The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Indeed, I should have done.” Robert glanced cautiously at his friend. “I wasn’t certain how long he would remain in Scotland. But his lands are splendid and the people charming. Understandable that he would lengthen his stay.”

  “Well, come into the parlor and sit, for God’s sake.” She placed his hat on the hook and led the men into the adjacent room. Shooing one of her cleaning lads off to fetch bread and cider, she tutted, “Ye havenae come all the way from Nottinghamshire to stand about bletherin’ in my doorway. Has he fed ye properly yet?” She gestured toward one of the sofas. “I heard he hired Marjorie MacDonnell to be his cook.” Clicking her tongue, she called toward the doorway where Huxley had halted—still hovering, still staring like a pure eejit. “I warned ye Dougal would try to saddle ye with his entire clan, English. I hope ye didnae hire his worthless sons to clean yer chimneys. Whole castle’ll burn down before those laddies do aught that’s useful.”

  He wandered deeper into the room. Flexed his hands. Swallowed again. “Her bread is dreadful,” he uttered.

  At the sound of his voice—crisp and deep—her heart drummed faster.

  He stopped about a foot away. “It’s nothing like yours.”

  God, his eyes were burning her alive. Her chest ached. Her fingertips tingled with the need to touch him. “Ye’ve gone too thin.”

  “I’ve been starving.”

  “It—it’s yer own fault, stayin’ away from … my kitchen so long. This willnae do if ye intend to win yer wager.”

  “No. It won’t do.”

  “I’ll give ye loaves to take with ye.”

  His breathing quickened. “Is that all?”

  “Mayhap I’ve some venison left over from last night.”

  He groaned. “Yes.”

  Slowly, she smiled. Warmth glowed in her middle. “Ye like that, English?”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps I could offer ye more.”

  “I want everything. Everything you can give me.”

  Heavens, she was hot. Her skin was pulsing. Her breasts felt swollen. Maybe it was the wool gown or the corset. Maybe her lads had built the parlor fire too large.

  “You look … different,” he whispered, licking his lips.

  “’Tis the gown.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Also the hair.” She touched the smooth strands above her ear. “And Mrs. Baird made me proper stays.”

  Another groan. He closed his eyes briefly, moving his lips in a silent chant she couldn’t decipher.

  “She’s still upstairs workin’ on the alterations. Ye bought far too many gowns, English.”

  “I wanted you to have them.” He lowered his head and his voice. “Remember our bargain?”

  She blinked. “Is that why ye’ve come? For a lesson?”

  “Angus and I settled upon an … understanding. I spoke to him early this morning at the distillery.”

  Alarm streaked through her. Immediately, she reached for him, patting his shoulders and inspecting his arms and ribs and hands. Finally, she drew his head down and ran her fingers over his scalp.

  “Annie,” came his hoarse, amused response. “What exactly are you doing?”

  “Did he hurt ye?” She hadn’t felt any lumps or swellings, but head wounds could be deceptive. “Is that why ye’re actin’ daft?”

  He clasped her wrists and drew her hands down against his chest. “I’m fine,” he said gently. “Campbell was there. He kept the peace while your father and I discussed a few matters. Angus has no objection to our continuing our lessons.”

  She turned to Robert, who stood quietly beside the fire looking bemused. “He didnae shoot Angus, did he?” She looked at Huxley. “Tell me ye didnae shoot him with yer wee pistols.”

  “Of course not.”

  “No ‘of course’ about it, English. The last time I mentioned yer name, Angus threatened to carve out yer heart and feed it to Bill the Donkey with a side of oats and gravy.”

  “It’s been three months. His temper has had time to cool.”

  “This was yesterday.” She crossed her arms and glowered up at the Englishman, who wore familiar triumph on his bonnie face. “What did ye say to Da that he’s so agreeable, now?”

  “I simply talked to the man.”

  “Angus doesnae talk.”

  “I employed reason.”

  “Angus doesnae reason.”

  “Well, in this instance, he was persuaded. So long as our sessions are chaperoned, you and I may continue as we did before.”

  She hmmphed and glared her suspicions at Robert. “Is that the truth, then?”

  Robert examined his own boots while his lips fought a smile. Then he glanced up. “Your father did agree to allow it.”

  Why did she have the feeling both men were dancing around the important bits? She hmmphed again. Her lad entered carrying a tray full of bread, cheese, thin-sliced lamb, and cups of cider. He deposited it on the center table, and Annie encouraged the men to sit.

  Both moved to the sofa but continued standing. Huxley stared longingly at the food.

  Annie frowned. “Well, dinnae be bashful. If ye’ve been dinin’ on Marjorie MacDonnell’s handiwork, ye’re probably famished.”

  Robert leaned into his cane and cleared his throat. Huxley gestured toward the opposite sofa. “You must be seated first,” he said gently.

  She blinked. Was that one of the rules? They hadn’t reached that particular subject in her Lady Lessons. Heat prickled in her neck and cheeks. “Oh.” She strode to the sofa, remembering too late that she was supposed to glide. Blast. Striving to salvage the situation, she turned upon her toes, folded her hands as though carrying a wee bird, and sank down.

  Only to leap up an instant later at the piercing pain in her right buttock. “Arrgh! Bluidy pins can go to bluidy hell!”

  In a flash, Huxley was beside her, running his hands over her hips and legs. “Where are you injured?” he demanded.

  Annie swatted at his wandering hands. “Even I ken ye shouldnae be puttin’ yer fingers there, English.” She managed to dislodge the pin from her flesh. “Devil’s ballocks, that’s bluidy painful.”

  Robert suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. Huxley glared at his friend.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Baird from the doorway. “I should have warned ye about the pins.” The lovely woman glided into the room. “My deepest apologies, Miss Tulloch.” She smiled at Huxley and Robert. “Gentlemen, I hope ye’ll forgive my intrusion.”

  “Of course.” Huxley straightened and bowed before introducing her to Robert.

  Annie noticed he didn’t have any trouble speaking now. No, indeed, he was all polite polish. The perfect gentleman.

  She glared up at him while he carried on pleasantries, explaining to Robert what a lovely shop Mrs. Baird had established in Inverness, and how remarkably knowledgeable Mrs. Baird was, and how appreciative he’d been to find such a resource without having to travel to Edinburgh.

  By the time he finished his lengthy praise and they all took their seats—very carefully, in Annie’s case—Annie decided once again that she hated Mrs. Baird. Perhaps even more than before.

  Mrs. Baird glided without effort. Mrs. Baird’s speech was soft and lilting, not wound up like a corkscrew. Mrs. Baird’s kindly smile put everyone at ease. Even Annie. Her manners were impeccable. Her conversation made Huxley and Robert chuckle and nod thoughtfully by turns. Her hair was yellow rather than an absurd shade of orange.

  And John Huxley did not stare at Mrs. Baird as though she were some mad, wild, confounding problem he must solve. He did not go silent gaping at Mrs. Baird. He appeared perfectly charming, perfectly at ease.

  Annie watched him while the trio chatted and ate her food. His eyes were livelier than she remembered, almost gleaming with excitement. Within minutes, he devoured four slices of bread piled with lamb and topped with cheese. Remarkably, he did so neatly and politely without dropping a crumb on his b
lack riding breeches. He readily conversed between bites, charming everyone with his wit. Especially Mrs. Baird.

  Were smooth hair, white teeth, and a pleasant manner all it took to gain his admiration? Apparently so.

  God, she hated that woman.

  “… late husband’s mother was from Nottinghamshire.” Mrs. Baird hummed her approval as she delicately sipped Annie’s cider. “Where do ye make yer home there, Mr. Conrad?”

  “North of Nottingham. A lovely spot of woodlands and countryside along the River Tisenby.”

  “Ah, it is splendid there. Mr. Baird and I passed through that very spot several years before he died. Have ye any relation to the Conrads of Rivermore Abbey?”

  Robert paused. “Some connection, yes.”

  “Then perhaps ye were acquainted with the Marquis of Mortlock. Such a noble gentleman. When Mr. Baird’s horse went lame, he lent us one from his stable.”

  Again, Robert paused before speaking. “Lord Mortlock passed away some years ago, I’m afraid.”

  “Aye, of course. I was sad to hear of it. Our last visit to England was fully twelve years ago. How quickly time passes.” As Mrs. Baird leaned forward to refill her cup, Annie noticed her hair wasn’t entirely yellow. It was threaded with white. “I only mention it because he showed us such kindness.” Ms. Baird took another sip of her cider and eyed Robert above the rim. “So did his grandson, as I recall.”

  The conversation struck Annie as odd, but she had no chance to delve further. Huxley chose that moment to spring to his feet and declare that he and Robert must leave. “Robert’s already been in Scotland a month. He is anxious to return to his wife and children.”

  Annie frowned, wondering why Huxley didn’t mention that Robert’s wife was his sister. Strange.

  Before she could ask about it, Huxley pivoted to address her. “Miss Tulloch, thank you for the refreshments. Divine, as always.”

  Both Robert and Mrs. Baird murmured similar sentiments, but Huxley rushed to finish, “I must be away for a short while. When I return, we’ll resume our lessons.”

  She blinked. “Away?” No! She’d already been without him too long.

  Oh, heavens. Where had that thought come from?

  “I’m afraid so.” He took her hands in his, drawing her to her feet while sending tingles up her arms. “I shall return as swiftly as I can. Count upon it.”

  His eyes seemed to promise something, but frustratingly, she hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. Once again, before she could ask or even bid him farewell, he and Robert departed.

  Moments later, she stood in her parlor, her backside smarting, her chest aching fiercely, and wondered where she’d gone so wrong.

  This hurt. Badly. And she couldn’t explain why.

  A gentle, competent hand clasped hers.

  Startled, Annie met the gaze of the woman by her side.

  The dressmaker squeezed. “A gentleman always keeps his word, ye ken. I’d wager yer Mr. Huxley will race to return to yer side.”

  “H-he’s not mine.”

  Mrs. Baird hummed noncommittally.

  “He’s not.”

  “These gowns are quite a change for ye, I gather. Are they intended for a new life? With a husband, perhaps?”

  Annie blinked. “I … they’re …” She swallowed. “Aye. I do aim to marry.”

  The dressmaker nodded and offered a sympathetic smile. “Becoming a wife can be a joy, but also daunting. Establishing a new household, endearing yerself to yer husband’s family.” She paused. “Learning new skills so ye make yer husband proud as ye go about in society.”

  Annie’s heart sank. Even Mrs. Baird had noticed how inept she was at being a lady.

  “If ye should need advice from a woman with some experience of marriage, I’d be glad to share what I ken.” She gave Annie’s hand another squeeze.

  Now that she stood closer, faint lines around Mrs. Baird’s eyes, whitish patches at her temples, and a small crease along her forehead were visible.

  Annie frowned. “How old are ye, Mrs. Baird?”

  Yellow eyebrows arched. “Why do ye ask?”

  “Ye must have been widowed young.” Annie hesitated before explaining, “My mother lost my father when I was a wee bairn. I think of that sometimes. How she was younger than I am now when she was left to care for her child alone.”

  Mrs. Baird nodded, her eyes going a bit sad. “My James left me with two lovely daughters, though they were nearly grown by the time he died. They are both married now with wee ones of their own.”

  “Nah. Ye cannae be old enough to …”

  “I am six-and-forty.” The dressmaker’s smile turned wry. “But your disbelief is fair turnin’ my head.”

  For the first time since John Huxley had walked out her door, Annie laughed. “I cannae credit it. I took ye for thirty at most.”

  Mrs. Baird spoke of her daughters and two grandchildren, who all lived near Edinburgh, where Mrs. Baird was from. When Annie asked if she’d considered moving there to be near them, she said, “Oh, aye. But Inverness is where I settled with Mr. Baird. It is where I have my shop. Every time I think of leavin’, my heart refuses. Besides,” she continued with a fond glance at Annie’s gown, “I’ve too many friends and customers I would miss dreadfully.”

  Once again, Annie found herself liking Mrs. Baird. She offered to help with the alterations if the dressmaker would show her what must be done. Perhaps she could ask for advice on becoming a lady while they sewed together. After all, if the goal was to behave more like Mrs. Baird, Annie could think of no better instructor than Mrs. Baird.

  They were headed toward the staircase when the front door swung open with a gust and slammed closed with equal force behind a thunderous Angus MacPherson.

  Annie’s father wore a black coat and a blacker expression. He turned to hang his hat on the hook. “Annie!” he bellowed before bothering to glance in her direction. “Where the devil are ye?”

  “If ye’d bother lookin’ instead of shoutin’, ye crabbit auld man, ye’d see I’m right here.”

  He spun. Then blinked. Then turned a bit ruddy. “What in bluidy hell are ye wearin’?”

  She had the feeling he would have shouted the words if he hadn’t been so shocked. Planting her hands on her hips, she glanced down at herself and back up at him. “Well, I might be mistaken, but I believe it’s called a dress.”

  “What in bluidy hell have ye done to yer hair?”

  “Now, that’s called brushin’. It’s a new thing. I thought I’d give it a try.”

  He stomped toward her, looming as he often did. “What in bluidy hell are ye doin’ to yerself?”

  She snorted. “Far less than ye’re doin’ to my floors, auld man. Now, before ye take another step, ye’d best go wipe yer boots. I’ve no patience for mud or yer crabbit ways.”

  He ignored her warning, glaring hard and looking fearsome.

  Despite her irritation with his bluster, she saw strain around his eyes and mouth that worried her. She drew closer, intending to ask what had caused it, when a delicate “ahem” sounded behind her.

  Angus’s black gaze shifted to Mrs. Baird, narrowed and glittering.

  “Och, I’m a pure dafty,” Annie said, hoping to defuse the sudden tension. “Da, this is my dressmaker, Mrs. Baird. Mrs. Baird, this cantankerous giant is my stepfather, Angus MacPherson.”

  Neither one spoke a word. Annie glanced between them, dismayed by the nervousness on Mrs. Baird’s face and the black fury on Angus’s.

  “She’s here to finish my gowns,” Annie prompted, hoping one of them would say something. “She traveled all the way from Inverness.”

  Angus waved a finger at Annie’s skirt. “This shite is yer work, then?”

  Annie glowered. That was rude, even for him.

  A suddenly pale Mrs. Baird laced her fingers tightly at her waist. “Th—this gown is my work, aye.”

  “Ye turned my lass into a bluidy tar
t.”

  “Da!” Annie protested. Why was he aiming his wrath at a kindly dressmaker?

  Mrs. Baird seemed terrified yet continued to hold Angus’s gaze. “Yer lass is a fine young woman,” she replied quietly. “I should think ye’d be glad to see her looking so lovely.”

  Oddly, this seemed to anger him more. “My daughter was always bonnie,” he growled. “She doesnae need yer obscene frocks revealin’—”

  “That’s more than enough, auld man!” Annie charged forward and braced a hand on the center of Angus’s chest. “Mrs. Baird, I beg yer forgiveness for this great beastie that plainly hasnae been trained to do aught but soil the furniture.”

  “Now, listen here, lass—”

  She held up a finger to silence him then spoke to the dressmaker. “I’ll join ye upstairs in a wee bit. Just let me have a moment with Angus.”

  A long pause came from behind her while Angus fumed. “If ye’re certain, Miss Tulloch.”

  “I am. Dinnae fash. I’ve dealt with this beastie many times. He’s more smoke than teeth.”

  As Mrs. Baird moved up the staircase, Annie glared at her father, who watched the dressmaker’s retreat with something approaching hatred. “What on earth is the matter with ye?” she demanded.

  He blew out a long breath and shrugged out of his coat.

  Annie moved to help him. He nodded his thanks.

  “Too much is changin’, lass. I dinnae like it. First that bluidy Englishman interrupts my work to bargain with me—”

  She crossed her arms. “Aye. And what made ye change yer mind about him, eh?”

  He scoffed. “Lad made an offer.”

  “What sort of offer?”

  “Nothin’ ye need fash yerself about. Train him all ye like. He’ll never win against yer brothers anyway.”

  Annie eyed her surly, beloved father for signs of senility. Dark eyes flashed; a hard jaw remained stubborn; thick brows drew down low. No, he was weary and frustrated but sound. “Somethin’ happened.” Her stomach panged oddly. “What is it, Da?”

  His gaze shifted away then came back.

  When she saw anguish in eyes that never despaired, her chest collapsed beneath a crushing weight. She reached for his hands. Immediately, his big paws clasped and held her. He always did that. Always lent her his strength.