The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  A smile trembled on her lips. “I suppose all this will happen just because ye say so.”

  His chin tilted to a familiar, obstinate angle. “I’m yer father, lass.”

  “Aye, Da.” She squeezed his wrist, feeling the weighty Highland bones. “That ye are.”

  TlU

  John exited Gilbert MacDonnell’s small manor house with a better understanding of Annie’s disdain for the man. Glenscannadoo’s laird was tiny, daft, and puffed up like a peacock. He’d invited John to take tea with his sallow, drunken wife in an ornately furnished drawing room that smelled of wax and heavy perfume. After extolling the value of an Oxford education for men in positions of leadership, Laird Glenscannadoo had fed him mediocre shortbread and bragged of his family’s heroism in sustaining the traditions of his clan.

  The wife had nodded off in the midst of their conversation. Only then had Glenscannadoo taken John to his tiny-yet-ornate library, where a stag’s head was mounted on the wall. Even that had been small. And, John had noticed, the antlers had a faint seam near the animal’s skull, as though a larger set had been added. Compensation for shortcomings, no doubt.

  Everything about the man irritated John, from his wheedling, nasal pomposity to his ornamental gold dirk. He wouldn’t be there at all, and certainly would not have used his title to gain access. But Gilbert MacDonnell had the one thing John needed—a record of the MacDonnell ancestors.

  “Finlay MacDonnell? No, I cannot say I recall such a name,” he’d replied to John’s query. “But you are certainly welcome to glance through our clan history.” He’d pointed to the large, gold-lettered book perched on a marble stand between two bookcases. “We keep excellent records.”

  Proud as the man was of his heritage—or at least its trappings—John didn’t doubt it. However, after a lengthy search through page after page of MacDonnells, he found no trace of the name he was seeking.

  “Is it possible some names have been left out?” John had asked. “The branch that perished in the castle, perhaps?”

  Glenscannadoo had stiffened, seeming offended, then flipped to a page about a third of the way into the book. “Here. The branch that falsely attempted to claim the lairdship. Even those who did not survive past infancy are noted.” He’d pointed to the names, none of which were Finlay. “The fire spared no one, I’m afraid.” He’d sipped his brandy and sniffed. “Tragic.”

  Now, John waited in the short drive outside Glenscannadoo Manor for one of the laird’s stable lads to bring his horse. Preoccupied with thoughts of Annie, he failed to notice the donkey ambling down the lane until it turned into the drive and headed directly for him.

  When he raised his head, his heart nearly stopped. Scarlet curls gleamed in the patchy sunlight. They peeked out from beneath a straw bonnet with a blue silk ribbon that matched her gown.

  The same gown she’d worn the day he’d proposed to her.

  His body’s surging reaction was predictable, but seeing her so unexpectedly intensified it tenfold. Then he noticed her bosom. The motion of the donkey was not quite a walk, not quite a trot. And it made everything … bounce.

  The lust hit him so hard, he nearly bent in half.

  She should be wearing a riding habit, of course. But Annie wasn’t like other women. At the moment, her brows were drawn in consternation as she attempted to ride a donkey in an evening gown.

  God, how he loved her.

  And despite the pain of his arousal and the sharp need she invoked in him, he smiled. His grin had turned to a chuckle by the time she reached him.

  “Ye’re a fine one to be laughin’, John Huxley,” she snapped. “I’d like to see ye try to ride wearin’ a skirt.”

  He couldn’t stop. He was so bloody happy to see her. The past three days had been agony. “I’ll wear anything you like, love. Riding with you is one of my favorite diversions.”

  “Stop yer nonsense and help me down. Bill is a mite aggravated. We rode all the way to yer castle only to have Dougal say ye’d come here to visit the wee tartan peacock.”

  He looked at the long-eared donkey. The animal gave a lazy blink. “I suspect Bill is not the one who is aggravated,” he observed before gripping her waist and lifting her down.

  Admittedly, he held her against him for longer than necessary. And he cupped her backside more firmly than necessary. And, very well, he ogled her bosom much more than necessary.

  But she was irresistible. An enchantress from his deepest fantasies.

  “If ye fancy keepin’ that bonnie nose unbroken, English, ye’ll take yer lordly hands off my backside.”

  With great reluctance, he raised his gaze from the luminous bounty of her breasts. Her lips were pink and her cheeks flushed from the summer heat. Cornflower eyes snapped with ire. He wished her anger diminished his arousal.

  It did the opposite.

  “Why did you seek me out?” he asked hoarsely.

  “A better question is why are ye here?” She nodded toward the manor house. “Never thought ye had much use for the wee tartan peacock.”

  He considered not telling her. For long moments, he weighed the likelihood that she would hate him even more. But keeping things from Annie was a mistake he didn’t want to repeat. So, he told her the truth. “I came to view the MacDonnell ancestry.”

  She stared silently for several breaths, glanced away, then said softly, “Ye were lookin’ for proof that Finlay existed.” A breeze ruffled her pretty hair. “Because ye dinnae believe me.”

  His heart ached at the signs of hurt around her eyes. “I only wanted something tangible.”

  “Did ye find it?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. Drew a deeper breath and blew it out. “Aye, then.” Her eyes came back to his wounded but resolute. “I sought ye out today because we have a matter to settle between us.”

  Yes, they did. Whether she forgave him or not, he must persuade her to become his wife—and soon. Even now, she could be carrying his child.

  Behind him, the lad arrived with his horse. John took Jacqueline’s reins and waved toward the lane. “Will you walk with me?”

  Annie nodded and, together, they led their mounts down the short drive and along the village road. Glenscannadoo Manor sat a quarter-mile from the market square amidst a few pleasantly landscaped acres above the loch. Surrounding the laird’s groomed gardens were small farms filled with sheep. Most of the trees had been cut down for pasture. But the lane was lined with young oaks planted in tidy rows obviously intended to add grandeur to the manor’s approach.

  “So, what do they call ye, English? When ye’re usin’ yer title?” She asked the question idly, as though they were having a friendly chat.

  Guilt assailed him. “Annie, I am sorry I didn’t tell—”

  “Lord Huxley, aye?” She didn’t look his direction, merely kept her eyes forward as they walked, her bonnet shading her expression. “And yer wife would be Lady Huxley. A viscountess. Do I have that right?”

  His chest ached. “Yes. You would be Lady Huxley.”

  She nodded, her neck tight, her lips pursed. “And one day, yer son will have a title, too.”

  “Our eldest son will become Lord Huxley, yes, when I become the Earl of Berne. Which will not be, as I explained previously, for some years. My father is in excellent health, barring any future cohabitation with cats. Never know when Mama will make another disastrous attempt to bring one home. But, in general, we Huxleys are reliably long-lived.” He smiled wryly. “Prolific, too. But that is a subject for another day. I shouldn’t like to frighten you.”

  Her lips tightened as though stifling a smile.

  The sight made him hard. But then, everything about her made him hard. He cleared his throat and surreptitiously adjusted his coat.

  “Have ye responsibilities from yer title? Parliament business or some such that requires ye to live in England?”

  “No. I only visit England to see my family. My father has a seat
in the House of Lords. He and my mother visit London each spring whilst Parliament is in session. By the time summer arrives, they are eager to return home to Nottinghamshire.”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “But yer father is healthy, ye say.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it will be some years before ye and yer wife would have to travel to London for yer lordly duties.”

  He frowned. “Yes.”

  She nodded. Whispered something to herself. Then halted in the middle of the road. Finally, she turned to face him. Her eyes blazed with odd defiance. “Ye’re goin’ to marry me, John Huxley.”

  He froze, riveted in place as lightning coursed through him. Had she just said …?

  “Tomorrow,” she specified. “I bribed the priest to marry us at the auld churchyard near the castle. He didnae want to do it there. But his purse is empty, and he’s desperate. Gamblin’s a sinful habit. Do ye suppose it’s more sinful to gamble with church funds?” She clicked her tongue. “I’d say so, but perhaps God doesnae care for context.”

  “Annie,” he breathed.

  “Fornication. Now, there’s a sin with context, aye? Outside marriage, sinful. Inside marriage, encouraged.” She shrugged. “Either way, we’ll be doin’ that, too, English. A lot of it.”

  “Bloody hell,” he groaned.

  “No sense complainin’ about it. Cannae make bairns without fornication.”

  “Excellent point. I shall apply myself to the task with considerable vigor,” he murmured, scarcely able to form a sentence.

  “This doesnae mean I forgive ye. Because I hate liars, John Huxley.” Her lower lip firmed and her chin went up. “Ye cannae trust them.”

  “Annie, I’m so bloody sorry. I should have told you.”

  “Aye, ye should have. Perhaps forgiveness will come, but we cannae wait that long. I mean to have my laddie back. And ye’re the one who’ll make that happen.”

  He was startled to have her agree so readily to his precise conclusions. Annie was a sensible woman with a pragmatic approach to most things. But he’d hurt her deeply. He could see it in the way she looked at him, that beam of admiration dimmed and tainted by pain he had caused. “I will earn your forgiveness, love.” He moved closer but stopped when she stiffened. “Once we marry—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow.”

  “In the auld churchyard.”

  “Yes. I’ll ask Dougal to clean it up a bit, shall I?”

  She nodded. “Angus and my brothers will be there. Broderick, too, if he can manage. Mrs. MacBean. Mrs. Baird.”

  “Your dressmaker?” Didn’t she hate the woman?

  “Wear yer blue coat. It looks grand on ye.”

  Slowly, he smiled, realizing the tension beneath her defiance was nervousness. She was nervous. Because of him? This called for reassurance. “I cannot wait to make you my wife, Annie. Nothing on earth could bring me greater pleasure. Apart from fornication, of course.” He’d hoped to make her smile, but she didn’t.

  Instead, she swallowed, staring at his mouth.

  “Must we wait until tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Aye. And one last thing, English.”

  “Anything.”

  “Ye cannae tell yer family. Not even Robert. Not yet.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “That’s my condition. Ye cannae tell them we’re married until I say so.”

  Damn it, he hated her condition. He wanted to proclaim his marriage across Scotland and England and the whole bloody world. He wanted his mother to weep with joy and embrace Annie in a long, relieved hug. He wanted his father to clap his shoulder and congratulate John on making such a fine choice. He wanted Annie to meet all his sisters and all their husbands and all the nieces and nephews who would doubtless worship her as much as Ronnie Cleghorn did.

  As much as he did.

  But she wanted to wait to tell them. He’d agree to anything to have her, so he would comply with her wishes. However, if she thought to escape the marriage later through annulment or divorce, she could think again.

  “Once you’re mine,” he grated, “you’re mine. Our marriage will not be undone.”

  She scoffed. “Dinnae be daft. Of course not. No sense in marryin’ in the first place if ye’re goin’ to be weak-kneed about it.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ll marry tomorrow, then.”

  “Ten in the mornin’. Let’s hope it doesnae rain.”

  “Annie?”

  She blinked up at him.

  “I love you.”

  She held his gaze for a moment then dropped hers. A breeze lifted the curls around her face. A faint, bittersweet smile curved her lips. “I love ye, too, English.”

  Her words were precisely what he’d hoped. He only wished she hadn’t spoken them with such sadness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  TlU

  When Mrs. Baird arrived a wee bit late from Inverness, Angus was pacing the entrance hall with a scowl. “What took ye so long, woman?” he barked the moment Annie opened the door. “We’ve a wedding to get started.”

  Annie winced as the fair Mrs. Baird stared up at Angus as if he was about to leap upon her and take a bite. And no wonder. He was a foot-and-a-half taller than the dressmaker, at least twice her width, and ten times her strength. He could lift her over his head and toss her in the kitchen hearth, if he cared to. Of course, he’d sooner dive head-first into the hearth himself than hurt a woman, but Mrs. Baird didn’t know that.

  Annie stepped between them and practiced her manners. “Mrs. Baird, how kind of ye to make the journey. Will ye come inside and have a bit of tea while I finish dressin’?”

  “Aye.” Her smile was weak and trembling. Her eyes flickered cautiously to the looming giant behind Annie’s shoulder. “I brought the items ye mentioned.”

  Angus glared outside at the one-horse gig parked in the drive. “Is that trinket what ye traveled here in?”

  Annie sighed and rolled her eyes. “Da, we dinnae have time for yer complaints about transportation.” She glanced at Mrs. Baird, who still wore an expression of cautious dismay. “I apologize for …well, him.”

  “It’s a bluidy miracle ye didnae crack one of those spindly wheels in half, with the ruts on that road.” His glower shifted to poor Mrs. Baird. “What were ye thinkin’, woman? Have ye no proper vehicles in Inverness?”

  Before Annie could warn her against it, Mrs. Baird cleared her throat and replied, “I prefer the gig, actually. It is light and manageable.”

  “It’s an invitation to be robbed and left for dead.”

  Annie closed her eyes, breathed, and prayed for patience. “For God’s sake, Da.”

  “First thing that happens is yer wheel strikes a wee pebble, and crack! No more wheel. Next thing that happens is ye’re tossed out of yer seat into the muck. Yer skirts are over yer head, yer trinket is broken, and ye’re alone in the middle of bluidy nowhere while—”

  “I should think riding my horse to the nearest village would be step three, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Suppose ye could do that before the thieves find ye, eh?”

  Mrs. Baird was no longer pale. In fact, her cheeks had a bit of a blush to them. “I’ve managed quite ably to avoid such catastrophes thus far. But I do thank you for your concern.”

  Annie noted Mrs. Baird’s speech grew primmer when she was vexed.

  Angus, on the other hand, grew louder. “Well, ye didnae manage to arrive here on time, now did ye?”

  That was it. Annie did not have the patience for this. “Stop yer bellowin’, auld man! It’s my weddin’ day!”

  Angus emitted a half-growl-half-grunt and muttered something about whisky before stalking into his study and slamming the door.

  Sighing, Annie gently looped her arm through Mrs. Baird’s limp one and ushered her toward the parlor. “He’s fair crabbit this mornin’. Angus has never reacted we
ll to big changes, I’m afraid.”

  “Aye. Evidently.”

  Both of them set the incident aside while Mrs. Baird showed Annie the items she’d brought: a long, lace veil; a sash of the same tartan she’d used for John’s kilt; and a pair of sky-blue silk slippers to match the sky-blue of her gown. John had never seen this gown, as she’d saved it for her wedding day. The skirt had no flounces, merely an overlay of gossamer tulle. The bodice was long-sleeved and lovingly fitted, trimmed with rows of white ribbon in a V-shaped pattern to her waist. There were no spangles, nothing to glitter or flash. Rather, it resembled a Highland summer sky traced with wispy clouds.

  Running her hands across her ribs, she shivered imagining her Englishman’s expression. He’d focus on the deep neckline, no doubt. Her bosoms did look grand.

  Mrs. MacBean and Betty MacDonnell entered the parlor a few minutes later with the necklace Annie had requested and the pouch she would wear sewn into her petticoats. The shy, freckled maid dressed Annie’s hair with looser curls than usual, forming a lovely tumbled pile at the base of her head. Then, she added two wee plaits on either side, draping them and pinning them artfully in place. Delicate white flowers Mrs. MacBean had brought from her garden added a finishing touch.

  Annie eyed the old woman in the small dressing mirror. “These best not give me a rash, auld woman.”

  “Och, no. Yarrow is harmless as a wee bairn. Now, the yellow ones, those are poisonous. Dinnae touch those.”

  Annie’s gaze drifted to the bouquet Mrs. MacBean had assembled, which lay beside Annie’s hand. Among the white roses and blue cornflowers were yellow, daisy-like blooms with darker rust centers.

  Mrs. MacBean patted her shoulder. “I didnae mean those yellow ones. They’re safe enough if ye dinnae eat them.”

  When Betty finished with her final pin, Mrs. Baird came forward to fasten the long, lace veil into Annie’s hair. The two women worked together, and in the end, Annie thought the effect rather ethereal.