The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

“Yes.”

  “Ye havenae asked why I suspect him.”

  He angled his head to catch her eye. “It’s enough that you do.”

  “Ye dinnae think me mad?”

  A tiny thread of doubt in her eyes twisted his heart into a painful knot. “Annie Huxley, you are as sensible as an umbrella in a downpour.”

  She traced a finger over the spot on his collar where her teeth had dented the wool. “So, not mad, then.”

  “Not mad. I know it the way I know Highland rain makes better whisky and a Highland lass makes a better wife. Because only fools believe otherwise.”

  Her smile grew. “Bonnie, charmin’ Englishman. Ye’re not just sayin’ that to get under my skirts, are ye?”

  “Well, it’s not the only reason,” he teased. “Though I certainly wouldn’t decline the offer.”

  She chuckled. Then kissed him. Then demonstrated how a Highland lass made her English husband an exceedingly happy man.

  TlU

  When Annie stood before her father and four brothers, attempting to explain why a Lord of Parliament none of them had ever met should be regarded with grave suspicion, her stomach quaked. She hadn’t felt this nervous with the MacPhersons since she was a wee lassie.

  “Ye saw him at the inn with Glenscannadoo,” Angus said with a glower. “Were other men present, as well?”

  Nodding, Annie squeezed John’s hand and laced their fingers together. His firm grip gave her comfort. “A few. But if ye’d seen the way Lockhart handled his sister, Da—I cannae explain it. He looked pleased with himself.”

  Campbell and Rannoch, both standing with their arms crossed near the parlor fireplace, shot each other a look.

  Reading their skepticism, Annie frowned. “Doubt me if ye like, but the fact is Lockhart was here in the glen last September visitin’ the laird for a hunt. His sister, too. I saw them both in the square.”

  Alexander, sprawled beside Broderick on the sofa, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Broderick doesnae ken him, Annie. None of us do. What reason would Lockhart have to want him dead?”

  It was an answer she simply didn’t have. She was about to say as much when her husband spoke. “Whatever it is, you may be assured Annie’s instincts are correct. She would not accuse someone without cause.” Warm, hazel eyes found hers before shifting back to the MacPhersons. “Lockhart is well positioned in Edinburgh society, and his movements fit with what we know about Skene’s backer. He was here in September. He was at the inn. He’s exhibited cruel behavior toward his sister.”

  “Are we certain his sister didnae make a fuss over naught?” Alexander asked.

  Annie glared. “Would ye handle me in such a fashion, Alexander MacPherson?”

  “Nah.” He grinned at her. “I’d fash about bein’ brained with an iron pot.”

  “Quite right,” she retorted. “I ken rough treatment when I see it.”

  John squeezed her hand. “The man who targeted Broderick wants him to suffer; his hatred burns hot, so it is very likely of a personal nature. Jealousy over a woman, perhaps. Or a transaction Lockhart regards as a personal slight. I’ve no doubt the blackguard will make another attempt.”

  “I never met Lockhart,” Broderick said, his voice stronger than it had been a week ago, though still graveled. “Skene was the only name ever mentioned in the Bridewell.”

  “And we’ve laid a proper trap for the rat,” Rannoch said. “Only a matter of time before he takes the bait.”

  Indeed, Campbell had explained how they’d stored Skene’s cognac in a warehouse near Inverness, planted rumors among the rat’s disbanded gang, and set men to watch for him. It was a sound plan, provided he behaved as predicted.

  “Mayhap we should wait until we have Skene in hand, sister,” Campbell suggested.

  Annie looked to Angus. “Da?”

  Angus glanced at each of his sons, lingering on Broderick. Then, he looked at John and finally came back to Annie. “Nothin’ is certain. We havenae any proof.”

  Her heart began to shrivel.

  “But if Annie believes him a threat, he’s a threat.”

  And, just like that, her heart filled past its capacity. The first time Angus MacPherson had scooped her up and carried her into the kirk, she’d felt the same. Safe. Loved.

  “Thank ye, Da,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Sadly, we cannae take action against a lord without evidence of his crimes. We’ll need proof.”

  John spoke up. “We have an idea about that. But first, we must ensure he comes here.” John explained the plan he and Annie had discussed on the way home from Inverness. First, John would approach Laird Glenscannadoo to ensure he invited Lockhart to the Glenscannadoo Gathering. Then, Annie would write to Sabella Lockhart to encourage her and her brother to attend.

  “If Lockhart is the man I think he is,” Annie said softly, catching Broderick’s gaze. “He’ll want to see the damage he’s wrought.”

  Half of Broderick’s face consisted of a patched eye and a mass of raised scars. His mouth pulled tight at the corner, slashing down in a permanent scowl. His nose was flattened along the bridge and crooked in the middle. The other half of his face was also scarred, with long slashes through his brow and cheek and strong, square jaw. His good eye had returned to normal—dark and beautiful with thick lashes. She only wished her brother still lived there. Instead, the look in that eye broke her heart more than the scarring ever could.

  He seemed to sense what she was going to ask before she spoke, for that eye smoldered with violence.

  “I wouldnae ask it of ye—”

  “I’ll do it,” he uttered, low and hoarse.

  She swallowed. Nodded.

  Sensing her distress, John pulled her tighter against his side. “First things first,” he said calmly. “Let’s get the blackguard here. Then, we’ll see how a devil enjoys being caught in a trap of his own making.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  TlU

  Annie curtsied to Mrs. Baird a fourth time, wondering why it was so much harder than it looked. “Yer grace,” she said, keeping her voice soft and dignified. “It is an honor to make yer acquaintance.”

  “Very good, Annie. Much better.”

  Annie shot her a wry grin. “Aye. At least this time, I didnae topple.”

  “Yer tone was perfect, as well.” Mrs. Baird’s bonnie yellow hair glistened in the light from the parlor window. “Respectful without subservience. Excellent.”

  Laughing, Annie blew upward to scatter the fringe of hair from her eyes. “Good thing subservience isnae required, else our Lady Lessons would be over before they’d begun.”

  For the past three Sundays, Mrs. Baird—or Eleanora, as she’d encouraged Annie to call her—had kindly traveled from Inverness to MacPherson House to give Annie lessons in everything from tea pouring to letter writing. She’d shown Annie how to curtsy without losing her balance, how to prioritize guest greetings, how to set a table with the proper number of spoons, and how to plan entertainments that wouldn’t be spoiled by a wee bit of rain. She’d advised Annie on her hair and posture and speech. She’d explained the mysteries of polite conversation, offering such sage advice as, “If the topic is a body part ye’d ordinarily cover with clothing or a bodily function ye’d object to performin’ in the market square, best ye consider it unmentionable.” That ruled out so many things. But at least it was straightforward.

  Annie appreciated straightforward. There were far too many rules. The jumble made her dizzy.

  Mrs. Baird reached out to fuss with Annie’s hair in a motherly fashion. “Remember, ye might have a lower rank, but ye aren’t inferior. One day, ye’ll be a countess. Won’t that be grand?”

  “Nah,” Annie said, her stomach churning. “I wouldnae say grand. Though I do thank ye for yer kindness, Mrs. Baird.”

  “Eleanora,” she corrected again. “Or simply Nora, if ye like.”

  Annie sighed and gave in. “Nora,
then.”

  Nora Baird’s smile beamed. “Now, have ye given any thought to the seating plan—”

  “Annie!” Angus bellowed from his study.

  Annie opened her mouth to shout a reply, but at Mrs. Baird’s—or, rather, Nora’s—admonishing look, she decided against it.

  Which brought Angus stomping into the parlor seconds later. “Do ye intend to answer me, lass?” he grumbled.

  “Aye, Da. At a sensible volume.”

  He grunted, scowled his displeasure, then held up a near-empty jar of liniment. “The auld woman promised she’d deliver a new batch.”

  “Mrs. MacBean will be here shortly. Are yer knees painin’ ye, then?”

  Another grunt. Angus’s attention wandered past Annie’s shoulder to Nora Baird. “Have ye bothered replacin’ that useless trinket ye drive about, woman?”

  “I have not,” came the dressmaker’s prim answer. “Nor do I intend to.”

  Angus stalked further into the room, darkening like a cloud. “If ye mean to come to my house every Sunday, ye’ll find yerself a safer way to get here, or—”

  “I thank ye for your concern, Mr. MacPherson—”

  “I’ll bluidy well come to Inverness and haul ye here, myself.”

  “—but your opinion of my vehicle is of little consequence.”

  As lightning flashed in Angus’s eyes, Annie’s brows arched. Oh, dear. She glanced behind her at Nora, who appeared surprisingly defiant. And surprisingly flushed.

  “Er, Da? Mayhap ye should—”

  “What did ye say to me, woman?”

  “I said your opinion doesn’t matter,” Nora replied crisply, deepening the trench she seemed determined to dig for herself. “My visits here have naught to do with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye.”

  Alarmed by the thick, inexplicable tension between her father and her dressmaker, Annie cleared her throat and used what Nora had taught her about keeping conversations polite.

  The first step: tea.

  “Da, why dinnae ye have a wee cup of tea, hmm?” She gestured to the tray Angus’s new housekeeper had placed on the table. “I reckon there’s a bit of laudanum somewhere about. I’ll add a drop or two. And some whisky. Perhaps that will improve yer knees and yer temper.”

  “Are ye stayin’ for dinner?” he growled.

  Annie assumed he was still speaking to Nora, as he hadn’t looked anywhere else.

  “Annie has invited me, aye.”

  He glared with a ferocious scowl. “Bluidy hell. I’ll have to follow ye home, then.”

  Swiveling her gaze between the two, Annie blinked, her mouth gaping. “Ah, Da?”

  “Do as ye please, Mr. MacPherson,” Nora replied, her expression a bit puckered. “I cannot stop you.”

  Annie was about to ask what the devil was wrong with both of them when the new housekeeper showed Mrs. MacBean into the parlor. The frazzled old woman wore one of the green tartan gowns Annie had made for her, along with her apron. She offered Angus his liniment.

  Angus snatched up the jar, grumbling that it was about time, then stormed out of the room.

  “Och, now, Nora,” Mrs. MacBean said, digging inside her apron pocket. “I may have a wee bit of salve for that sunburn. Ye should wear a hat in this weather. Fair scorchin’, it is.”

  “No need, Mary. I’m fine.” A red-cheeked Nora turned away to pour herself tea.

  Annie narrowed her eyes upon the dressmaker then glanced toward the doorway Angus had recently vacated. She opened her mouth to confirm her suspicions, but Mrs. MacBean dangled an oddly shaped wooden lump in front of Annie’s eyes.

  “’Tis a fertility charm, lass.” The thing was strung upon a leather cord and roughly resembled a thumb. “Go on, then. Take it.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Annie had her suspicions, and none of them were good.

  “Wear it round yer neck. What did ye think?”

  Not that, but she was relieved.

  “’Tis a wee rabbit.”

  Annie squinted, turning the charm this way and that. She supposed the two carved lines that resembled buttocks could be ears. If she held it at a distance. And closed her eyes.

  “Is this meant to help me conceive a lad?”

  “Ye didnae specify a male.” Mrs. MacBean accepted the cup Nora offered with a grateful nod. She took a sip then asked, “Have ye tried playin’ a wee bit of ram and ewe, lass?”

  Nora choked and spilled her tea on her skirt.

  “Stag and doe? Farmer and wheelbarrow? Some say it improves yer odds,” Mrs. MacBean continued calmly. “Though, I havenae found it particularly effective for aught but puttin’ a smile on a man’s face.”

  Annie crossed her arms and glared. “Ye ken I wish to have a son. And ye ken why.”

  The old woman’s good eye slid away. She took another sip.

  “What arenae ye sayin’?” Annie demanded.

  “Nothin’ at all.”

  “Nah, there’s somethin’.”

  “’Tis only a wee suspicion.”

  Annie glared until Mrs. MacBean finished her sip. “Tell me what ye suspect, or those loaves I brought for ye will be goin’ to Inverness with Mrs. Baird.”

  The old woman sighed. “Ghosties cannae be reborn.”

  “Wh-why would ye say—”

  “I began to suspect somethin’ was amiss when none of my remedies helped yer wee laddie.”

  Annie swallowed around a suddenly tight throat. No. The old woman must be wrong. Or daft. Yes, daft. That was it. “But ye saw him. Ye said ye did.”

  “Aye.”

  “And he … he told me who he was.”

  “He gave ye a name, aye.”

  “He said he …” Annie’s hand automatically reached for the thistle charm in the wee pocket she kept sewn inside her petticoat. “He wants to return. It’s his destiny.”

  “Is that what he said? Or is that what ye heard?”

  Oh, God. Frantically, Annie searched her memory, clutching the thistle harder.

  Sympathy shone in Mrs. MacBean’s gaze. She set her cup on the table and took Annie’s hand. “I didnae want to crush ye, Annie. I never wanted that.”

  Her breathing grew shallow. “No. Ye’re wrong.”

  “Ghosts dinnae have a destiny. That’s why they’re ghosts. They’re trapped in the crevices betwixt realms.”

  Annie shook her head.

  “Listen, lass. No ghostie is capable of attachin’ to a livin’ person for nigh twenty years. It simply isnae possible. Most of ‘em cannae travel far from where they died, else they wink out of existence. Ghosties are victims, ye ken? They’re able to wreak a wee bit of havoc from time to time. Shakin’ the lantern. Tappin’ the window. Knockin’ a book off a shelf.” She snorted. “Why do ye suppose I bury mine, eh? They’re mischief-makers. ’Tis all they have, the mad wee buggers. But no real power. Nae the sort yer laddie has.”

  She clawed at her ribs and clutched Mrs. MacBean’s hand. “Wh-who is he, then? What is he?”

  “Dinnae ken. He’s nae like any creature I’ve heard about.”

  Annie’s mouth worked over and over before she could force her whispered question from her throat. “Am I mad?”

  Abruptly, the light in the room shifted, and for a moment, Mrs. MacBean’s milky eye took on an eerie glow. “No, lass,” she said, her voice sounding strange, as though it was layered with other voices. “Ye’re protected.”

  “B-by what?”

  A long, slow breath eased from Mrs. MacBean’s chest. “What changes its form to suit its need?”

  Annie shook her head. “Kelpies. Selkies.” She paused. “Faeries.”

  Nora Baird’s tea-stained skirt swayed into view. “Guardian spirits, perhaps,” she said softly. Her eyes were wide and shining. “I—I saw one, I think. The night my husband died. I’d been ill with the same fever as he.” She moved closer as Annie stared back at her. “I thought
it was a dream. The next mornin’ I awakened, and my fever had gone. There was a bird perched on my windowsill. An owl. Lit by the sun. ’Twas pure white.”

  Swallowing, Annie asked, “Ye believe it was yer husband?”

  “No. An angel sent to take him, perhaps.” A trembling smile touched her lips. “All I ken is that it was a spirit who watched over me until the night had passed.”

  “Aye,” said Mrs. MacBean, her voice weaker now, her hand heavier inside Annie’s. “He stayed to watch over ye.”

  Annie expected the old woman’s gaze to be trained on Nora. But it wasn’t. She was looking directly at Annie. “F-Finlay?” He’d appeared to her the day after her mam had died. He’d come right when she’d needed him most.

  “He stayed as long as he could,” Mrs. MacBean murmured.

  Her heart squeezed until she gasped. I stayed, he’d said, long as I could.

  “He stayed because he loves ye, lass. He left because he must.”

  I leave, he’d said, because I must.

  Marry a lord, Annie. Destiny waiting.

  Not his destiny. Not Finlay’s. Hers.

  John Huxley. Her husband. The father of her children.

  Mrs. MacBean’s milky eye briefly glowed brighter, caught in a shaft of light from the window. She clutched Annie’s fingers until they hurt. Then, she pulled her closer, her voice a ragged, layered rasp.

  And what she said sent a chill down Annie’s spine.

  “Dark is here, Annie. Mornin’ hasnae yet come.”

  TlU

  John heaved the monstrous caber with all his might. It toppled end-over-end, pausing briefly then landing at eleven o’clock. Not perfect. But not terrible.

  Resting his hands on his hips, John tried to catch his breath in the dense heat. He’d come to the waterfall clearing every day since he and Annie had struck their bargain. He’d tossed the caber, thrown the hammer, heaved stones, sprinted, swam, and fought off midges. But every small misery would be worth it when Annie met his family. He grinned, imagining the look on her face when Meredith Huxley finally had a chance to embrace her new daughter-in-law. Mama would be over the moon, and Annie would have to concede he’d been right all along.