by Elisa Braden
This did not bode well. “We must marry straight away, Angus. After last night …”
“Aye. I ken.”
“I could wait to tell her about my title until after we’re married, I suppose.”
“Best option. No doubt of it.”
John removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Turning the hat in his hands, he considered what awaited him after she found out. Perhaps she would understand once he explained his reasons. Once she realized he’d given her everything she’d claimed to want. Perhaps she’d be vexed for a short while then forgive him quickly.
“Aye, she’ll hate ye pure and proper. Dinnae ken how long it will last. A year, mayhap. Two. Annie is a lass of strong sentiment.” Angus braced his hand on John’s shoulder. “But better she has yer name first, eh? Then, even if she kills ye, her reputation is safe.”
John groaned and rubbed his jaw.
“I recommend gifts, lad. Cannae go wrong with gifts.”
“Bloody disaster,” John muttered.
“Aye. But take heart.” The older man gave him a reassuring pat. “What ye’ve done for this family is no small thing. My son would be dead—dead—if ye hadnae intervened.” Angus’s dark eyes flashed first with grief then with gratitude. “I’ll nae soon forget that. And neither will she. Once she kens, of course.”
John nodded an acknowledgment of the man’s thanks. His efforts hadn’t been for Angus’s sake or even Broderick’s. Everything he’d done had been for Annie. “I am truly heartened at how Broderick has improved. All that remains is to discover who may be held responsible for the atrocities he suffered.”
“Have ye heard aught from yer kin?”
“Not yet. Dunston has promised he will send word soon.”
Angus grunted and gave John’s shoulder a squeeze before shifting to gaze out at the wildflower-strewn pasture. “I’m grateful to ye, son. ’Tis a fair spot of luck ye came here. I kenned an earl’s whelp would have connections. I didnae think ye’d be related to the entire bluidy aristocracy.”
John chuckled. “I admit, being an earl’s son does have its advantages.”
Bees hummed amidst the wildflowers. In the distance, a trio of cows mooed and munched. Warm, lazy wind picked up speed. Suddenly, a sharp breeze burst forth, swirling through willow leaves. It carried the scent of … honey.
He froze.
“Earl’s … s-son?”
Slowly, he turned.
“English?” Her face was cloud-white. “Tell me ye were speakin’ of somebody else.”
“Annie.” He reached her in three strides.
She didn’t try to stop him. Just begged with those wounded blue eyes as if she simply did not understand why he would hurt her.
His hat plopped in the grass as he took her limp hands. “I intended to tell you; I swear it.” He stroked her knuckles, alarmed by her pallor. Her silence. “Love, nothing has changed.”
“Nothin’.” The word was a whisper.
“My father is an earl, yes.”
“An earl.”
“The Earl of Berne. But I am John Huxley. Merely a man. The man who loves you.”
“Ye’re his son.”
“Yes.”
“Ye’ve only sisters.” Her voice was faint, her breathing shallow. “That makes ye his heir, English. Ye’re his heir.”
He nodded. “We’ve many years before—”
“So, ye’re a lord.”
He tightened his jaw. “I have a courtesy title.”
“Do ye, now?”
He might as well have it all out. “Viscount Huxley. I haven’t used it in some years.”
Several breaths passed. “Lord Huxley.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he gritted.
Her fingernails dug into his hands until his palms stung. “Do ye have any idea what I had to sacrifice to marry ye, John Huxley?” She ripped her hands away. Stumbled back. Tripped and stumbled again.
He reached for her, and she veered toward the house.
Then she spun and screamed, “Do ye?”
His throat tightened until he couldn’t bloody breathe. Her pain was pouring out of her, and he was flattened amidst the gale of it.
“Nah!” she shouted. “Because ye never. Bluidy. Believed me!”
She could only be referencing her absurd tale about a ghost boy. What had been his name? Fraser? No. Finlay. That was it. He’d assumed she invented the story. But what if she hadn’t?
What if the boy had been real—at least to her? Then, by agreeing to marry John, she would have believed she was abandoning a friend, cutting herself off from any hope of seeing her “laddie” again.
He went cold. Sick. “Annie.”
She shook her head. Covered her eyes. Her throat rippled with the effort to stifle her gasps. But a few of them emerged as tiny whimpers.
The sounds cleaved him in two.
“Naebody believes me,” she rasped finally, dropping her hand. Her face was wet, her nose the only spot of color. “I’m daft to expect it. I ken that.” Grief-stricken blue eyes locked upon him. “But I thought I could trust ye to tell me who ye are. At least that.”
Out of pure instinct, he moved toward her. “I am entirely the man you know. I promise you, Annie.”
She flinched away as he reached her. “Dinnae touch me.”
“I am sorry. Please listen. I am bloody sorry.”
Her face crumpled. Her hands came up to cover it again, and he couldn’t bear the distance between them.
He wrapped her in his arms. Held her while she sobbed against him. “You can have him back, love,” he whispered. “We’ll marry, and you’ll have him back. Everything will be as you wanted.”
She tore away and retreated toward the house.
“Annie!”
She didn’t answer. Rather, she disappeared inside, leaving him hollow and desperate.
He whispered her name again.
“Go home, lad,” said Angus from behind him. “I’ll speak to her when she’s calmed a wee bit.”
He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to chase her inside, demand that she keep her word and marry him.
He wanted to hold her until she stopped hurting.
Instead, he nodded.
Angus laid a hand on his shoulder before following his daughter into the house.
And John could only stand there and listen to the bees and the cows and the leaves and the wind. And the silence that was now his punishment.
Chapter Eighteen
TlU
Annie had a bath. A hot one in a deep tub, which she rarely had time for. Then, she drank two cups of wine and a full dram of whisky. Then, she dressed in a clean shift, wrapped herself in her plaid, curled up in her bed, and wondered what she was going to do. Apart from weeping and carrying on like one of Grisel MacDonnell’s poor bairns, that was.
He’d lied to her for months. Years, even.
She could understand hiding his parentage when he’d first arrived in Scotland. Englishmen weren’t particularly well received in the Highlands. An English title would only add to his trouble.
But he hadn’t told her the truth when she’d fed him dinner. He hadn’t told her when she’d visited his castle or bargained for Lady Lessons or trained him to grip his caber. He hadn’t told her on the long journey from Inverness when they’d spoken about his family. His sisters. His best friend. His papa and mama, who made him smile with such affection, she’d wanted to kiss him to feel his happiness curving against her.
Instead, he’d carefully avoided any hint that his family was among the most elite in England.
The Earl of Berne. She’d heard the title before but knew little about the family. Now, she knew John was a viscount who would one day be an earl.
Even the man she’d briefly considered for marriage, Lord Lockhart, was of a lower rank. Laird Glenscannadoo was lower still.
She sniffed and sat up to pour herself another dram. The wh
isky burned pleasantly, warming her belly.
He’d lied to her. Seduced her with burning glances. Lain with her in this very bed. Kissed her and made love to her and insisted she become his wife. And, all the while, he’d lied and lied and lied. She hadn’t asked why, but she could guess.
A woman. Perhaps the modest modiste from Paris. Perhaps someone else. Regardless, John Huxley was bitterly cynical about women. He’d misjudged her motives from the start, accusing her of all manner of seduction when she’d done naught but compliment the man’s eyes once or twice. Pure nonsense. He was bonnie as the sunrise, for God’s sake. Was she meant to ignore it? And his laugh sent waves of pleasure down her spine. And his love for his family fair melted her heart. And … well, John Huxley was a braw slice of heaven when he wasn’t accusing her of being a greedy conniver.
Sipping her dram, she stared across the room at the lilac silk gown he’d purchased for her, draped across the back of a chair. Lovely silk from an enchanting man.
No, he’d obviously been targeted before. And he wanted a wife who wanted him without the title attached. Which was why he’d been so wounded by her indecision when he’d proposed.
She wished that made everything better. She wished understanding his reasons meant she could trust him again. But she had wounds of her own, and not being believed was the biggest one of all.
A knock sounded at the door. “I’m comin’ in, lass,” Angus announced in his deep rumble. “Are ye decent?”
She took another drink, leaning back against her pillows and enjoying the deep fire of MacPherson whisky.
Her door inched open. Angus’s iron-gray head poked inside. “Annie?”
“This is fine stuff.” She held up the glass, admiring the golden color. “Better than last year’s lot.”
He entered and closed the door before sitting gingerly on the foot of her bed. “Aye. Take care ye dinnae drown yerself in it.”
Her head was swimming, but she thought Angus sounded quieter than usual. Hesitant. Angus was never hesitant.
“What am I to do, Da?” she whispered.
He held out his hand. She slid hers inside. That big, strong paw closed around her fingers as he looked her in the eye. “Marry the lad.”
With the glass in her hand, she rubbed at the ache beneath her breastbone. It slid against her plaid, but the pain did not ease. “I cannae trust him.”
“Ye think ye cannae. But he loves ye.” Angus paused. “I love ye, too.”
His face blurred. She dropped her gaze to their hands. “Then, why did ye keep the truth from me?”
A deep sigh. “’Twas part of the agreement. He came to see me at the distillery.” In low, deep tones, Angus described how John Huxley had gone from being the curse upon her father’s lips to a friend and ally worthy of Annie’s hand.
Months earlier, John had approached Angus and Campbell with Robert Conrad by his side. He’d immediately assured Angus of his intentions to marry Annie, presenting Robert, his brother-in-law, as a witness to his promise. That had calmed Angus’s concerns long enough for them to sit down and talk over a dram.
Huxley’s offer, it seemed, had been to court Annie as befitted his future countess, to woo her gently in hopes of gaining her admiration and her agreement to become his wife. Angus had wanted assurances that Huxley would neither use coercive measures nor abandon his suit should improprieties occur. Huxley had agreed. Angus had demanded that Huxley keep possession of his Scottish lands and make his home with Annie permanently in the glen. Huxley had agreed. His only request had been that Angus avoid revealing John’s title, saying he preferred to win Annie’s heart without the lure of being a lord.
Then, Huxley had offered his help. He’d explained that he and his family were connected to some very powerful men.
“Which powerful men?” Annie asked.
“I’m comin’ to that.”
“Well, get on with it.”
A tiny smile tugged at her father’s mouth. “Impatient. Ye always were. Aye, then. Ye’ll recall Broderick was still imprisoned at the time.” He shook his head. “We were out of options, lass. We needed a bluidy miracle. Huxley offered one on a golden plate.”
Her mind was a wee bit sluggish thanks to the whisky, but even half-sotted, she realized what the offer had been. Huxley had gone to Edinburgh because he’d been helping to free Broderick. He’d been speaking with judges when she’d spotted him. Then, he’d kissed her and stolen her soul there in the dark, narrow close—because he hadn’t wanted her to discover what he was doing. Because then, she might ask how a simple, bonnie Englishman had managed such a thing.
“Before he approached me about ye,” Angus continued, “he wrote his kin askin’ for their help. By the time he came to the distillery, he’d already put his plans in motion.” Angus’s finger touched her chin, drawing her gaze up to his. “Huxley said whatever my decision, he planned to help yer brother. He wanted to help us, Annie. Because he loves ye.”
She gripped his hand tighter. “And you believed him?”
“A man doesnae bring a witness to a marriage proposal unless he’s in earnest, lass.” Angus sighed. “Huxley brought a future marquis.”
Blinking, she glowered. “Are ye speakin’ of … Robert?”
“Aye. Happens his father is the Marquis of—”
“Mortlock,” she said faintly, recalling the strange conversation between Robert and Mrs. Baird, who must have recognized him.
“Conrad claims his father’s at death’s door, and his older brother is both sterile and sickly. Shouldnae be long before the title devolves to him.”
“A marquis. Good God.”
Angus grunted. “That’s not the half of it.”
Annie blinked again, feeling like she was being pummeled. “What’s the other half?”
“Remember how Huxley said his sisters made good marriages?”
“Aye.”
Angus looked a wee bit uncomfortable.
“Da?”
“Ye did say ye wanted to marry a lord.”
“Da!”
“One of his sisters is wife to the Duke of Blackmore.”
Air left her in a whoosh. Blackmore was an enormously powerful figure within England. He also had familial ties to influential figures in Edinburgh—including two men on the High Court of Justiciary. “H-Huxley’s sister is a duchess?”
“Aye. The eldest sister will be a marchioness soon, as I said. Two more are countesses.” Angus sighed. “And that’s just his kin. I havenae even mentioned his friends.”
She was afraid to ask.
Angus answered anyway. “The Marquess of Wallingham. Their families have been friendly since before he was born.”
Wallingham. Another near-mythical name whose influence stretched across Britain. Her stomach burned and gave a sick lurch. She slid her empty glass onto the table. “Da?” she breathed. “I dinnae think I can do this.”
He patted her hand. “Ye’ll be fine.”
No, she wouldn’t. John’s deception had cut her to pieces precisely because she’d never thought a wound would come at his hands. Could she forgive him? Perhaps. Trust him not to hurt her again? Uncertain.
But the entire bloody question was now moot, for his family would never accept her. A brash, trews-wearing, vulgar hoyden from the arse crease of Scotland? His mother would swoon—and rightly so.
He’d even warned her that her goal of becoming a lady was nigh impossible. In the dress shop, he’d explained what real ladies were like, illustrating how different Annie was from that description. She’d reassured herself at the time by imagining some lowly, minor lord, perhaps a kindly widower in need of good meals and an orderly household. She’d told herself such a marriage would be a half-step up from being a housekeeper, and surely she could manage politeness and gown-wearing for a few months while she searched for a lord desperate enough to wed her.
What a fool she’d been. Failure had awaited her. Miserable, humiliating
failure. Even if she’d found some desperate, obscure lord willing to take her on, she couldn’t have gone through with it.
She’d already lost her heart to a bonnie Englishman. Marrying another man? No. Not even to have Finlay with her again. Which left her only one choice—marrying John.
Except that John Huxley’s sister was the Duchess of Blackmore. His father was Lord Berne. The rest of his kin—all titled. And one day, his wife would become a countess.
A countess.
The very thought made the room shift around her.
Her hand slid over her belly as it twisted. “I cannae be his wife,” she whispered, the realization crushing her.
“Eh? Why in blazes not?”
“Look at me, Da. Do I seem like a countess to you?”
His jaw hardened. “Ye seem like my daughter. And Huxley is damned fortunate to have captured yer fancy.”
Shaking her head, she whispered, “Dinnae ken about that.”
Angus plucked up one of her hands and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Feel these bones, lass?”
Her eyes welled until his beloved face swirled. She nodded.
“Ye’re a part of me as much as they are. Have been since I first spotted yer wee, red head outside the kirk doors.” He knuckled a curl from her cheek. “We’re like Highland thistles, you and I. Tough and stubborn. A mite hostile when we must be. Our nature doesnae suit everybody. But we grow where we’ve landed. We hold our ground. And we dinnae shrink from a fight, even when we’re trampled. Ye ken?”
She dashed away the tears that had spilled. Sniffed, then nodded.
“Good lass. Now, here’s what’s about to happen.” His voice grew stern as the craggy rocks of the glen. “Ye’ll go to Huxley and tell him ye’re ready to marry him.”
“No, I cannae—”
“Ye ken how bairns come to be, aye?”
She swallowed. Her hand tightened over her belly. “Of course, I—”
“And ye took yer chances anyway.”
She felt her cheeks go fiery. “Da.”
“So, ye’ll marry Huxley. Punish him as long as ye please. Once he’s yer husband, that will be easy to do.” Heavy brows lowered over dark, forbidding eyes. “But ye will marry him first. Ye’ll live in Glendasheen Castle. Ye’ll birth his bairns and bring them here to see their grandfather. And ye’ll cook yer venison and gravy for me. An auld man needs his comforts.”
