The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Quickly, Annie slid down the wall and placed the blade she was holding between her knees. Then, she used it to saw at her bindings. If John needed her, she wanted her hands free. After a frustratingly long time, the twine gave way. Sharp prickles of returning sensation made her wince, but she had no time to waste.

  John had a cut across his belly where Skene had gotten lucky with a slash. But Skene was much worse off. The rat’s shoulder had two gashes, and his cheek was dripping from a long slice. The two men circled each other, both a bit unsteady.

  She reckoned John was still feeling the effects of whatever Skene had used to drug them. How he’d managed to awaken and find her, she didn’t know.

  Suddenly, Skene lunged forward, his knife aiming for John’s thigh. With another deep roar, John brought his dirk up into the rat’s belly. Skene gave a wheezing mewl and staggered sideways. He tried again to stab John’s leg, but his knife slid off the woolen plaid as though there were nothing beneath it.

  John drove Skene backward. The rat wheezed and shook his head as John struck again, this time between the rat’s ribs. With a final, desperate slash, Skene managed to cut John’s forearm.

  Annie gasped, shifting away from the two men and holding her own blade at the ready.

  But she needn’t have bothered. In the next instant, her Englishman whispered something to Skene and gave a mighty shove. Skene tumbled backward through the broken window, unable to catch himself. His momentum, oddly, seemed to increase as he clawed at the frame. Then, as though he’d been shoved again by an invisible hand, he fell. A heartbeat later, Annie heard a dull thud from the ground below. Then silence.

  Breaths sawed in and out of her chest. She stumbled toward her husband, who stumbled toward her. He wrapped her up tight, whispering her name.

  “English,” she whimpered hoarsely. “Ah, God. Ye came.”

  “Always, love.”

  For long minutes, they held each other and breathed. Then, they began searching each other for serious wounds. Both of them had been fortunate, as the various slashes were thin and shallow. She explained why Skene had come for her, how he’d planned to use her against the MacPhersons. Gently, John asked what the blackguard had managed to do to her before he’d arrived. She set his mind at ease then explained how she’d escaped. How she’d fought. How she’d broken the window to give herself a weapon. Then, she remembered. She tugged away and rushed to the corner where she’d seen the bird lying still.

  It was gone.

  Frantically, she searched the shadows, kneeling and running her hands over the wooden floor. “Th-there was a bird,” she murmured. “I swear, English. It flew through the window. It attacked Skene.”

  “A white raven.”

  She froze. Pushed to her feet and spun to face him.

  “It was Finlay, love.”

  “H-how do ye—”

  “I dreamt about him. He’s how I knew to come here.” John glanced down at himself then brushed the handle of the dirk he’d tucked between his waist and her plaid. “He’s how I knew you needed me.”

  She wandered closer until she stood inches from her husband. “Ye spoke to him?”

  He nodded. “I realized I’d seen him before, Annie. Last year, the day you and I spoke at the haberdashery. He was in the corner of the shop near the tartans, playing with the Cleghorn boy.”

  A tear coursed down her cheek. “He loved tartans. And wee Ronnie Cleghorn.” She released a wet chuckle. “I cannae believe ye saw him.”

  “I thought he was one of the village lads. I had no idea …”

  She wrapped herself around him, resting her cheek over his heart.

  He soothed her with long strokes of her hair. “I was sorry before that I dismissed your stories about him, love. But let me say again how much I regret the hurt I must have caused you.”

  “Dinnae fash yerself, my bonnie Englishman. All that matters is that ye ken he’s real, and so do I.” She reached up to stroke his jaw. “After so many years of bein’ the mad one, it’s a pure pleasure to have company.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  TlU

  A pre-dawn rainstorm followed by blazing August heat made the field west of the village a muggy stew. John wished he could blame his foul mood on the weather.

  God, he hated losing.

  “So ye lost the hammer throw.” Rannoch clapped a giant hand upon John’s shoulder. “Second place isnae so bad.”

  “This was my best event,” John replied darkly, glaring at his youngest brother-in-law. “Your throw was longer by ten feet.”

  “Aye.” Rannoch grinned. “’Twas a good day.”

  John snorted. He’d already lost the weight-over-bar event and the loch swim to Alexander, the stone put to Campbell, and the foot race to Rannoch. Only the caber toss remained, and given his performance thus far, he held out scant hope for winning his wager with Annie.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  He’d already written the letter inviting his family to visit, though he’d waited to send it until after the Glenscannadoo Games. Likely he’d be waiting a good deal longer. Possibly months. A year, even.

  John peered across the vast green to where the spectators gathered. Locals, visitors from neighboring towns, and guests of the laird stood in groups or sat on blankets enjoying their luncheon. He scanned the crowd for a familiar head of banner-bright hair.

  “To the left, near the bagpipers,” Rannoch said. “She’s speakin’ with Lockhart’s sister.”

  He found her. His glorious Highland lass. She wore a green, long-sleeved gown today with her tartan sash about her waist and blue silk ribbons on her straw bonnet. Her sleeves and gloves disguised the cuts that were still healing.

  Thank God none of them had been deep. Thank God his wife was so strong.

  He watched her laugh and converse with Miss Lockhart as though they were bosom friends. “She’s quite convincing,” John murmured, sliding his gaze several feet away to where Lord Lockhart stood with Laird Glenscannadoo.

  “She’s motivated,” Rannoch replied. “If somethin’ is a matter of will, I wouldnae bet against Annie.”

  John smiled. “No, indeed.”

  A week had passed since David Skene had tried to abduct Annie. Constable Munro had asked a few questions about the man’s death, but not as many as John expected. Munro had appeared content to dispose of the rat and all the trouble he’d brought to the county.

  Since then, John, Annie, and the MacPhersons had been preparing for the Gathering. Several times, Annie had ventured to Broderick’s house in the east foothills of MacPherson land. She always returned home sadder and in need of John’s comfort.

  Broderick’s injuries had largely healed—at least as much as they were likely to. But he was simmering with a bottomless rage, and his isolation wasn’t helping. Annie didn’t know what to do. She often questioned the wisdom of involving Broderick in their plans to confront Lockhart. “How can we ask this of him, English?” she’d whispered only last night.

  They had little choice. If Lockhart was the man who had hired Skene to imprison and kill Broderick, he must be brought to justice. He must be made to pay.

  Now, Rannoch distracted his glare away from Lockhart with another thump on John’s back. “Best ye focus on the caber toss, Huxley. Campbell hasnae been defeated since he was a wee laddie.”

  Two hours later, Campbell still hadn’t been defeated. But it wasn’t over yet. John’s first two tosses had been surprisingly good. Campbell’s were better, of course. The man was a bloody monster made of pure muscle and bone. He hefted the two-hundred-pound log as though it were a twig.

  Now, he threw the thing end-over-end in his third toss. It landed perhaps a degree shy of twelve o’clock. All of the man’s tosses had been similarly excellent.

  John’s shoulder muscles ached. The heat was stifling. And the midges were relentless. He glanced to where he’d seen Annie earlier. She was there, cornflower blue eyes dancing
like flowers in a midsummer field. He shaded his eyes to see her better.

  She mouthed something. He thought it was I love ye, but it could easily have been I’m winning. Likelier it was the first one. Annie wasn’t nearly as competitive as he was.

  Finally, it was time for his third toss. He approached the caber that Campbell held propped and ready for him.

  “Good luck to ye, Huxley,” said Campbell in that deep, quiet rumble. “Win or lose, ye’ll make a fine addition to the MacPherson tug-o-war team.”

  John chuckled, acknowledging his brother-in-law’s compliment with a clap to that monstrous shoulder before accepting control of the caber. A breeze rolled through the glen, cooling his sweat and clearing his mind. He settled the caber against his shoulder, feeling it slide into the old, familiar spot along his bone. The MacDonnell officiating the event—one of Dougal’s cousins—signaled he could begin and stepped back to give him room.

  John breathed. Slid his hands down the wood to the bottom. Then gripped and lifted. At first, he thought he had it. But the weight shifted as he adjusted his laced fingers. He took a second to regain his grip.

  Another breeze, cool and easy.

  He calmed, remembering everything Annie had taught him. Steady. Steady. He started forward into his run. Faster. There. He planted his feet. Heaved skyward with a massive thrust of his arms and a barbaric roar.

  The caber flipped in a perfect, vertical arc. The larger end planted. The tapered end toppled forward.

  It landed with a whump.

  John blinked. A breeze blew hard, playing with the pleats of his kilt. Campbell and the event judge wandered to where the caber lay, their hands on their hips as they examined its position. The event judge gave him a signal, and Campbell shook his head.

  John couldn’t believe it either.

  Twelve o’clock. A perfect toss.

  A grin took him. Then a burst of pure triumph. Bloody hell. He’d done it.

  The only warning he had was a glimpse of scarlet from the corner of his eye. The next thing he knew, his wife was in his arms, clinging to his neck like a monkey, shouting, “Ye did it, John Huxley!” She kissed him madly. Clutched him tightly. Didn’t seem to care a whit that she was making a spectacle of them both or that his sweat would stain her silk. Laughing, he heaved her higher against him and spun her around as she planted kisses all over his face.

  “I did it, Annie,” he said.

  “Aye, English.” Her eyes went liquid with tenderness. “I kenned ye would.” She kissed him like the fiery hoyden he loved. “I kenned it all along.”

  TlU

  Later that evening, as a band of MacDonnells fiddled away on the terrace, Annie entered Laird Glenscannadoo’s ballroom on her husband’s arm. The room was not particularly large, but it was a lovely, ornate space with cream walls, white plaster ornaments on the ceiling, three chandeliers, and gold draperies. Two sets of glass doors stood open. The local rabble danced outside while inside, swarms of landlords and a smattering of Lowland aristocrats sniffed and tittered in polite tones.

  Annie cleared her throat twice, trying to dislodge the lump there. It didn’t work.

  “Love, you must stop fussing with your gown.”

  She glanced down to where her fingers were smoothing compulsively. The rich plum silk layered with an overskirt of spangled pink tulle needed no adjustment, but her nerves were zinging like a Highlander’s fiddle string. She adjusted her light tartan shawl and dug her fingers into John’s arm.

  “You are stunning,” he soothed. “Everything is set. I’m here with you. Always.”

  She nodded and drew a shuddering breath.

  As they moved into the crowd, she gave polite smiles and nods to those who glanced her way. Which seemed to be everyone. And everyone seemed to be suffering from having a lemon shoved up their—

  “Have I mentioned how magnificent your breasts look in that gown?”

  She dug her elbow into her husband’s side until she heard an ooph. “Have I mentioned how little ye’ll see of ‘em if ye dinnae stop sayin’ such things to me right now?”

  “You’re too stiff. Relax,” he whispered, calmly retrieving glasses of whisky from a nearby tray. “Have a drink.”

  She accepted gladly, tossing back the dram in a single swallow. “Fetch me another, English. I’m thirsty.”

  He chuckled and handed her his own glass before guiding her toward Angus. “Your father looks rather dashing in his finery, don’t you think?”

  “’Tis unnatural. Angus doesnae wear finery.”

  Except that this evening, he did. Thick iron hair gleamed half-silver in the candlelight. He wore his best kilt, a handsome black coat, a blue waistcoat, and the sporran she’d only seen him wear twice—once to his wedding to her mother, and once to a funeral for a friend.

  Angus glowered as they approached. “Huxley, ye’ll have yer hands full with Glenscannadoo. Wee tartan peacock’s already sotted and rantin’ all manner of nonsense.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “The dancin’ again.”

  “Aye.”

  John frowned. “What about the dancing?”

  “He claims lasses shouldnae be permitted to enter the dancin’ competition at the Games,” Annie answered. “He’s been tryin’ to make it lads only for five years. Says that’s traditional.” She snorted. “He wouldnae ken Highland tradition if it leapt from his brandy glass and stabbed him with the wee butter knife he calls a dirk.”

  Her husband chuckled, rich and low. The sound warmed her, and she gave him a smile. Handsome, bonnie, delicious Englishman. He’d worn his good kilt this evening, along with all the accessories—even the dirk he’d used against Skene. How could a bit of tartan, leather, steel, and silver make her want him even more? She hadn’t thought it possible, but there it was. He bent his head to kiss her, and the knot in her stomach unraveled.

  Angus cleared his throat. “Lockhart is here. I’ll gather the lads.” He slipped out the glass doors into the garden.

  Just like that, the knot returned.

  “Easy, love,” John breathed, stroking her lower back as he turned them both until Lockhart and his sister came into view.

  The lord wore a sky-blue linen coat and gold waistcoat with buff breeches. He was handsome, she supposed, if one enjoyed a carp’s mouth, small hands, and smugness. Sabella looked splendid, of course, in sea-green satin. Were those real emeralds?

  She brushed her own naked throat and adjusted her shawl. She tried to sip her whisky, but there was none left.

  John plucked the glass from her fingers and set it on a nearby table. “Just keep him focused on you. We only need ten minutes or so.”

  She swallowed. “Aye.”

  “Try to keep your temper.”

  “I ken.”

  “Do not attack him.”

  “I’m nae daft, John Huxley.”

  “I love you more than I’ve loved anything or anyone in my entire life, Annie Huxley.”

  That purely stole her breath. She didn’t dare look at him. Rather, she stood there with heated shivers running through her veins in wee, sparkling streams.

  “And, I suspect, were I ever granted another life and another and another—a thousand lifetimes in a thousand different places—I should still say the same.”

  “God Almighty, English.” It took a few deep breaths before she gathered her overheated, love-softened senses enough to reply. “After we’re done here, ye’re going to have a very good night.”

  “Hmm. Is that so?”

  “Aye. Now stop distractin’ me. I’ve a job to do.”

  His hands stroked her arms with light, tingling touches. He whispered in her ear, “Nobody could do it better.”

  She nodded. “I’m ready.”

  They made their way back through the crowd to where the Lockharts stood between a potted plant and a garish settee.

  Sabella’s wide, brilliant smile suggested relief. “Lady Huxley! And Lord Huxley.” She
curtsied with perfect grace. “How lovely to see you both.”

  Annie reached for her hands, clasping them warmly. She bore no grudge against Sabella, who seemed blind to her brother’s villainous nature. In truth, Annie pitied her. No woman should be trapped under the thumb of a man like Lockhart. “’Tis lovely to see you, as well.”

  Sabella took polite command of the conversation, performing introductions between her brother and John.

  Lockhart’s gaze sharpened. “Lord Huxley. Am I right in thinking your father is the Earl of Berne?”

  John nodded. “Indeed.”

  The blond lord’s eyes rested briefly on Annie’s gown. “Here for the hunting, I take it?”

  John’s arm tensed beneath Annie’s fingers, but he only replied, “Something like that.”

  Annie decided now was the moment to test her conversation skills. First step: tea. No tea? Ask about the day’s activities. “So, Lord Lockhart,” she ventured. “Have ye enjoyed the Glenscannadoo Games so far?”

  Lockhart chuckled. “Very diverting, I must say. Although, I’m afraid it’s all a bit rustic for Sabella.” He gave his sister a condescending smile. “She has a delicate constitution.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sabella demurred. “Some of the events were quite impressive. I very much enjoyed the bagpiping. And the footrace.”

  Annie had been standing next to her during the heavy events. She happened to know Sabella had enjoyed a good deal more than music and sprinting. “Have ye tried a bit of dancin’ yet?” she asked. “The MacDonnells play a fine reel.”

  Third step in the Lady Lessons guide to polite conversation: Introduce new topics from the present environment. Mrs. Baird had used the examples of complimenting a guest’s gown or commenting on the state of the weather.

  But Annie had a mission, and she needed to move this conversation forward apace.

  Sabella answered first. “No, I’m afraid not.” She glanced toward the terrace, her expression faintly wistful. “We only arrived a short while ago.”

  John took the hint, bowing and offering, “Miss Lockhart, I should be honored if you would join me. The reel is one of my favorite dances.”