by Elisa Braden
Annie nodded her thanks then linked arms with Mrs. MacBean and started toward the northern trail. She drew a shuddering breath scented with warm pines and damp grass.
Mrs. MacBean patted her hand fondly. “Dinnae be nervous,” she soothed. “If the lad has anythin’ betwixt those handsome ears, he’ll love it.”
Annie’s smile trembled. “I hope so.”
As they passed the old church, Annie slowed. Her heart squeezed. A chilling breeze passed through her, and she slid a hand over her ribs.
“Did ye see somethin’, lass?”
“No.”
“Then why did yer light suddenly go out?”
Annie’s throat closed around an ache. She looked down at the package in her hand. Then, she looked again at the rusted gate and the empty arches. The gravestones that were being worn away by time.
She’d forgotten. True, there’d been numerous distractions—the Lady Lessons and the new gowns and the trouble with Broderick. But she’d forgotten him. How could she have done that?
“Och, dinnae let these auld, dead spirits darken yer day,” Mrs. MacBean admonished. She lightly shook Annie’s arm, drawing Annie’s gaze back to her half-sighted, age-crinkled countenance. “Ye’ve a braw, handsome man waitin’ for ye. And if his uncle is anythin’ to go by, ye’re a very fortunate lass.”
She attempted a smile, but it shook until it fell. “Aye. Ye’re right.”
They started forward again. By the time they approached the clearing, Mrs. MacBean was pulling ferns from her hair and complaining about the heat.
“I told ye, auld woman, ye shouldnae be wearin’ that heavy apron over a wool walkin’ dress. For God’s sake, it’s summer.”
“Aye, and the midges are swarmin’.” Mrs. MacBean slapped her neck. Then slapped Annie’s.
Annie swatted her hand away and tugged aside a long bramble branch that had grown into the path. Ducking past it and raising her voice to be heard above the fall, she said, “There’s no use killin’ the wee beasties. They’ll just …”
She stumbled as the waterfall came into view. All her air and every thought left her body. Then fire rushed in.
“Sweet Christ and all his unicorns, lass. Is that …?”
Annie tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. Everything else was wet.
Especially … him.
He stood in the pool at the base of the waterfall, hands raking through his hair as water cascaded over his chest. His naked chest. The one with hard, defined muscles and a bit of brown hair in all the right places. Mostly on the muscles.
“I’ve some herbs and such to collect from the riverbank,” said Mrs. MacBean. “And other places. Bog myrtle for the midges. Also, mushrooms. Och, so many things to find. I’ll be gone an hour. Mayhap two.” She patted Annie’s shoulder before whispering, “Enjoy, lass.”
Annie’s chaperone disappeared, and she barely noticed. Who gave a bloody damn about anybody but the mostly-naked John Huxley?
Certainly not her.
She wandered closer, uncaring about the grasses brushing her skirts or the midges stinging her arms. Wee little thrills traveled her skin. Her pounding heart pulsed and swelled against her bones.
She crossed the field slowly, savoring the sight of him. The waterline splashed around the rippling muscles of his abdomen. Was he fully naked? She’d like to see. Purely out of curiosity, mind.
“English.” God, her voice was ragged. And no wonder. Her blood was hot, her nipples peaked, her belly aching. Everything was aching. “English,” she said louder.
His head turned. They locked eyes. He blinked then fixed upon her. Brilliant hazel began to glow. “Annie?”
She nodded.
Slowly, he came toward her, swimming through deeper water with strong strokes then standing. And rising. And—oh, dear heaven—all he wore were drawers. Probably Cleghorn’s finest linen. The kind one could see through when it was wet. Which it was. Very wet.
She tried to breathe. Then tried to look away. Then decided that was foolish, as he was not bothering to hide anything. So, she looked. And gasped. And wondered whether a caber that size made riding more difficult.
“Enjoying the view, are you?”
Aye, that she was. When she finally forced her gaze up to his face, he was grinning. No modesty, no shyness, no hesitation. He behaved as if he stood mostly-naked before lasses every day of his life.
Arrogant, seductive Englishman.
“I—I brought ye somethin’.”
He glanced down at himself as he retrieved his trousers and shirt from a pile on the bank. “Likewise.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her entire face prickled like it had been stung by midges. “A gift, ye devil. I brought ye a gift.”
His grin was a wicked taunt. “Your gifts are most welcome.” He eyed her breasts and ran a hand through his hair before shrugging on his shirt. When he pulled on his trousers, a wee little part of her mourned.
“I’m nae talkin’ about my bosoms.”
“Pity.”
“I made ye somethin’.”
“Bread?”
“No.”
He strode closer, taking his time, looking at her like she was his favorite meal. “Butter?”
She blushed harder. “No.”
He stopped a breath away, both hot and watery-cool. “Honey?”
“God, English.”
“I missed you.”
“Ye saw me yesterday.”
His smile was the most riveting, sensual thing she’d ever seen. “Too long,” he rasped. “Where’s your chaperone, love?”
“She’s wanderin’ about collectin’ herbs and such.”
“Have I ever mentioned how much I like Mrs. MacBean?”
Annie snorted. “Well, she likes ye back, that’s for certain.”
He cast a glance around them before crowding close and lowering his head. “How long do I have?”
She swallowed. “An hour or so.” Heavens, his mouth was close. And so, so tempting. “But I must … I must give ye yer gift.”
He sighed and stroked a knuckle gently down the side of her neck. Shivers shook her. “Very well,” he said, nose flaring. “What did you bring?”
She closed her eyes and rested her free hand on his chest. He felt damp and hot and hard. Gathering her strength, she stepped back and held out her package.
He quirked a puzzled smile before unwrapping the brown canvas she’d used for covering. Inside, the blue-and-green tartan lay folded neatly beneath a handsome belt she’d asked Rannoch to purchase for her in Edinburgh. He had an eye for fine leather goods. Angus had helped choose the sporran, of course, which was black with silver trim and white fur tassels. It was embossed with a proud stag’s head that resembled the one from Glendasheen Castle’s new windows. Campbell had selected a dirk with a similar design etched on the blade, and Alexander had fashioned a sgian-dubh with a stag’s antler handle.
The kilt itself was entirely Annie’s creation. She’d agonized over every stitch. She’d sized it from memory, picturing her Englishman over and over as she’d measured the wool and sewn the pleats. She only hoped it fit properly. And that he liked it. And that he would say something.
Instead, he stared at the items as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“’Tis a kilt,” she said helpfully.
He blew out a breath. Nodded. Ran a hand over his jaw.
Oh, blast. Did he hate it? He must hate it.
“Ye—ye’ll need one if ye still wish to compete. In the Glenscannadoo Games, I mean.” Her stomach sank when he wouldn’t even look at her. “It doesnae have to be this one, of course. I only thought ye might—”
His hand cupped her nape and brought her mouth up to his. The kiss was a fierce claiming rather than the gentle caresses or the sensual seduction of their past encounters. By the time he finished with her, she was reduced to little more than butter and honey and desire.
“I
love it,” he panted against her lips.
“Ye do?”
“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me, Annie.”
She grinned like a pure dafty. “Aye? Well, let’s put it on ye, then.”
Explaining each piece of the ensemble as she laid them out on a flat stone, she finally shook out the kilt and offered it to him. “We’ll put it over yer breeches for now, but when ye wear it to the games ye must have nothin’ underneath, ye ken?”
The gleam in his eye was devilish. “I ken, love.”
“Stop lookin’ at me that way.”
“I can’t help it. You are stunning. Do you know your hair looks like fire?”
She touched the wisps around her cheeks.
“And your eyes. They are the color of cornflowers.”
Her breathing quickened. “A—a lot of nonsense. That’s what this is. Ye’re the bonnie one, here.”
He grinned wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Now, stop distractin’ me,” she said, her gaze riveted to that smile. “We must see if this kilt fits ye.”
Raising his arms out to his sides, he arched a brow. “I am at your service, Miss Tulloch.”
As she wrapped the wool around his waist, she tried not to breathe. Not to touch. Not to let her breasts brush against him. She failed miserably on all counts. By the time she’d fastened the buttons hidden inside the waist and correctly positioned his belt, a great deal of touching had occurred. In fact, unusually sensitive parts of her had swept across unusually hard parts of him at least eight times. On the final pass, he might have groaned.
“There,” she panted, refusing to look him in the eye. “Ye’re perfect. Er—yer proportions are … a perfect fit.”
“They will be.”
She turned away to fuss with his sporran and the scabbard for his dirk. “No need to add all this today. When the time comes—”
“I’ll need you there with me.”
Oh, God. He stood directly behind her, his hot breath on her neck, his shadow mingling with hers. Then, his lips touched her skin—just the spot where her shoulder met her throat. She felt his cool, damp hair and his newly shaven jaw and the mass of tingling sensations that burned through her whenever he was near.
“I need you with me always, love.”
She sank back into his body, weak and molten. How badly she needed him, too. The ache was maddening.
He began plucking pins from her hair, kissing his way across her shoulder and up her throat. His arms banded her waist and pulled her hips back into his.
Her vision grew so bright, she had to close her eyes.
“Marry me, Annie.”
At first, she thought she’d imagined the husky murmur. So, she simply raised her hand to cup his cheek while he nibbled her neck and swept one of those lean, talented hands up to her breast.
She moaned as he began stroking her nipple through the silk of her dress and the cotton of her corset.
Then, he said it again. More insistent, this time. “Marry me.” He nibbled her earlobe and squeezed her nipple with not-quite-enough pressure. “Be my wife.”
Engulfed by heat and desire, Annie nearly answered with the word that was pounding from her heart. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But just as her lips parted to speak, a tiny chill of sanity struck. She slid her hands over the tops of his. Held as tightly as she could.
And remembered why she’d thought of marrying in the first place.
Finlay. To have him in her life again, she must marry a lord.
John Huxley was a gentleman. John Huxley had stolen her heart. John Huxley might very well be the only man she would ever truly want. But he was not a lord.
So, it came to this: She must choose one or the other.
Her laddie. Or her love.
Her throat closed. Realization choked her, and she dug her fingertips into her Englishman’s strong hands.
He’d felt her body still, and now, his did the same. “Do you intend to answer?” Quiet. Cold. His arms fell away.
She tried to hold him, but he was distant, now—a ship casting off into the dark. Her chest went so tight, she couldn’t breathe. Her ribs hurt. Everything hurt.
Finlay. She squeezed her eyes closed, taking shallow breaths and hugging herself.
Finlay.
“Perhaps no answer is answer enough, hmm?” Ice-cold, her Englishman. Withdrawing. Leaving her.
She must say something. Or at least look at him. Could she look at him? Not without falling apart. “English …” She turned. And fell apart.
He was shaking his head, his lips a bitter twist. Whatever glow had shone in his eyes was gone. What remained was flat acceptance and the barest hint of pain. “Not to worry, Miss Tulloch. It was my mistake. A bit of wishful thinking, you might say.”
Every inch of her trembled. Something was tearing out her center. She stumbled toward him. Wanted to explain. “No, English—”
But he turned away. Gathered up the items she’d brought. Raised them in the air. “My thanks for the souvenirs. When I return to England, they’ll be a good reminder of something I never should have forgotten.”
“Please,” she begged.
He strode away, ignoring her. Long strides carried him along the riverbank and into the trees then out of view.
The wind suddenly gusted, blowing her hair into her eyes. She scarcely noticed. Everything bloody hurt. So much that she bent forward, trying desperately to hold herself together. But her ribs felt battered and crushed. Her lungs wouldn’t work right.
She should follow him. She should explain, even though he hadn’t believed her the first time. Even though he wouldn’t believe her now.
But the choice was impossible. How could she have allowed herself to fall so deeply in love with him? How could she have so carelessly let Finlay’s absence make her forget?
“Lass?” Old, gnarled hands came into view. Cupped her cheeks and raised her face. “Didnae ye hear me?” The single, milky eye seemed oddly penetrating. The low, scratchy voice seemed oddly resonant. “What’s ailin’ ye, Annie?”
That was all it took for her to crumble. She collapsed to her knees, there in the grass. And for a long while, Mrs. MacBean held her while she rocked back and forth. Finally, she managed to whisper, “He wants to marry me.”
The old woman patted her back and kept rocking. “Aye.”
“I didnae answer.”
“Because of yer laddie.”
Annie nodded.
“Do ye wish to marry the man?”
Another nod.
“Aye, of course ye do.” A deep sigh. Then, the old woman pushed to her feet and bent to help Annie do the same. “Come.”
Dazed as she was, Annie didn’t argue. She allowed Mrs. MacBean to lead her back along the trail toward the castle. When they reached the churchyard, the woman tugged her toward the spot where the gate had once stood.
There, being overtaken by grass and a clump of thistles, was the wee ring of stones Annie had laid for Finlay.
“I cannae bear it,” she whispered, the confession torn from her heart. “I cannae bear to let him go.”
Mrs. MacBean squeezed her hand. “Which ‘him’ are ye referrin’ to, lass?”
The world turned watery. Light blurred and a tear splattered onto the soil. Another sharp gust blew through her, nearly knocking her flat. She clung to the old woman and gasped to catch a sob. “John Huxley.” Angrily, she swiped at her cheeks. “I love that bluidy Englishman until I cannae see straight.”
“Aye.” Mrs. MacBean patted her arm. “I ken.”
“But how can I abandon Finlay?”
“Mayhap it was always goin’ to end here.” She gestured to the unmarked grave, the little circle of stones with its tangle of weeds. “Mayhap some friends arenae meant to stay forever, but only until ye dinnae need them quite so much.”
Annie covered her eyes. Pictured Finlay’s sweet face. His wise voice—a lad’s voice c
arrying centuries inside it. How could she say goodbye? She’d promised to do whatever was necessary to bring him back to her.
But she hadn’t thought that would mean cutting out her own heart.
She tried to imagine feeding some other husband. Kissing some other husband. Conceiving a son with some other husband. Even if that son was Finlay, everything inside her screamed it was wrong. Annie should be John’s wife. She should feed him and love him and make him laugh because nobody else seemed able to do it quite so well.
So, she must let Finlay go. He’d be born to someone else. The void where he’d once been tethered would never entirely heal. And she would miss him. God, how she would miss him.
Another gust rocked her, colder this time. A bird called, loud and close. Annie blinked. Lowered her hand. Raised her eyes.
And there, on the tallest arch, was a white bird. It looked like a raven. She’d never seen anything like it. “D-do ye see that?”
Mrs. MacBean didn’t answer. The bird called again. Its caw was a bit scratchy and distorted. It took flight and disappeared inside the church. A moment later, it landed on the arch again, this time with something in its beak.
A scrap of fabric, she thought, though it was difficult to see.
The bird looked directly at Annie, and for a moment, she would have sworn its eyes were the same color as Fin’s. Then, it flew away.
But the scrap of fabric floated down, twirling and dancing on the newly vigorous wind. It landed in the center of the stones.
Blue and green tartan. The very same she’d used to make her Englishman’s kilt.
“Och, that clever bird must have snatched it from my pouch earlier when I was gatherin’ bog myrtle.” Mrs. MacBean bent down and retrieved the little scrap of wool. “I used this for yer marriage charm.”
Annie blinked at the old woman who always seemed so daft.
Mrs. MacBean smiled and tucked the scrap into the pouch she wore on her hip. “Seems I still have a bit of magic left in this auld blood, eh?”
“W-was the bird …” Annie pointed to the now-empty arch. “Was that—”
A pat of her hand. A tug toward the trail. “These are deep mysteries we seek to plumb, lass. Dark forces and hidden realms.”
“Aye. Ye’ve said that before. Why do I suspect ye ken a lot more than ye’re sayin’?”
