The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “M-Miss Tulloch, I couldn’t threaten—”

  “Oh, ’tis no threat. Ye must mean every word, ye ken?” Annie held the other woman’s green gaze, thinking how young she seemed. How very young and, despite her lofty position as a lord’s sister, easily damaged. “It only works if ye mean it.”

  “I think you frighten me, Miss Tulloch.”

  Annie chuckled. “I’ve been told I have that effect.”

  Miss Lockhart withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze. “I must return. He’ll be anxious by now. I shouldn’t like to worry him.”

  Suddenly, Annie wished she could help the young woman more. But there wasn’t any way. Until she married, Sabella Lockhart would be entirely controlled by her brother. Annie examined the young woman’s slender, graceful neck and narrow nose. She noted how pale the lass’s lips were, how pinched and delicate she seemed.

  Blast. Annie had too many troubles of her own to go about solving someone else’s.

  Miss Lockhart took a shuddering breath and cast another fretful look at the inn’s door.

  Annie’s heart twisted. “If ye’re ever in need, take the mail coach to Glenscannadoo and ask for me.” The offer leapt from her lips before good sense could lock the gates. “I’ve a spare bed or two. And I serve fine venison with onion gravy.”

  The lass inclined her head and gave Annie a trembling smile. “You are far too kind.”

  “Nah. I wouldnae mind the company.” She shook her own skirts and sniffed. “And yer advice on how to keep mud from stainin’ my new silk hems. It’s a fair bother, I tell ye.”

  Miss Lockhart flashed a pretty grin then thanked her and reluctantly returned inside.

  Annie pitied the lass. When he’d twisted her arm, a hint of satisfaction had been visible on Lockhart’s face. She knew that look. She’d seen it on Grisel MacDonnell too many times. Fortunately, Grisel had no real power over Annie the way Lockhart did over his sister. If Annie’s brothers had been similarly cruel … but they weren’t. They were good men. The best, really. Especially Broderick.

  Needing a moment alone, Annie lingered in the narrow, shadowy close between the inn and a hat shop. She patted the thistle inside her reticule, shut her eyes for a moment, and remembered her brother as he’d been the last time she’d seen him.

  Broderick’s grin always made her lighter. The day he’d left for Edinburgh, he’d teased her about her hair.

  “Perhaps I’ll bring home some proper scissors for ye, Annie.” He’d wrapped a long, muscular arm around her shoulders and fluffed the strands along her forehead. “I’ve sheared sheep with better precision.”

  “I’ll care about my hair when ye trim that overgrown shrubbery on yer face.”

  Laughing in his deep, infectious way, Broderick had rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “The midges dinnae seem to mind.”

  She’d swatted his fingers away and grasped his chin playfully. “Ye’ve too fine a face to cover it.”

  His answer had been to kiss her cheek and draw her in for a tight squeeze. Broderick had always been affectionate. His eyes, dark as a Scottish storm, danced and creased at the corners when he laughed. His hands, while massively strong, cradled rather than crushed.

  That was simply Broderick.

  He teased rather than blustered. He calmed rather than roared. And in her lowest moments, he sang until her heart sang in tandem.

  How easy he was to love. How agonizing to think of him …

  Broken.

  Her throat tightened. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Held her breath. Daylight swirled as she leaned against the stone wall and reminded herself that he was still alive.

  He’d be different, yes. Damaged. But so long as he was alive, there was hope.

  She dug inside her reticule for a kerchief to wipe her stupid tears. When she looked up, she saw a figure at the opposite end of the close.

  Drifting deeper into the dark, narrow space, she wandered toward him, thinking she must be imagining things. Perhaps she needed him so badly, she’d begun having visions. Oh, God. Was she going mad?

  No. He was there, at the other end of the close where daylight streamed down onto lean, strong shoulders and a bonnie, masculine face. Beneath his hat was hair of sun-streaked brown. By his side was a man with a cane.

  And gathered around him were two men in wigs and another two men dressed in even finer garb. One had blond hair and the other dark hair with gray wings at his temples. Both were her Englishman’s height, give or take an inch or two. Both were handsome in the patrician way of aristocracy.

  Who were they? And why was John Huxley in Edinburgh, near Parliament Square, talking to two men who looked like Lord Commissioners of the Justiciary and two more men who looked like they should be wearing crowns?

  Her pace quickened. What the devil was Huxley up to? Why hadn’t Robert left Scotland already? Did this have something to do with Broderick?

  Was this part of the bargain he’d made with—

  Her toe caught on a rough plank hidden inside a rubbish pile. “Bluidy hell,” she cursed, hopping on the opposite foot while waves of agony pulsed from her abused toes.

  Masculine voices halted. She braced her hand on the stone wall and glanced up.

  Oh, God. He’d spotted her. Hazel eyes flashed with recognition beneath his hat’s brim. He said something to Robert and started forward at a stalking pace.

  She stumbled back, trying to avoid the pile and regain her footing. “For the love of … blast.”

  “Annie? What are you doing there?”

  “Avoiding the damnable solicitors. And breakin’ my foot.” She frowned up at him as he bore down upon her. “Did I ever tell ye why I prefer tall boots to worthless slippers?” She gestured to said slippers. “Well, now ye ken.”

  His perfect lips quirked. “Very sensible.”

  “What business have ye here, of all places, English?” Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis a mighty odd coincidence.”

  He glanced over his shoulder before herding her backward and tucking them both into a doorway. The sudden change of position—and his sudden nearness—sent her head spinning. She grasped his arms as he effortlessly hauled her up a step and deeper into the crevice.

  Heavens, he was strong. And bonnie. And warm.

  Crowding close, he braced her against cold stone. Then, he lowered his head until those splendid, glowing eyes leveled with hers. “I missed you,” he whispered.

  Ah, God. He’d just echoed the wailing cry of her heart. Breathless and hot, she rested a fluttering hand upon his chest. If she weren’t wearing a bonnet, she’d lay her cheek against him and beg him to hold her. Instead, she could only sigh, “English.”

  “Your carriage dress looks even better than I imagined.”

  “Ye cannae even see me in this darkness.”

  “I can. I feel you, too.”

  She grunted a protest. “Dinnae use yer sweet words on me, John Huxley. I’ve questions for ye.”

  With a sensual smile, he traced a line from her earlobe to her throat. “You smell good.”

  She snorted. “Now I ken ye’re lyin’. Whatever’s in that rubbish pile, it isnae perfume.”

  His hands moved to her waist, squeezing as he nuzzled her jaw. “The only scent I perceive is your skin. You always smell clean to me. Clean and golden and sweet, like caramel or …” Nuzzle. Tickle. “… honey.” Were those his lips?

  Her hands fisted his coat. Her bones liquified into caramel and honey. “I must smell like distraction.”

  “You do.”

  “Fitting. Because that’s all this bonnie talk is, I reckon.” Perhaps her point would have more impact if she didn’t purr it against his jaw and rub her bosom against his chest. On the other hand, it felt heavenly to be in his arms.

  Focus! She must focus. “Who were ye meetin’, English?”

  “Friends.”

  “What friends?”

  Suddenly, he clasped her nape with lean, strong
fingers and cinched her tightly against his hard body with an arm around her back. “I’m going to kiss you. Properly.”

  A dozen responses flashed through her mind, starting with “About time,” and finishing with “Which parts?” But his voice and his breath and her full-body flush annihilated her wits.

  “That sounds … fine,” was the best she could do.

  “Afterwards, I’m going to walk away, and you’re going back into the inn with your family.”

  “How did ye—”

  Perfect lips brushed hers. Tingling sparks flickered to life. “After you return to Glenscannadoo, we are going to do more than kiss.”

  “W—we—”

  “Much more.”

  “Y—ye—”

  “But for now, I’ll have this, Annie. A taste to tide me over.”

  Suddenly, his mouth fused to hers. And his tongue, sleek and hot, slid inside. And Annie’s world turned inside out. Because no man—Englishman or Scot—should be able to steal a woman’s soul the way John Huxley stole hers with a single kiss.

  TlU

  John used every trick he knew. Nearness. Flattery. Touching. The right sort of honesty at the right time. Then, the promise. And, finally, the kiss.

  God, the kiss.

  For the first few seconds, he kept his head. A bit of nibbling pressure. A confident slide of tongue.

  Then, she moaned. Hummed against his lips. And her honey scent spiraled him into intoxication.

  His mouth wanted more of her. His heart hammered against his chest. He tightened his muscles, resisting the urge to drive her higher against the wall.

  Shouldn’t.

  Needed to keep control. This was about distraction. She was the one who must forget herself. Not him. John Huxley did not lose control. Not with women. Not ever.

  Her arms slid around his neck. Her mouth tilted. Opened. Begged him for more.

  Better for everyone if he maintained command of himself. How hard could it be? He’d always managed it before. With other women. Other kisses.

  She shifted so her thigh moved between his. Brushed and pressed. Shot him into the sky. Her softness against his hardness. Lush, round breasts pressing flat until he could feel her hard nipples. Delicious lips opening like a flower. Need for her spun him in spirals of heat.

  He clasped her harder. Gripped her neck and pulled her mouth tighter. Ate at her like a starving animal. And it still wasn’t enough.

  Soft, sweet lips. Not merely willing but eager. She whimpered and pulsed her hips against him. Circling. Grinding. Demanding.

  Somebody growled, deep and primal. He thought it might be him.

  How long had he lived without this? Without her? How hungry had he been? So hungry he hadn’t understood its vastness.

  Until now.

  Blind and hot and hard enough to take her ten times without stopping, he drove her body upward against the wall. Grasped her skirts. Raised them higher. Gave up her mouth to take her throat. God, her scent drove him mad. He hadn’t lied to her about that. She was sunrise over the loch. She was dew upon heather. She was honey and sugar and hot whisky sliding over his tongue. The wanting was like nothing he’d ever known—an inferno. His lungs couldn’t get enough air.

  But he would die happy. Gladly. For one. More. Taste.

  “Ah, dear God, English,” came her husky plea. “Ye’re burnin’ me alive.”

  Yes. He felt his hat tumble away. Felt her fingers clawing at his hair. Felt her legs parting and his fingers sliding and the sleek, hot wetness of ripe, honeyed folds.

  Whimpering as she kissed his jaw, his ear, and his brow, she panted harshly and finally threw her head back with a low moan.

  Her skin tasted like her bread, soft and sweet and salty and complex. Like clouds formed of lust. Automatically, his fingers worked on stroking the ripe petals between her thighs. If he could, he would bare her breasts. Suckle them while he drove her to ecstasy. But he was busy. Obsessed. With her skin and her wet, swollen—

  “What are ye doin’ to me? I’m going to … ah, English. Please. With yer hand. Faster. Dear God. Aye. That’s it.”

  His cock shot so hard and tight, he was sure he would come. Right there in her arms, with his fingers strumming and sliding, with her fingers fisting his hair, with her pleasured cries in his ear.

  Tightening every muscle—his buttocks and shoulders and thighs and arms—he willed himself not to release. It took everything he had. To let her come for him. To feel her body dance and writhe against his. To feel her delicate nub swell and throb against his fingertips as she cried her euphoria against his neck.

  Heaving gasps undulated her body, arching her against him in rhythmic shudders. His arm swept beneath her backside and lifted her, wanting more. More of this victory. For, victory it was. Like nothing he’d ever felt.

  Her pleasure. Because of him.

  The mere idea of it stretched his skin tight over muscle and bone. He took her lips again while she cradled his jaw and kissed him back, lush and languid. She mewled while her soaked thighs quivered, a little uncertain, a little unsteady in the wake of pleasure.

  His sanity returned gradually. First, she stroked his face with tender motions and kissed his jaw softly as she might a man with a fever. The touches soothed him in ways he hadn’t realized he needed. So long he’d gone without her. So long he’d hungered for something he couldn’t find.

  But her skin and her breath, her lips and her whispers led him back from the brink.

  “English,” she sighed, stroking his brows with her thumbs. She kissed his lips. Softly. Chastely. Then, she caught his gaze and smiled, her eyes as blue as cornflowers dancing in a summer field. “I missed ye more.”

  And just like that, his heart broke open. He didn’t know what to say.

  He’d wanted her so badly. In time, he’d decided to claim her. Make her his wife. It was sensible. She’d be a good mother. She’d guard their children ferociously and feed him bread regularly and order him about with that fiery mouth. He’d known marrying her was the right choice.

  But until now, he hadn’t known he loved her. Loved her. The way his father loved his mother and Robert loved Annabelle. The way that made madness a pleasure.

  He eased her down, unable to speak. With great reluctance, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs. He’d been cupping her there, holding her as long as possible so he could feel every sweet pulse. As he lowered her skirts, sound returned—carriages and horses and distant voices of pedestrians at both ends of the long, narrow close.

  God, what had he been thinking? The close remained empty, and the doorway was deep in shadow, so he had no fear anyone had seen them. But he’d only meant to kiss her. A distraction. That was all.

  He’d put his hand up her skirts, for God’s sake. He’d made her come. He’d nearly come, himself. In truth, he’d lost his bloody mind. And his cock still ached like a wound, demanding he finish what he’d started.

  “Dinnae fash,” she whispered. Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she began to tidy his cravat and coat. “Yer hat didnae go far.”

  “Annie.” His voice was shredded.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m sorry I kissed you here.” He chuckled dryly. “Next to a rubbish pile.”

  “Aye. A nasty one. My toe is still smartin’.”

  “But I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

  She arched a brow. “Well, now, that makes two of us.”

  “When we return to the glen, perhaps we’ll test a few locations. See what suits.”

  She chuckled and smoothed his lapel. “I’m glad ye were here, English. Even if ye willnae tell me why.” When she raised her eyes, they glistened. “Today, we fetch Broderick from the Bridewell. Seein’ him promises to tear my heart from my body.”

  He started to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his lips. “It will. I ken the pain is comin’. But all the way to Edinburgh, I kept thinkin’ how ye’d make it just a bit better. Seein’
that bonnie face. Hearin’ that braw voice, crisp as a Highland morning.” She smiled, her eyes shimmering with tears. They spilled over. “And ye did make it better, English. Ye did.”

  She pulled him down for a kiss, and he gathered her tight in his arms. Held her close enough to make them one body. Wished with everything inside him that he could do more. When they separated for a breath, he offered, “I’ll come with you. Let me come with you.”

  “No. This is MacPherson business.” She cupped his cheek. “But if ye were at home next time I visited the castle, if ye were to invite me inside to warm myself by yer hearth, I wouldnae say no.” Kissing him one last time, she slipped away, heading toward the inn.

  John braced himself against the wall and breathed to ease the ache in his chest. For some reason, it took longer to dissipate than the ache in his groin. In fact, by the time he retrieved his hat and found Robert and the others at the tavern where he’d suggested they meet, he began to wonder if the vise tightening around his heart would only wrench harder until the moment he could hold Annie Tulloch in his arms again.

  He sat down at the scarred table where his companions waited.

  “Everything all right?” Robert asked.

  John nodded. “It will be.” He met the eyes of the other men at his table. “As soon as I discover who targeted my future wife’s family and make him pay a very dear price.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  TlU

  There was something perverse about a prison built to resemble a palace. As far as Annie was concerned, the Bridewell should be an eyesore. Instead, it was a four-story castle with symmetrical gabled wings topped by gleaming crosses. To the rear was a third wing, semicircular in shape. The whole was surrounded by high walls and iron fencing, to be sure, but the main gate was a turreted masterpiece.

  Annie gaped as their coach passed through into the inner courtyard.

  How she wished she’d taken Huxley up on his offer. Her hand reflexively gripped the wee thistle charm, but it wasn’t the same as holding her Englishman’s strong hand.