The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Before Lockhart could say anything, Sabella accepted and John led her away.

  As Annie had hoped, Lockhart focused upon her and, after a moment of frowning at Annie’s hair, he grudgingly suggested, “Perhaps we should dance, as well.”

  “Och, no, m’lord,” she retorted. “Why would I, a viscountess, dance with the likes of ye?”

  Leaf-green eyes focused upon her with sudden alert intensity. “I beg your pardon?”

  She gave an imperious sniff and brushed past him to lower herself gracefully onto the settee. As soon as he pivoted to face her, she raised a brow. “In England, ye’d be naught more than a baron. Scarcely titled at all.”

  A muscle twitched next to his eye. “Incredible,” he murmured. “You’ve only just been plucked from a Highland scullery, and you’re suggesting I am the inferior, here.”

  “Nae suggestin’. Sayin’.” She gave him a grin. “Ye ken what they say.” Her eyes fell to his gloves. “Wee hands, wee … man.”

  His carp mouth twisted. “Your vulgarity should be shocking, I suppose, except for one thing.” His head tilted. “I’d expect nothing less from a MacPherson.”

  Triumph surged like lightning. She had him. By God, she had him! But not entirely. There was much more to be done.

  She pretended puzzlement. “Are ye speakin’ of my brothers?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  But she needed him to. “Aye. Only natural. Them bein’ so much larger.” Again, she eyed his hands. “A pure shame. Some men carry cabers. Some struggle to lift their teacups.”

  “I think this conversation has run its course.”

  “Did a MacPherson steal yer woman, then?” It was a guess, and a wild one at that. Annie had questioned Broderick extensively about any tie he might have to Lockhart, and he’d sworn there was none. But Lockhart’s hatred was obviously a deep, personal fire. Which meant either the man was a wee bit peculiar and had wanted affection that Broderick refused to provide. Or Lockhart had lost a woman to Broderick.

  Lockhart went utterly rigid, his eyes strangely serpentine. “Any woman I considered mine would remain so until I deemed otherwise.”

  Yes, that was it. Time to close the trap tighter. She grinned. “Unless she didnae. What happened? Bit of a problem hoistin’ yer teacup?” She cast a pointed glance at his breeches. “Or perhaps she simply prefers Highland whisky to weak Lowland tea.”

  A flash of venom erupted as a snarl. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Lady Huxley.”

  “Like Broderick did?” She leaned forward and held his gaze. “I’d wager ye discovered yer lass fancied him. I’d wager ye werenae too pleased by her preference.”

  “I’d wager your brother is no longer the sort of man a lass fancies.”

  His low, cold words should have signified her victory. He’d all but admitted to damaging Broderick out of jealousy. But a wave of fury threatened to overtake her. Blood rushed in her ears. Shivers ran down her arms. The need to rise and claw the blackguard’s eyes out fired her muscles.

  She fought it. Repeated John’s advice: Try to keep your temper. Do not attack him.

  Do not. Attack. Lockhart.

  With an effort, she riveted herself in place and kept her expression taunting. He was still too composed. After a few careful conversations with Sabella, Annie had gleaned more about his nature—mostly how he prized his own pride above all other things. So, poking that pride should enrage him.

  She needed to generate more heat. “Oh, ye might be surprised,” she said. “Sometimes, a lass favors the safety of a title.”

  No flicker. Not a prospective bride, then.

  She tried again. “Or the luxury of a fortune.”

  A wee spark.

  She chased it, adding fuel. “Other times, a lass wants more. Bein’ a lord’s mistress might seem a fine choice until she has somethin’ to compare it to.”

  Thin nostrils flared.

  Ah, yes. The flame had caught. Now for the stoking.

  “How did ye ken ye’d lost her, eh? Did she stop botherin’ to please ye? Stop doin’ that wee trick with her smile that made ye believe she worshipped ye?”

  His eyes narrowed while his carp mouth flattened. Aye, he wanted to shut her up. She could see it.

  Time to press harder. “Here’s the truth, Lockhart. I’ll say it plain so ye cannae miss it. A woman can only pretend to love an empty bag of worthlessness so long. When she finds a real man with real substance, she kens what she’s missin’. And no title or fortune can hold her.”

  Green eyes blazed with mad fury. He bent forward and braced his arm on the back of the settee. The position put his face within inches. “She didn’t leave.”

  “Aye, she did. Mayhap ye kept her with ye. Mayhap she still lets ye wet yer teacup from time to time. But ye ken very well who she’d choose, had she the choice to make.” Annie leaned closer until their noses nearly touched. “And it wouldnae be you.”

  His breathing quickened. His hand formed a claw then a fist. “It was me.”

  “Nah. ’Twas Broderick.”

  His arm flexed near her ear as he gripped the settee harder. “No.”

  “That’s why ye had Skene set him up to take the fall for an exciseman’s murder. That’s why ye made certain he would die in the Bridewell.”

  His breaths roughened, his skin flushing. “He deserved his punishment.”

  “Ye couldnae bear the comparison. Couldnae bear thinkin’ how she’d always want him more.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “A wee, empty man cannae hide his shortcomings when he’s standin’ next to a giant.”

  “Bloody harridan.”

  “His only hope is to bring the giant down.”

  Rage exploded. He pounded the back of the settee, narrowly missing her shoulder. “And down he fell,” Lockhart snarled. “Like a great, bloody tower smashed into bloody ruins.”

  Pretending to be intimidated, she glanced past his shoulder. “’Twas a clever plan,” she offered. “Very effective.”

  Satisfaction gleamed. “Aye. It was.”

  “Do ye wish to see those ruins, Lord Lockhart? Surely ye do.”

  A strange, hungry murmur emerged from the man’s throat. “Aye.”

  “Turn round.”

  He straightened, the first inklings of the trap he’d landed in appearing on his face. He turned.

  Behind him stood five MacPhersons and one bonnie Englishman. Broderick stood at the center. And to either side of him were two Lord Commissioners of the Justiciary, a Scottish duke, and a local magistrate for good measure. They’d heard everything.

  Annie rose and moved to John’s side, where he tucked her close.

  But Lockhart barely seemed to notice. He’d frozen in place, all but shivering with savage satisfaction as he examined Broderick from head to toe.

  For his part, Broderick returned the favor. He looked positively lethal. “I’m goin’ to kill ye, Lockhart,” he promised, his graveled voice cold as steel. “One way or another, I’ll see it done.”

  Lockhart grinned. “Perhaps. But I’ve already killed you, haven’t I? She’ll never want you like this. Never again.”

  Angus gestured to two constables, who came to haul Lockhart away. The man didn’t bother struggling until he lost sight of Broderick. Then, he writhed and twisted to keep his gaze fixed upon him.

  Upon the tower he’d felled into ruins.

  She reached for Broderick’s hand, but he’d had enough. He spun away and stalked from the ballroom out into the night.

  John cupped her waist and kissed her temple. “Let him go, love.”

  Her heart ached. “He—he needs me.”

  “He needs time. This is a battle you cannot wage for him.”

  During her conversation, John and the MacPhersons had quietly cleared the ballroom of all but the men they’d brought to be witnesses. John had invited the two High Court judges. Angus had invited the magistrate. And
shockingly, the wee tartan peacock had managed to lure the Lowland duke here after promises that the Gathering offered a “true Highland experience.” Apparently, such things had captured the aristocracy’s fancy of late.

  It took some time after Lockhart was hauled away to explain everything to the witnesses, but once they understood what they’d overheard, there was little doubt Lockhart would be charged with conspiracy in the exciseman’s murder.

  Meanwhile, Annie went outside to tell Sabella what had happened. Upon hearing what her brother had done, the woman turned white as the moon and shook her head in disbelief.

  “It cannot be true,” Sabella whispered. “He—he wouldn’t …”

  “He confessed,” Annie said gently. “There is no doubt. I’m sorry, Sabella.” She offered the young woman a place at Glendasheen Castle until her brother’s fate had been decided.

  But Sabella stiffened until her face became a brittle shell. “No. I cannot … I shall conclude my visit here at the manor. Tomorrow, I shall return to Edinburgh.” Her eyes, dazed and darting, dropped to her delicate hands. “My brother will need a solicitor at once.”

  Annie tried to comfort her, but Sabella pulled away. She couldn’t blame her, really. Annie was the reason for Lockhart’s detainment. And, as much as she regretted Sabella’s pain and wished to help her, Annie wasn’t the least bit sorry for exposing him. Lockhart had done this damage. He deserved all the humiliation that awaited him—and much worse.

  When she returned to the ballroom, Angus and each of her remaining brothers came over to embrace her in turn.

  “Ye did well, Annie,” said Campbell, laying a kiss on her forehead.

  “Aye,” said Alexander, squeezing her shoulders. “I kenned ye would.”

  Annie raised a wry brow. “Did ye, now? I recall a slightly different prediction comin’ from yer direction, Alexander MacPherson.”

  “Nah,” he said. “When the occasion calls for pure aggravation, ye cannae do better than Annie Tulloch MacPherson Huxley.”

  Rannoch laughed then kissed her cheek, lifted her, and spun her around before setting her back on her feet. “Aye, if ye need someone to prick a man’s pride or cook a meal straight from heaven, Annie is yer lass.”

  She swatted each of her brothers for their laughter, then laughed, herself. “Well, I did enjoy the bit about his hands, I must admit. Unnecessary, perhaps. But fun.”

  Angus wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I’m proud of ye, lass.”

  She hugged his waist and closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank ye, Da.”

  Before long, the MacPhersons joined the party out on the terrace. John tugged her outside, too, though she only really wanted to go home so she could show her Englishman how much she adored him.

  He drew her past the lively fiddlers and milling dancers. He drew her around the outside of the manor house, through deep shadows and shafts of moonlight.

  “Where are ye takin’ me?” she demanded breathlessly.

  “You’ll see.” He grinned over his shoulder and led her down the drive then onto the lane. Soon, they stood near the loch beneath a tall pine. He gathered her in front of him and pointed at a branch twenty feet up. “Look, love.”

  She squinted. It was hard to see in the dark. But something fluttered. Something white. She lost her breath. Another flutter, and a white feather drifted down, whirling and twirling on a soft breeze. It landed in her open palm.

  “Ah, God, English. How did ye ken?” She glanced back at her husband, who gazed at her with the most astonishing glow. “How did ye ken he’d be here?”

  He kissed her softly. Sweetly. “The same way I know that Highland rain makes the best whisky and Highland lasses make the best wives.”

  She turned in his arms and cupped his jaw, then drew him down to whisper against his lips, “And there could be no better Highland husband than a bonnie Englishman.”

  Epilogue

  TlU

  September 14, 1826

  Annie wiped sticky hands on her apron and ordered her kitchen maid to stop crying. “They’re onions, for God’s sake. Use yer handkerchief and keep choppin’!”

  So much gravy. So many guests. She was dizzy and a wee bit nauseated, but at least she had enough bread left from yesterday. They hadn’t eaten all twenty-four loaves yet. For that, she was thankful.

  A lad skidded into the kitchen. “Mrs. MacDonnell said to tell ye we’re out of bread,” he announced.

  Annie groaned. “Fetch me the flour.” She shooed him toward the larder. “And find his lordship. Huxley, I mean. My husband.” There were many “lordships” in the castle at present. And many Huxleys. So many, she’d had trouble remembering all the wee ones’ names.

  They’d all arrived at Glendasheen Castle the previous day. John’s parents, Meredith and Stanton. His five sisters. Their husbands. Their children. So very many children.

  Annie paused. “Will somebody open a bluidy window! It’s stiflin’ in here!”

  The hearth was blazing, her new range hard at work stewing venison. Another wave of nausea started when the scent of onions drifted past her nose. She leaned against the table, closed her eyes, and waited for it to pass.

  “May I be of help?”

  Her eyes popped open. She spun. It was Maureen, a bonnie, soft-featured woman with sweet, golden-brown eyes and hair similar to John’s.

  Oh, God. Annie glanced down at her stained apron and dough-sticky hands. “L-lady Dunston.” What was she doing in here?

  Maureen waved a hand and moved deeper into the kitchen, glancing around with obvious curiosity. “Now, now. Maureen, if you please.” She grinned, her cheeks displaying the most charming dimples. “Too many titles round here. Makes one dizzy.”

  Annie blinked as Maureen plucked another apron from the hook near the sideboard and tied it over her lovely yellow gown. “Er, Lady D—Maureen. Is there somethin’ I can do for ye?”

  “Hmm. No. I’ll just make myself at home, shall I?” She plucked a bowl down from the sideboard and wandered toward the larder. “Oh! What a lovely arrangement of shelves.” She wandered inside. “And you have cinnamon! Splendid.”

  Struggling to understand what was happening, Annie started toward the larder.

  “Now, this is a proper kitchen.”

  Annie froze. Meredith Huxley bustled through the doorway. Annie’s plump, round-faced, kindly mother-in-law cast a twinkling glance at the half-dozen maids working on dinner. “Such a delight to see a well-run household, dear.”

  “I—my lady, I—”

  “Meredith,” she insisted. “Or Mama, when you’re comfortable.”

  The kitchen door opened again, and three more brown-haired Huxley sisters entered—sprightly, lovely Kate; wry, motherly Annabelle; and blunt, hat-loving Eugenia. They all surrounded Annie’s table, chatting and arguing about feathers, flowers, Shakespearean plays, meals designed to either please or displease a husband, and whether tartan ribbon was sufficiently Scottish for a hat worn in the Highlands.

  Maureen joined them and suggested she’d like to try haggis while she was visiting. All the other ladies groaned.

  “Do you have any notion of what they put in there, Maureen?” asked Eugenia. “All the parts they should be tossing in the rubbish pile, that’s what.”

  Maureen sniffed and raised her chin. “I’ve heard it’s quite good, actually.”

  Annie cleared her throat and felt the weight of five sets of Huxley brown eyes settle upon her. “Haggis can be good, aye. When ’tis done well.”

  The fifth Huxley sister entered, peeking past the door through round spectacles. A warm smile wreathed her face, producing the dimples Annie had begun to associate with all Huxley females.

  “My, this does appear to be the spot for tea and gossip,” Jane said. The Duchess of Blackmore was not at all how Annie had pictured her. Despite John’s many assurances to the contrary, Annie had imagined Jane as slender and swanlike with
the remote sort of haughtiness bred into ladies who became duchesses.

  She’d never been more wrong about anything. Jane was even shorter than Annie, plump and a wee bit plain with a fringe of dark, straight hair that brushed the silver rims of her spectacles. And she was shy. All yesterday, Annie had fretted that the duchess had taken a dislike to her. Then, John had gently explained, “Jane is shy. She’s improved a bit over the years since her marriage, but it takes her a moment or two to feel comfortable with new people. Wait until tomorrow,” he’d said. “She’ll be boring you senseless about her favorite novel. I think I could recite the bloody thing from memory.”

  Now, the duchess came to stand beside Annie and covered her hand, squeezing. “Have you decided which chamber to turn into your nursery?”

  Annie glanced around at all the other Huxley women, who wore similarly curious expressions. “Ah, I—I havenae given it much thought, no.”

  “Well, you’d do well to begin planning,” commented Annabelle. “You have … what would you say, Mama? Eight months?”

  “Seven,” Meredith replied. “First babes do sometimes arrive early, but I’d say seven.”

  Annie glanced down at her middle then back up at her mother-in-law. “Y-ye reckon I’m …”

  Maureen chuckled. “The way you went white as paper when you caught a whiff of those onions? Oh, yes.”

  “My stays have been a wee bit tight,” Annie murmured. “I thought perhaps … but then, I couldnae be certain … It’s been a distressin’ time.”

  Jane patted her hand. “Best to choose a sizable chamber for the nursery, dearest.”

  Meredith, Maureen, Annabelle, and Eugenia all hummed their agreement.

  Kate, whose slender features more resembled John’s than her mother’s, puckered her lips and rolled her eyes. “This again,” the young woman muttered, crossing her arms. “Must we alarm her? It may not even happen.”

  “It is best she is aware, dearest,” Meredith replied. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Alarm wound a wee spiral up her spine. “Forearmed for … what?”

  They all chuckled. Meredith answered. “Huxleys are prolific, dear.”