we’ve spoken.” He ran a hand over his face and muttered, “Feels like bloody years.”
“Why the separation?”
“Her father threatened to geld me and toss her out if she comes near me again.”
“A bit harsh.”
“He’s concerned for her, as he should be. The woman has no idea what she’s doing.” As his chest tightened more, his voice grew louder. “Do you know she’s planning to marry a lord?” Unable to stay still, John shoved up from his chair and threw his arms wide to make his point. “Any lord! No one specific. Oh, no. Not for Annie Tulloch. Just a title will do, thank you very much. Old. Young. Fit. Fat. No matter!” He slammed the heel of his hand into the mantel. The thud was loud and satisfying. “Give her a title and she’ll become your wife. Easy as that.”
A log popped in the fireplace. Wind howled outside. He wanted to howl, too.
“You have a title, Hux.” Robert made his point quietly, but it felt like a stab to the gut.
He reeled back. “No.”
“She could be your wife.”
“I said no. I’ll not marry a woman who only wants me for my pedigree.”
“Does she? Only want you for your pedigree, I mean.”
“She doesn’t know about it. I haven’t used my title in years. I prefer to be measured by more than a name.”
“So, you’ve become … close with a woman you find extraordinary, despite her knowing nothing of your father or—”
“We made a bargain.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache start behind his eyes. Briefly, he explained about the wager with Angus and Annie’s offer to teach him Highland tossing techniques in exchange for Lady Lessons. “We are at an impasse, I’m afraid. Perhaps she’ll persuade Angus to relent. Perhaps she doesn’t care to bother.”
A gust whistled outside, where swirling white gathered in little drifts on the windowpanes. Robert’s sigh blended into the sounds of a Highland winter. John glanced at his friend, whose eyes were sharp and speculative, despite his weariness.
“You think I should pursue her, don’t you?”
“I think if there were not something holding you here, you would have left Scotland long before now. It’s what you do, Hux. Leave. So, why haven’t you?”
John stared at his friend wishing he had the answer.
Robert drained the last of his whisky and set the empty glass on a low table. He rubbed his bad leg and released another sigh. “Do you remember when I told you that one day you’d find a woman who makes madness a pleasure?”
John frowned. “I am not in love with Annie Tulloch, Con.”
Robert chuckled. “No. Of course not.” He plucked up his cane and levered himself to his feet. “Certainly, you’ll be cheering as she waltzes away in the arms of some other chap, wearing the gowns you bought for her.”
Images flashed. Annie wearing plum silk as she vowed to love another man. Annie’s hand flashing with the ring of another man. Annie’s smile offering seductive fire to another man. Fury billowed upward like smoke, filling his chest and throat. It wouldn’t let him speak. It burned until he wanted to roar. Cheering? He wanted to slam his fist into his new mantel. He wanted to ride out in this dark blizzard, find her and demand she abandon her foolish scheme. The mere thought of her with anyone else drove him …
… mad.
Distantly, he sensed Robert beside him. Solid. Patient. Robert’s shadow blended with his own as the truth began to unfurl.
She mattered. He wanted her. Not for an hour. Not for a week.
Forever.
He wanted her in his kitchen. He wanted to watch those pretty hands making bread. He wanted her here in his study, teasing him about his fine manners and finer tea. He wanted to hear her pleasured cries echoing off the new paneling in his bedchamber. Feel her hair brushing his skin. Watch her cornflower eyes go soft then glow like blue fire.
He wanted his child in her belly.
His heart pounded, pulsing in his skin. Oh, God. Yes, that was it.
Annie swollen with his child. His ring upon her pretty finger. His claim fully made.
She’d be his wife.
Bloody hell. She could be his.
“It’s damned disorienting, I know,” Robert said quietly. “The first time you realize what’s happened, it changes who you are.” He patted John’s shoulder, and even that small nudge set him off balance. Perhaps it was the whisky.
John had to swallow twice before he could speak. When he finally did, his voice was thin and hoarse. “If—if I do pursue her, I must be certain she wants me.” He caught his friend’s sympathetic gaze. “Me, Con. Not my name. Not my fortune. Me.”
Robert nodded. He knew everything, of course. They’d been friends since John had dragged him home for Christmas pudding at age six. Robert knew about Jacqueline. And before Jacqueline, the governess.
They never talked about the governess. But Robert obviously remembered. The understanding was there in his eyes.
John could not marry a woman who only wanted the name he could give her.
Which left one solution: He must make Annie fall in love with him without telling her about his title.
As though reading his thoughts, Robert squeezed his shoulder and gave a half-smile. “Perhaps I should warn Miss Tulloch. Seems only fair.”
John raised a questioning brow.
“Whatever your other talents, Hux—and there are many—wooing females into abandoning all good sense is your particular specialty.”
True enough. Slowly, John’s grin grew. He hadn’t applied himself to the task in a long while, but he’d always excelled at it. And with Annie? Anticipation surged, heady as Highland whisky.
Robert chuckled. “Poor woman. She has little notion of what’s coming her way.”
Chapter Twelve
TlU
“Ooph!” Annie glared over her shoulder at Mrs. Baird, who was hoisting Annie’s bosoms by crushing her ribs. “This isnae a corset. Ergh. It’s—unh—a bluidy vise.”
“Nearly done,” Mrs. Baird huffed, giving the laces a firm yank. “There.” The yanking stopped. The dressmaker breathed a sigh of relief.
Annie would do the same if she could gather more than a teaspoon of air. She glanced down. What the devil had this contraption done to her bosoms? They were enormous. Hiked up from beneath, they resembled great mounds of rising dough.
Cupping herself incredulously, she felt the boning along her waist and intricate stitching flaring over her hips. “I look like a stuffed pigeon. What have ye done?”
Mrs. Baird chuckled, grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the full-length mirror in the corner of Annie’s bedchamber.
Annie gasped.
“What we’ve done, aye?” The dressmaker grinned, her lovely teeth gleaming in the light from the window.
“Wh—why do I … That’s not …” Swallowing, Annie wandered closer. She moved her hands along the center, where a wide busk separated her bosoms and drew a flat line down past her belly. The corset was exquisite—satiny-soft white cotton with flared rows of quilted stitching. She traced the delicate crisscross pattern over her hip.
“The quilting is trapunto. I used silk thread for strength.” Mrs. Baird turned away to sort through the gowns she’d brought with her. “Ye’ll find the corset does soften over time, but the stitching and boning will ensure it keeps its structure. Now, where did I put my pins? Ah! There.”
Slowly, Annie shook her head. Somehow, watching her own movements in the looking glass startled her. This woman with the small waist and swollen breasts and fine linen petticoat could not be her.
“Let’s begin with the morning gowns.”
Annie’s head spun. “I dinnae want to.”
Holding pins in one hand and a pile of flounced white in the other, the dressmaker tilted her head and gave a gentle smile. “Remember what we discussed? These are your garments. Fitting them properly does not mean ye must wear them. But I must finish my work.”
God, Annie wished she could hate this woman. But from the moment Mrs. Baird had arrived at MacPherson House—after fully twelve letters begging Annie to come to Inverness for her final fittings—the dressmaker had been nothing but kind. Firm to the point of motherliness, but kind.
And she was quite the most talented seamstress Annie had ever met. Once again, Annie traced the curvaceous stitching along her belly. It even extended onto the gussets covering her breasts, a wee panel of crisscrosses. “Trapunto,” she whispered.
Mrs. Baird hummed lightly. “Arms up.” White flounces descended over Annie’s arms and head, cascading down over her figure. The dressmaker clicked her tongue and patted Annie’s waist. “Ye’re a wee bit smaller here than before. Have ye lost yer appetite?”
She had, but she didn’t wish to discuss it. “If I wear this gown in the kitchen, I’ll be singed inside a week.” She plucked at the sleeves. “Lace and ruffles. Hmmph. Might as well add beeswax and a wick. Are ye tryin’ to kill me?”
The woman arched a yellow brow. “With so much cookery, I’d have predicted ye’d be bigger, not smaller.”
Annie tightened her lips and held her tongue.
“How does Mr. Huxley fare?”
Silence. That was the best defense.
“When he sent his last payment, he seemed unaware that ye hadn’t yet taken delivery of the gowns.” The dressmaker plucked and fussed and pinned. When she paused, Annie dared to meet her eyes in the mirror.
Heavens, they were a pair. The well-groomed Mrs. Baird with her pretty face and perfect hair. Annie with her unruly crop of fire pinned in a lopsided knot. Mrs. Baird’s motions were graceful, like a doe crossing a stream. Annie’s movements might charitably be called efficient. Mrs. Baird’s language was crisp and proper. Annie’s was coarse and blunt.
Annie was a hoyden, just as John Huxley claimed. She was not a lady. Certainly not enough of one for him.
“Surprisin’ that he mentioned me at all,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to her hands. “I havenae heard from him in some time.”
Again, Mrs. Baird hummed. “’Tis hard not to miss such a handsome face, aye?”
Annie swallowed a lump while Mrs. Baird tied a lavender silk sash around her waist. Yes, it was hard not to miss him. Annie had tried. She was still trying. But when she closed her eyes, there he was, a maddening, tempting, bonnie Englishman with a smile she had to work for. Some nights, she awakened soaked from half-remembered dreams of his hands and lips and crisp, deep voice.
She was a fool for wanting him. He wasn’t a lord. And he obviously didn’t miss her. Otherwise, he would have approached her any of the half-dozen times she’d seen him in the village over the past three months. She drew a shuddering breath. Time to change the subject.
Squinting at herself in the mirror, Annie asked, “How do I make my hair look like yours?”
Mrs. Baird’s smile warmed above her shoulder. “Cooperate whilst I finish pinning the rest of the gowns, and I’ll show you.”
Annie examined the morning gown she wore, how it finally fell properly across her bosom and hips, how the sash made her waist look small. Or perhaps that was the corset. Her eyes lifted to the dressmaker’s. “Agreed. Just dinnae make me look daft.”
Two hours and thirty-four gowns later, Mrs. Baird tucked the final pin into Annie’s hair. The simple arrangement involved coiling the length at the back of her head then fussing with the shorter bits around her face until they looked purposeful. The wisps fringed lightly across her forehead and framed her cheeks becomingly.
Why hadn’t she done this sooner? No long plait to catch fire when she turned to fetch a pot. And for once, her frizzing curls were smooth.
Mrs. Baird’s humming had turned musical while she worked. At first, Annie had thought it might grow irritating, but she liked it. She liked the dressmaker’s gentle hands and cheerful smile. She liked Mrs. Baird.
She also liked Mrs. Baird’s work. Glancing down at the silver-green wool of her simple, long-sleeved day dress, she traced a finger over the delicate embroidery on the scooped bodice. Leaves of silver, gold, and russet swirled as though they’d just fallen from their branches. Such a lively addition would not have occurred to Annie. But Mrs. Baird knew how it would play against the vividness of her hair and the whiteness of her bosom.
“Ye’ll need a maid to assist ye with the gowns and corset, likely,” the dressmaker murmured. “A proficient one will ken more ways to dress this lovely red hair.”
Annie was about to argue that she didn’t want a maid when one of her hired lads came to inform her of visitors at the door. Frowning, Annie left Mrs. Baird to work on the gowns that needed alteration and followed him downstairs. As she descended, the pair of dark-clad gentlemen came into view. Both stood with their backs turned, holding their hats politely in hand. One leaned upon a cane.
The other sent excitement surging from her aching middle out across her skin in sparkling rivulets.
Reeling, she stalled on the bottom step. Steadied herself against the banister. Tried to catc
h her breath.
He was here.
What was he doing here?
“Mr. Huxley,” she managed, albeit faintly.
The two men turned. Ah, God. Bare jaw. Perfect lips. Leaner and paler than before, but still heartbreakingly handsome. Vaguely, she noted the darker-haired man had very wide shoulders and a heavy brow. He was also handsome, she supposed. But not as bonnie as John Huxley.
Nothing compared with those enchanting hazel eyes, the ones that now flared wide and raked her from head to toe before settling on her bosom. Lingering. And lingering. And stroking. And lingering. His chest heaved on a breath. His cravat moved as he swallowed.
Taking a deep breath of her own, she ordered her pounding heart to calm down and reminded herself of how they’d last parted. How he’d left her without a proper goodbye.
“After ye scurried off into the dark at the first wee bit of trouble, I didnae suppose ye’d dare provoke Angus again.” She raised her chin. “Appears dainty Englishmen require a few months to locate their ballocks, eh? I’ll ken better next time.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
His companion cleared his throat and nudged Huxley with an elbow.
Huxley continued staring, his eyes gold and green and glowing hot.
Annie clicked her tongue and strode forward to take the other man’s hat. “I’m Annie Tulloch. My stepfather’s at the distillery this mornin’, else I’d introduce ye. Seems I’d have to, seein’ as Mr. Dafty here cannae be bothered to speak.”
A small smile quirked the man’s lips. His deep-set eyes were a different shade of blue than hers. Darker, more solemn.
“A pleasure, Miss Tulloch. I am Robert Conrad, an old friend of Mr. Dafty.”
Startled and delighted, she immediately grinned. “Robert? Ye’re the Robert?”
“Er, I don’t know about the Robert, but yes. That is my name.”
She swatted him with his own hat. “Och, why didnae ye say so? After all of Huxley’s tales about the two of ye chasin’ trouble together, I’d have thought ye’d visit him sooner.”
