The Making of a Highlander Page 10

  Her throat tightened, and she fought the tears that always came when she let these memories surface. “After my mother died, he didnae say much for a long while. When he finally did, he told me, ‘I married yer mother. But my first promise was to ye, Annie. And I mean to keep it.’”

  Warm knuckles brushed her cheek. Her eyes flew up and collided with his. Brown and green and gold—mostly gold. Too beautiful for a man.

  “Why haven’t you told him you’re seeking a husband?” he asked.

  “He owed me nothin’, English. He and my mother were married naught but a year. Yet he gave me a home. A family. Permanent as can be. Should I thank him by leavin’?”

  “He loves you.” Somehow, his fingers were still stroking her cheek. Somehow, their mouths were a whisper apart.

  “Aye. And I love him.”

  A frown tugged at his brow. “Why do you insist on calling him your stepfather?”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “You often correct me. He calls you his daughter, but you go out of your way to call him your stepfather.”

  She dropped her gaze to his beard, then focused on his lips. They were perfect. Defined at the edges, more thin than full. The upper curve seemed made for smiling, though he rarely did.

  “Two reasons,” she answered. “First, I want all the daft villagers who believe me mad to remember that Angus and I dinnae share a bloodline. That way, should my brothers ever sort themselves out enough to find wives and sire bairns, there willnae be any question.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “To remind myself that he didnae have to love me. He chose to.”

  Another stroke of a knuckle over her cheek. Another warm sigh across her lips. “I’d wager it was less of a choice than you suppose,” he murmured.

  Loud, distant banging, like stone being struck with a hammer, rang throughout the castle. She blinked, realizing they’d been standing much too close to one another. Huxley seemed to realize it, too, given how swiftly he dropped his hand and backed away from her.

  It felt like having her blankets torn away on a cold morning.

  Gathering her composure, she nodded toward the door. “Dougal, I presume?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve asked him to start straight away.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “The bedchamber.”

  “Nah. Ye should put him to work on the kitchen first.”

  Huxley frowned. “I’ll be hiring enough men to address all the necessary repairs. Household staff, as well.” He paused. “This brings me to the topic I intended to discuss with you.”

  “Good. The kitchen floor is a disgrace. Anybody could stumble on the loose stones and land in the fire.”

  “You mustn’t come here alone again.”

  “The larder, too. Ye need shelves, English. Once they’re built, we can fill them up. It willnae be long before yer fine figure is big enough for tossin’ a caber.”

  “Miss Tulloch. Are you listening to me?”

  “Enough to ken ye make no sense.”

  He scraped a hand over his beard. “Already, Dougal MacDonnell has seen you here. Word will spread quickly.”

  “Dinnae be daft, English.”

  “You asked me to teach you how to be a lady, did you not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, here is the first rule: No lady allows herself to be compromised.”

  “Ye said yourself I havenae landed in yer bed.”

  His eyes flared oddly. Hands on hips, he paced to the doorway then returned, his jaw flickering. “Being alone with me is sufficient to sully you. The more people who know, the worse it will be.”

  “What rubbish. Everybody in Glenscannadoo thinks me a madwoman. I’m already as sullied as Mr. Cleghorn’s pig after he’s had his way with Flora MacDonnell’s sow. The pig, I mean. I dinnae think Mr. Cleghorn has a fondness for sows.”

  “Good God, you are the most vexing—”

  “Besides, ye havenae so much as kissed me, English. What sort of sullying can there be without kissin’? None at all, I’d say.”

  He froze. Pinned her with a hazel gaze that burned gold. He mouthed a foul epithet then shook his head. “I won’t kiss you,” he breathed.

  “I wasnae askin’.” Only a small lie, really. She wouldn’t mind knowing how those perfect lips felt against hers.

  “The next time you come here, bring a chaperone.” His command, spoken in that precise, clipped English voice, sparked her temper.

  She crossed the few feet between them and glared, her chin jutting. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll refuse to instruct you further.”

  “Hmmph. Do ye ken what I think, English?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think. You’ll obey me or this agreement ends.”

  The fire in her belly intensified. “I think ye’re afraid of what would happen if ye did kiss me.”

  His jaw flexed until she thought his teeth might crack.

  Slowly, she grinned. “Poor, dainty Englishman. Frightened of wee Annie and her not-so-wee bosoms.”

  “Stop.” The word was nothing but gravel. She liked the sound, raw and a bit slurred. She wanted more.

  “Dinnae fash, English.” She flicked his coat’s lapel. “I’ll be gentle.”

  With a swift motion, he trapped her wrist in his grip, dragging her close before encircling her waist and flattening her against him. “You think this is amusing.”

  Amusing? Far from it. The sensation of being pulled tight against him shocked her senses. Stole her breath. Made her vision blur. She’d never imagined feeling her breasts pressured by his hard chest would both ease and enflame her. She hadn’t predicted how powerful he would seem when all that control began to unravel.

  The fingers of his free hand traced the top of her ear, sending shivers rippling across her skin. “You think you can ignore my warnings, laugh away the risk, and suffer no consequences.” He lowered his head until she felt hot, damp breath against her neck. “I understand why,” he whispered.

  “Y-ye do?” She barely managed to breathe the words. Everything inside her tingled. Her skin and scalp. Her breasts and lips. Her thighs—even her knees. Heavens, what was he doing to her?

  “Yes.” He nuzzled the loose hair between her ear and cheek. “A gentleman seems so very harmless.”

  “English,” she whispered against his bearded jaw. It was all she could say, for every other thought had fled. Her body sizzled from shoulders to thighs. Every heated breath he released against her skin stoked the heat in her middle. She ached. Ached for him.

  “Let this be your next lesson, Miss Tulloch.” Teeth nibbled her earlobe. Lips stroked her jaw. “Heed it well.” His voice was pure rasp.

  Somehow, she’d wadded his lapels in her fists. Now, she used her grip to drag him closer. Tighter. “Aye?”

  “When you’re alone with a man, nothing apart from his honor prevents him from taking what he desires.” His hand slid up from her waist to her breast. “Be it a touch.”

  She moaned and arched into the caress. Her eyes squeezed shut so she could digest the sensation. His palm. Her nipple. Wee pulses of zinging pleasure and the swelling ache of need.

  “Or a kiss.” He brushed his perfect lips across hers.

  Her tongue darted out to capture the tingles he left behind. The tickle of his beard against her skin disappeared as he carefully withdrew. She followed him blindly, clutching his neck, focused on returning his lips to hers.

  But he resisted with ease. “Or an intimacy only your husband should enjoy.”

  Suddenly, he grasped her thigh and raised it alongside his. Then, with a practiced motion, he ground his hips into hers, the hard ridge beneath his trousers taking the liberties he spoke of.

  Heat and pleasure surged where his hardness intruded upon her soft folds. Separated only by layers of cloth, his body pressured hers, driving upward along ripe, tender nerves. She gasped with the pleasure of
it. Heat weakened her until she could only cling to him, burying her nose in his cravat and panting.

  Panting.

  Panting for more.

  Was there more? Her head spun and her middle ached. She wanted him to … she didn’t know. Kiss her, probably. Remove the barriers between them, certainly. Then, what?

  “English?” she panted, uncertain what she was asking him to do. She raised her mouth to his jaw, seeking his kiss again.

  And he resisted again.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected to see. Lust, obviously. Perhaps a measure of the same dizzying heat she felt.

  But not this. This was calculation. He was assessing her. Watching her react to his touch the way a man training a horse watched the animal react to the bit.

  Cold rushed in to replace heat—all except her face. That went hot with humiliation. She tried to yank away from him, but he held her fast, his hand gripping her thigh. “Leave go,” she gritted, shoving at his chest.

  His head tilted. “I will. Because I am a gentleman. But now you understand how swiftly you can lose everything.” His eyes fell to her mouth. “A single moment of carelessness, and the only role you’ll play for a lord is his mistress.”

  She shoved again, this time digging the heel of her hand into his shoulder. “Ye’ve made yer point. Now, leave go.”

  “Have I?” he muttered. “I wonder.”

  His arms slid away, and she immediately backed up several paces.

  The look in his eyes was foreign. Always before, he’d seemed weary or frustrated or flat. Now, his expression glowed darkly, focused and watchful. It confused her. Made her retreat another step before she stopped herself.

  “Next time, bring a chaperone,” he said, calmly straightening his lapels. “A woman would be best.”

  How could he be so cool while she still felt like her bones had melted? “I dinnae ken any women who will—”

  “Find one.”

  She glowered. “It’s nae so easy as that.”

  “I never claimed this would be easy, Miss Tulloch.”

  “Aye.” Needing to look away from him, she glanced around the room. He’d finished the paneling, but the fireplace still wanted repair. “Impossible things never are.”

  Silence was her answer.

  She swallowed and risked another glance in his direction. A lock of brown hair had fallen over his brow. It was the only thing about him that hadn’t been perfectly contained.

  Raising her chin, she challenged, “Just wait until ye must learn to throw a weight over the bar without brainin’ yerself, English. Then, ye’ll see what impossible really means.”

  The faintest quirk—nearly a smile—curled one corner of his mouth. “I await your expert instruction, Miss Tulloch.” Then, he bent at the waist and gave her a mocking bow. “With great anticipation.”

  Chapter Eight

  TlU

  A week later, Annie led her new chaperone along the road to Glendasheen Castle. The old woman’s nonsense had come in a steady stream the entire journey from MacPherson House.

  “Ye’d be pleased, lass. I planted another rowan outside yer brother’s house. He’ll have a fine hedge when he returns from prison. Good protection, that.”

  Annie tugged Bill the Donkey along the shore of the loch and released an impatient breath. “Broderick needs protection now, Mrs. MacBean. After he returns will be a mite late.”

  The old woman frowned. Then dug about inside the leather pouch she often carried. “Mayhap I could curse the man who put him there.”

  Patting Bill’s neck as they rounded a stand of birch, Annie swallowed her worry and focused on the lapping water. “If we kenned who that was, a curse wouldnae be necessary. The MacPhersons would see to the matter.”

  “Och, a curse works just as well as killin’. I’ll need four looking glasses—”

  “Dinnae bother, auld woman. I told ye—”

  “—and ashes from an ancient yew tree.”

  “—we dinnae ken who’s behind Broderick’s troubles.”

  “Oh, and a new whisky cask struck by lightnin’. No need to remove the whisky. I’ll drain it myself.”

  Despite her aggravation, Annie snorted. “I’ve little doubt of that.”

  “Lightnin’ adds a fine smoky flavor.”

  Annie spoke to Bill, who seemed the more lucid of the two creatures behind her. “Do ye suppose a curse is stronger if ye shove a thistle up yer arse?”

  Bill’s long ears twitched. Mrs. MacBean appeared not to have heard. Instead, she dug inside her leather pouch then held up a worn scrap of tartan. “Which clan did ye say yer man is from?”

  “I told ye, he’s nae my man.”

  “Aye, aye. But ye aim to marry him. I’ll make ye a charm he cannae resist.”

  “I dinnae aim to marry him, ye daft auld crone.” Even if his kiss did turn a woman’s bones to hot gravy. Where had he learned to do such things?

  “No, of course not. Now, which clan was it? The Brodies?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I already told ye, his name is John Huxley. He hasnae a clan. And he’s nae my man. He’s teachin’ me to be a lady.”

  “Ye were a lady in yer mother’s womb, lass.”

  “Well, I’m female, right enough.” She shot a wry glance down at her bosoms. “But I must marry a lord. Remember? This is about Finlay.”

  “Oh. Aye, now I recall. Are ye certain the laddie kens what he’s about? I’ve never heard of a ghost bein’ reborn, let alone demandin’ a title.”

  No, Annie wasn’t certain of anything. She’d worked herself into exhaustion these past weeks hoping for another visit from Finlay, but all she had left of him was the thistle charm. Now, she felt for it in her pocket, the sole sign that her dream hadn’t been merely wishful thinking. “I must believe he spoke true, Mrs. MacBean.” She swallowed, letting the sound of lapping waves soothe her. “’Tis all the hope I have.”

  The old woman fell silent for a time. Then, Annie felt a pat upon her shoulder. Mrs. MacBean leaned down from atop Bill’s back, her good eye shining with sympathy. “I’ll make ye a grand charm. Dinnae fash. This Huxley fellow willnae be able to tell up from down, he’ll be so smitten.” Another pat, and she returned to digging in her pouch. She withdrew another scrap of tartan. “So, the Huxleys are a Lowland clan, then?”

  Annie sighed. “He’s English. And a far sight more proper than ye usually find in Glenscannadoo.” She eyed the woman’s wiry shrub of hair and ragged clothing. “While ye’re actin’ as my chaperone, best keep talk of curses and charms to yerself.”

  The old woman nodded sagely. “Right ye are. Englishmen arenae like Scotsmen.”

  No, they weren’t. A Scot wouldn’t dismiss curses and ghosts as pure rubbish. A Scot wouldn’t suppose the only eyes capable of seeing were his.

  And another thing—if a Scot fancied a lass, he wouldn’t kiss her as some sort of lesson then act as though she’d scuffed his boots. Only Englishmen did that. Pompous, superior, infuriating Englishmen.

  The castle came into view. “Just promise ye’ll pretend to be sane,” Annie said. “We dinnae want to frighten him too badly.”

  “A bit weak-kneed, is he?”

  “Nah,” Annie replied after lengthy consideration. “Nothin’ about John Huxley is weak.”

  Her point was proven when they arrived outside the castle. Annie pulled Bill to a halt and stared while Mrs. MacBean murmured, “I see what ye mean, lass.”

  John Huxley was in his shirtsleeves again. This time, he was helping lift a massive table out of a long cart. Two MacDonnell cousins held one end. Huxley held the other on his own. His arms and shoulders rippled with the effort.

  “Into the dining room, gentlemen.” His voice was calm. Authoritative. “Off we go.”

  She’d seen brute strength before, of course. The MacPhersons regularly hauled three-hundred-pound barrels of cider on their sh
oulders. But they were built for it. Huxley was leaner. A gentleman. Yet, he was scarcely winded by the weight of the table, which had to be fifteen feet long.

  As the men carried it through the castle doors, Huxley’s profile became visible—and heat bloomed outward from her belly to her fingertips.

  Good heavens. He’d shaved his beard.

  “My word, lass. Yer man’s a braw sight to behold.”

  Annie swallowed. “He’s not … not my man. I told ye …” She watched him until he disappeared inside the castle. Only then could she breathe properly. What was wrong with her? She’d seen him without his whiskers before.

  Gathering her composure, she helped Mrs. MacBean down from Bill’s back before taking the donkey to the stable. She noted the new timbers and freshly built stalls, the tidy tack room and clean floors. Giving Bill’s neck a pat, she glanced around at what had once been open-air piles of old stone and rotting wood.

  Even before Huxley had hired men, he’d worked wonders with Glendasheen Castle. She shook her head at the transformation. It was more than admirable. It was very near a miracle, considering the castle’s curse.

  Somehow, he’d avoided the unnatural calamities of the castle’s previous owners. One MacDonnell chieftain had rebuilt the tower seven times before conceding defeat. Another had lost the use of his leg when a section of roof collapsed without warning or cause. A third gave up when the castle caught fire for the fourth time. Ewan Wylie’s misfortune had been less violent, perhaps, but his setbacks were no less effective—an invasion of bats, hearths that refused to stay lit, a tree falling upon the stable. Eventually, the expense and discomfort had forced Wylie to abandon the glen for employment elsewhere.

  John Huxley, by contrast, had made startling progress in just over a year.

  “Appears the spirits favor yer man,” Mrs. MacBean commented from the entrance. “The castle hasnae slowed him down, that’s for certain.”