The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Please,” she whispered. “Tell me.”

  “Rannoch sent word. Broderick is …” He swallowed hard. “He is near death, lass. We’ve tried to protect him. Paid guards inside the prison. Every time we do, those men are dismissed and new ones hired. Skene’s men have done great damage. ’Tis a miracle he’s lasted this long.”

  Annie’s head spun. Over the past three months, the case against Broderick had gone from bad to worse. The MacPhersons had assigned physicians to keep the exciseman alive. At one point, the man had even regained consciousness long enough to give a statement to the MacPherson solicitors. He’d declared Broderick could not have been the one to shoot him because the shot had come from the opposite end of the warehouse. They’d all hoped this would be enough to exonerate Broderick, and her brothers had traveled to Edinburgh to press for his release.

  But before they’d arrived, someone had persuaded the exciseman to recant his original statement, claiming it was the product of MacPherson pressure. Then, inexplicably, he’d signed a second statement charging that Broderick had, indeed, attempted to murder him.

  None of it had made sense until the exciseman, despite being on the mend, had mysteriously died. That was when Alexander had discovered a large cache of coins beneath the bed of the exciseman’s widow.

  Someone wanted Broderick to suffer. Someone wanted Broderick to die. And, whoever “someone” was, he was very close to getting his wish.

  The reality of losing her brother sent her heart into a panic. “No. No, no, no. We must go there, Da. We must get him out—”

  “Aye. We will. There’s a new plan. If it works, he’ll be released within a fortnight. Be ready to journey to Edinburgh. Pack everything he’ll need. Bandages. Clothing. Food. Prepare yerself, too. He’s not … not the man he was.” At her fretful reaction, he drew her into his arms and held her tight against his massive chest. Kissing her head, he whispered, “We will bring him home, Annie. And when we do, he’ll need us more than ever.”

  She breathed her father’s scent: wool and peat and wild Highland air. She clutched her father’s waistcoat and felt seven years old again. Missing her mother. Wondering about her place. Aching and aching and aching for a life she would never have again. Her throat closed painfully.

  “Bad enough ye aim to leave for some soddin’ lord.” His voice was graveled. Tight. Fierce. “I cannae lose two of my bairns, lass. I cannae bear it.”

  Holding her breath against a sob, Annie gathered her strength to give him what he’d always given her—reassurance. “Ye’ll never be rid of me, Da.” She held him tighter, prayed silently for Broderick, and made her vow. “Whatever else happens, I’ll always, always be yer daughter.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  TlU

  Annie squelched the urge to snap at her new lady’s maid. For the love of God, what had she been thinking? Mad Annie Tulloch shouldn’t have a lady’s maid. She might as well tie pink ribbons to the horns of a hairy cow. Ridiculous. But Mrs. Baird had assured her she would need one, so Annie had employed the only female in the village more scorned—and, thus, more desperate—than she was.

  Dougal MacDonnell’s freckle-faced, brown-haired wife might be a shy mouse who rarely raised her eyes above anyone’s navel, and yes, she was a former prostitute from Glasgow. But like the rest of Dougal’s family, she needed employment. Besides, her gowns were always plain but clean, and her hair was always neatly trimmed, so she knew more about such things than Annie.

  Now, however, Annie stood before the three gowns laid out on her bed, reminding herself that she could not shout at Betty MacDonnell because Betty hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t spoken more than two words, in fact. Granted, those two words had been, “Aye, miss,” whispered to the floor. But shouting at her would be like kicking a kitten.

  Annie gritted her teeth. “What do ye think of the lavender one, Betty?”

  No answer.

  She chanced a glance at the maid, whose eyes widened and darted away.

  It was the final straw. “Ye’ve seen me in the altogether every day for the last seven,” Annie snapped. “Nobody here is any better than anybody else. Stop actin’ like ye’re embarrassed to be breathin’.”

  The other woman flinched and cowered.

  Bloody hell. With an effort, Annie softened her tone. “All I mean is that ye needn’t be nervous to speak yer mind. I hired ye because ye’ve a bit of talent for”—she gestured to the gowns then swirled a hand around her own head—“this sort of thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Betty whispered.

  “Dinnae apologize, for the love of …” Annie bit down on the remainder then patted the woman’s spindly shoulder. “Let’s try the lavender one, eh?”

  Betty nodded. Then hesitated. Then moved to the grass-green walking dress. “Th-this one is a bonnie shade fer spring.”

  Despite her own melancholy, Annie gave Betty an encouraging nod. “Right ye are. A much better choice.”

  Betty smiled then helped her dress. A short time later, while Annie’s new maid removed wee wraps from the curls along Annie’s temples, one of her lads ran into the bedchamber to deliver a note from Angus.

  As she read his blunt, blockish scrawl, Annie’s stomach tightened and swooped and panged. Then, her chest expanded until she felt it might burst. She covered her lips with trembling fingers. Could it be?

  Betty whispered, “Is the news dreadful, then?”

  Annie shook her head in wonderment, struggling to contain herself. “No,” she choked. “Ah, God bless us all. The charges against Broderick will be dismissed. The Lord Commissioner has accepted the exciseman’s original statement, and Broderick’s sure to be released.” Without thinking, she stood and embraced Betty, who gave a startled jerk at the gesture.

  “Och, I’m a pure disaster.” Annie drew back, sniffing and swiping at damp cheeks. “I’ll need yer help with packin’. Angus will want to leave for Edinburgh straight away. Ye must stay here.”

  Betty hesitated, blinking and moving her mouth as though she wished to speak.

  Annie explained, “Broderick’s health is quite poor, and he’ll need a lot of care when we bring him home. I’d like ye to prepare his old bedchamber on the ground floor. He has a fine house of his own, ’tis true. But for a time, he must stay where we can care for him properly.” Annie patted Betty’s shoulder, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’ll want yer help with that, too.”

  “Of course.” Betty’s eyes went soft with sympathy. “We’ll have him feelin’ braw in no time.”

  Two hours later, Annie and the MacPherson men left the glen and headed south. While she remained dry inside the enormous travel coach her father had hired, Campbell and Alexander rode their horses alongside, their postures intimidating and vigilant. Angus rode outside with the coach driver, his favorite hunting rifle braced across his knees.

  David Skene had not yet been found, after all.

  For the following three days, they set a rapid pace over muddy March roads. The few times Annie had traveled such a distance, she’d sat between her brothers in a rough wagon. She’d worn her trews and plaid and tucked her hair up beneath her hat. Now, she was dressed like a lady in a proper gown with a proper straw bonnet. She sat upon cushioned seats and slept against a tufted coach wall. She watched out the window while the starkly beautiful mountains and steep, green glens of the Highlands gradually softened into hills, swells, and finally, rolling pastures.

  And she hated every moment. Idleness drove her mad. She spent the first couple of days working on her sewing projects. Those were coming along splendidly, but the motion of the carriage and uncertain light made for slow work. Without anyone to talk to, she slept when she was able. And she practiced speaking the way Mrs. Baird did, with softer R’s and gentler O’s. Mostly, she tortured herself with thoughts of everything she might lose.

  Her brother.

  Her laddie.

  Her … whatever John Huxley was.


  From time to time, despair overwhelmed her, and she reached for the thistle charm in her wee purse—or reticule, as Mrs. Baird called it. The little carving had been discolored and smoothed by her hand over the past few months.

  She rubbed her thumb across its contours now as the coach rolled into the heart of Edinburgh. “Are ye seein’ this, Fin?” she whispered when the tall, crowded buildings of Lawnmarket gave way to the tall, crowded buildings of High Street. They passed Parliament Square, where Broderick’s fate had been weighed and decided. “This is the place where all the important men gather.”

  Important men. She’d come to despise the thought of marrying one. To imprison Broderick MacPherson for five months without a conviction, a man had to have significant power. More than anyone should, in her estimation. And to gain such power by accident of birth? The injustice made her seethe.

  A thousand lords could not equal a single Broderick MacPherson. Or a single John Huxley, for that matter. The Englishman had built ships. He’d explored lands where giraffes nibbled the treetops. He’d turned a crumbling castle into a proper home. He’d earned Angus MacPherson’s respect. These were no accidental achievements but the results of raw effort, a strong heart, and a sharp mind.

  John Huxley was no lord given privilege and power with his christening gown. He was a man. Very well, an Englishman. But a man worthy of admiration, nonetheless.

  As the coach drew to a halt outside a High Street inn, she squeezed the thistle charm one last time and deposited it in her reticule.

  She wished he were here. Huxley would know what to say to quell her queasiness. He’d tell her a daft story about a lazy rhinoceros or the sorts of fish that let you tickle their bellies. He’d make her laugh.

  But he wasn’t here. So, she smoothed the sleeves of her dark-blue carriage dress and gathered her courage. First, inside the inn, they must meet with the solicitors. Then, they must travel to Calton Hill to retrieve Broderick from the Bridewell. She examined the interior of the coach, hoping it would be big enough to carry him.

  Campbell opened the coach door. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes were red and weary. He held out his hand. Annie took it and stepped down from the carriage like a lady. They’d been practicing on this journey, and although Campbell was not precisely pleased by the change, he’d been accommodating.

  She hugged his arm as they crossed the inn’s courtyard. “We’ll have to fashion a litter for him inside the coach,” she murmured. “I’ve enough blankets, but we’ll need canvas and wood. I dinnae want him to be folded in half.”

  Campbell grunted. “Perhaps the wagon would have been better, after all.”

  She didn’t bother answering. She’d told him as much before they’d left home, but the MacPhersons had all insisted the coach was more appropriate for a lady and better protection for Broderick.

  Angus and Alexander opened the inn’s door and urged her forward. Inside, two short, bespectacled men and one thin, long-nosed man rose from their table.

  She sighed. Solicitors were such an aggravation. “I’ll find the innkeeper and arrange for proper food,” she said. “We’ll need a goodly quantity for the journey home.”

  Midstride, Alexander turned and scowled. “Dinnae wander round this place alone, Annie. That’s trouble from the start.”

  Raising a brow, she replied, “Ye’d ken a lot about trouble, right enough.” She patted his arm. “I’ll be quick as a lass’s lashes when she’s flirtin’ with Rannoch.”

  “Speakin’ of Rannoch, he’s supposed to arrive—ah, there he is.” Alexander reversed course when he spied their brother entering behind them.

  Annie used the distraction to escape and made her way toward the small, walled-off section of the main dining room, adjacent to the bar. She entered the quieter space, noting that its inhabitants were better dressed and better fed than the riffraff beyond the partition.

  She’d just spotted a man she thought might be the innkeeper when a flash of red caught her eye. Peering across the dim interior, she blinked twice to be certain. But yes, it was a wee tartan peacock. Gilbert MacDonnell stood near the bar in his brilliant red kilt and pom-topped cap, laughing uproariously at a jest from one of his companions. Another of his companions rolled his eyes. A third glanced away and drank his beer.

  A fourth had a very fine backside.

  Annie blinked again. Golden hair and a fine backside. It must be Lockhart. She couldn’t see his face, but he lived in Edinburgh, and this inn was a frequent haunt of those who had business in Parliament Square. Lords often did. It still begged the question of what Gilbert MacDonnell was doing there, but perhaps Lockhart’s presence was a stroke of luck.

  If she had to marry a lord, he seemed less repulsive than most. Of course, she didn’t know him at all. And he’d only seen her once on the worst day of her life. Perhaps she should leave him be. Or perhaps she should approach, hoping he didn’t recognize her.

  Blast. Pursuing a lord was harder than it sounded. Ladies had to be modest and coy. They had to plan their attack carefully so as to capture a man’s interest without appearing too aggressive.

  She wished John Huxley were here. He would know what to do. Then again, whenever he was near, she only wanted to tease him until his eyes turned gold and that wee muscle in his jaw flickered. He was a pure distraction, her Englishman.

  A quiet, feminine ahem came from behind her. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Annie spun. Golden hair. Green eyes. Swanlike neck.

  Lockhart’s sister smiled tightly. “May I pass?”

  “Oh!” Annie moved aside. “So sorry.”

  A single, regal nod was her answer. Then, with swanlike grace, the woman glided toward the wee tartan peacock’s gaggle of companions. She looped her swanlike arm through Lockhart’s and said something close to his ear. He turned his head to listen then frowned at her. Then argued. Then seemed to grow angry.

  Annie watched the exchange with interest, wondering why she’d assumed being a lady meant you never had disagreements with your brother. But Lady Swan was clearly vexed. Her cheeks and nape reddened until they matched Gilbert MacDonnell’s kilt. Her shoulders went stone-stiff beneath pink silk. She withdrew her arm from her brother’s—or tried to.

  He held onto her with a firmness Annie didn’t like. Lady Swan muttered something that resembled, “Let me go.” She tugged against her brother’s grasp. He twisted, causing a faint wince of pain around Lady Swan’s mouth.

  In all her life, Annie had argued with her brothers countless times. They’d shouted and bellowed and cursed. They’d lifted her off her feet and tickled her without mercy. But the moment she wanted free, they released her. Always. Not once had they used their strength to hurt her. Not once had she feared they might do so.

  Lord Lockhart apparently had no such qualms.

  Muttering, “Bluidy hell,” beneath her breath, Annie sighed and started forward. Lady Swan had been kind to her once. Annie believed in paying her debts.

  “Well, now,” she said at a cheerful volume that drew the golden pair’s attention. “Miss Lockhart, it’s been an age.” She ignored Lockhart’s annoyed expression and instead caught Lady Swan’s gaze. “Last time we saw one another, ye wore yer blue silk gown. Do ye recall?”

  Flustered, Lady Swan blinked several times then seemed to realize what Annie was doing. Slowly, she nodded.

  “Aye, a masterpiece, it was. Gold trim. Wee little tucks on the sleeves.” Annie tilted her head in a chiding fashion. “Now, ye did promise when we met again, ye’d confess the name of yer dressmaker.” Annie extended an open hand. “Come. Ye can tell me all about her while I search for the innkeeper. He disappeared when I was distracted by Laird Glenscannadoo’s brilliant tartan.”

  A small smile touched Lady Swan’s lips. Her brother was less amused. His lips—which, Annie noted, were revoltingly fleshy—tightened into a disapproving pout. Nevertheless, the other woman slid her hand into Annie’s. For a moment, Annie feared she a
nd Lockhart might engage in a tug-o-war.

  But he released his sister after a long hesitation. “Do not go far,” he ordered.

  As Annie drew Lady Swan toward the entrance, the taller woman lowered her head and murmured, “I don’t even ken your name.”

  “Anne Tulloch. Ye may call me Annie.”

  “I am Sabella Lockhart. Forgive me, but you seem … familiar.”

  “We met in Glenscannadoo. Ye retrieved my hat.”

  Green eyes rounded. “Oh!” She examined Annie’s blue wool carriage dress. “My apologies. I … didn’t recognize you.”

  Annie waved away any slight. “I’ve acquired new gowns since then. My dressmaker is Mrs. Baird of Inverness. She’s quite skilled.”

  Lady Swan kept pace until they exited into the courtyard. Then, she tugged Annie into the shadows of a nearby close and pulled them to a halt. “I am grateful to you, Miss Tulloch.”

  “No need for that. Ye offered me kindness when I sorely needed it. I’m simply returnin’ the favor.”

  A bit of injured pride caused Lady Swan—or, rather, Miss Lockhart—to stiffen. “My brother … he is not usually so …”

  “Aye?”

  “He’s suffered some disappointments recently. Now and then, his temper gets the better of him. I do hope you will not judge him too harshly.”

  Annie glanced around the courtyard, watching gentlemen come and go. Some still wore their courtroom wigs, some were road-weary travelers of middling means, and some hurriedly examined watches only wealth could purchase. One portly fellow in a shabby gray coat helped his elderly mother down from a travel coach. The mother kissed her son’s cheek, and he kissed her hand with an affectionate smile.

  Did she judge Lord Lockhart harshly? Annie thought she’d judged him quite well. “Ye shouldnae let him hurt ye,” she warned. “If he does it again, remind him who pours the tea in yer house.”

  Miss Lockhart’s eyes went round again.

  Annie patted the gloved hand that still clasped hers. “Then, when he begins to ken ye’re serious, remind him who ensures the rats in the larder arenae a bother.”