The Making of a Highlander Page 11

  Annie nodded. “Aye.” She’d given up on correcting the old woman’s assumption that Huxley was hers. “I’ve noticed the same thing.” She ran a hand over the nearest stall’s gate. “Why do ye suppose that is?”

  “Cannae say. Spirits have naught but time and whim to weigh upon them.” The old woman brushed a piece of straw from her sleeve. “Mayhap they enjoy lookin’ upon his face. Dinnae blame them for that.”

  A fair point. Annie recalled those handsome, refined features. The sculpted jaw. The aristocratic nose. The captivating eyes.

  When they exited into the stable yard, his handsome face was wearing a scowl. He came toward them carrying a basket of apples. “When did you arrive?”

  “A few minutes ago.” Annie grinned to disguise her fascination with his naked jaw and perfect lips. “Ye appear a mite pained, English. Strained a muscle, eh? Perhaps ye should leave the heavy liftin’ to proper Scotsmen.”

  He ignored her to set his apples beside the stable entrance. Then, he returned to address Mrs. MacBean. “Madam,” he said quietly, giving her a respectful nod. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I am John Huxley.”

  The old woman ran a hand over her wild shrub of hair. “Mary MacBean, maker of potions and cures for ailments of every sort.” Her eyebrows bobbed. “And the pleasure is mine, lad. All mine.”

  Huxley’s eyes crinkled at the corners, though he didn’t smile. He inclined his head before shifting his gaze to Annie. “Your chaperone, I take it.”

  Annie raised her chin, daring him to complain. “Aye.”

  “I’m afraid our lessons must wait, Miss Tulloch. Today, I’m traveling to Inverness for supplies. Perhaps next week—”

  “Nah. Ye should stay here and keep yer end of the bargain.”

  He propped his hands on his hips. “Next week will be soon enough—”

  Her temper flared. If he thought to avoid her after their kiss, he could think again. They’d made an agreement. He’d given her his word.

  “I didnae drag Bill and Mrs. MacBean all this way to turn round and—”

  “Bill?” He tensed. “Who is Bill?”

  “More of a gentleman than you, I tell ye that much.”

  “Does he work for your father?”

  “Stepfather. And aye, in a manner of speakin’.”

  Hazel eyes raked her from boots to shoulders and back again. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, perhaps to himself.

  “Och, Bill is a fine, muckle fellow,” Mrs. MacBean interjected. “Ears are a wee bit longer than may be regarded as attractive, and I’ve never encountered such a gassy creature. But all considered, he gave me a most pleasurable ride.”

  Huxley blinked at the old woman. Paused a moment. Then his brow cleared. “Bill is a horse.”

  “Donkey,” Annie corrected. “Now, do ye intend to keep yer word or not?”

  Immediately, his scowl returned. “I always do.”

  “Good. We’ll have our lesson today, then.”

  “I must fetch supplies, Miss Tulloch.”

  “What supplies?”

  “None that need concern you—”

  “Fetch them another day. Next week, perhaps.”

  He scraped a hand over his mouth and jaw as though missing his beard. “By God, you are the most vexing woman.”

  “Mrs. MacBean is auld, English. Half of her doesnae work right, and the rest doesnae work at all.”

  Mrs. MacBean, having watched their conversation with interest, nodded her agreement. “’Tis true.”

  “I’ll not ask her to come all the way to Glendasheen Castle on a dreich day like today without a bluidy good reason. Ye demanded I have a chaperone.” Annie gestured to the old woman in question. “She’s here. Now, do yer part.”

  His jaw flexed in familiar fashion. Like a dram of whisky, it sent a shot of heat blooming through her.

  “Very well. We’ll have our lesson.” His low voice sounded more threatening than conciliatory. Still, she’d take the victory.

  She slid her arm through Mrs. MacBean’s and tugged her toward the castle.

  “Where are you going?” he inquired as they passed.

  She stopped. “The drawing room.”

  He drew up beside her and lowered his head. “Oh, but our lesson won’t take place inside the castle.”

  Uneasy about his triumphant tone, she slanted him a sideways glance. “Where, then?”

  A small smile curled one corner of his mouth. He smiled so infrequently, she had to blink to be sure.

  But, aye. There it was. Like a wink from a star.

  “We’re going shopping,” he said, that wee smile growing as he observed her reaction.

  Which, naturally, involved dread and nausea. “No,” she breathed.

  “Oh, yes. Today, you will learn what all ladies must.” He actually licked his lips—licked them like a cat that had a mouse right where he wanted her. “How to properly spend a gentleman’s money.”

  TlU

  At long last, John had the maddening Annie Tulloch right where he wanted her. Well, perhaps not right where he wanted. His bed was back at the castle.

  But from a battle-of-wills standpoint, he’d won. And that was even more satisfying.

  Well, perhaps not more satisfying.

  “Dreadfully quiet back there, Miss Tulloch,” he commented, glancing over his shoulder at the hoyden fuming in the bed of his long cart. “Are you certain you don’t wish to postpone our lesson? Next week, perhaps.”

  God, it felt good to be the one doing the taunting. He shouldn’t relish it. But he did.

  She hugged her knees to her chest and leveled him with a venomous glare.

  He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “If you’d prefer, I could take you home instead. It would be no trouble, I assure you.” They’d just entered the village. He’d expected her to cry off as they passed MacPherson House, but she was stubborn. They’d stopped only long enough to return her donkey to the MacPherson stable and leave a note for Angus.

  “’Tis most solicitous of ye, Mr. Huxley,” said Mrs. MacBean. “Which clan did ye say ye were from?”

  The half-blind old woman sat beside him on the cart’s driving bench. Annie had insisted. For all her griping about the woman being daft, he’d noticed how much care she gave her “chaperone.”

  “The Huxleys are my family,” he replied gently. It was the fifth time she’d asked. “We’re from Nottinghamshire.”

  “Have ye a tartan, then?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, why didnae ye say so?” She resumed digging inside the leather pack she carried in her lap. “I’ve nothin’ appropriate in here. Now, if ye were a Brodie, that would be somethin’.”

  He started to answer when Annie interrupted with, “Just smile and nod, English. Correcting her will do ye no good at all.”

  By the time he pulled the horses to a halt outside Cleghorn’s Haberdashery, Mrs. MacBean was calling him Mr. Brodie and reminiscing about his “braw” uncle, with whom she’d apparently had a liaison.

  “Ah, he had a silver tongue, that John Brodie. Separated me from my virtue more than once, I can tell ye that.”

  How a woman could surrender her virtue more than once, he didn’t know—and didn’t want to.

  “’Twas when he brought out the butter and the honey jar, I said, ‘Och, no, ye scoundrel. The sixteenth time will be the last, by heaven.’”

  Ignoring Mrs. MacBean’s alarming recollections, he climbed down from the bench and secured the horses before assisting the old woman down from her perch. He moved to help Annie, but the stubborn female had already helped herself. She leaned against the side of the cart, arms crossed.

  “I hate shoppin’, English. I already told ye.”

  He grinned. “Is that so?”

  “Ye ken it is.”

  “But you require gowns, Miss Tulloch.” He allowed himself a lingering sweep of her lush form before conti
nuing. “Desperately.”

  “I’m a fair hand with a needle. All I need is—”

  “A dressmaker. We’ll start here in Glenscannadoo. If the local woman won’t suffice, you’ll accompany me to Inverness.”

  Looking slightly ill, Annie shoved away from the cart. “Fine,” she spat. “Let’s have done with it.”

  He nodded toward the shop two doors down from Cleghorn’s. “I’ll meet you there. I’ve a few errands to attend first.”

  She glowered suspiciously but retrieved Mrs. MacBean and tugged the old woman toward the shop.

  He hurried through his errands, eager to see Annie’s reaction. Would she allow herself to be measured? She’d have to remove her plaid. Would she refuse to cooperate and scurry home? She’d have to admit he’d won the argument.

  Either way, anticipation quickened his stride as he retrieved his post—another stack of letters from his family—before making a few purchases to ease the journey to Inverness.

  He was almost certain Annie would cry off before leaving Glenscannadoo. Almost. But it was best to be prepared. The woman was far from predictable.

  Upon entering the dressmaker’s shop, he paused. The shop was narrow and dark, so it took a moment to find her. And when he did, his heart kicked so hard, it bruised his stomach.

  She was surrounded by women—four of them, to be precise. He recognized one as the dressmaker, Flora MacDonnell, a blonde with a sharp nose and dull mind. Another was Flora’s sister. The third might be the saddler’s wife. The fourth was an ash-haired, moon-faced MacDonnell named Grisel.

  The four women were laughing.

  And Annie was not. Rather, her expression had tightened to stone.

  Little wonder. The women appeared to be pointing and plucking and laughing—at her.

  “Do ye suppose she’ll even ken what to do with skirts?” sneered Grisel. “Might as well expect yer sow to play the fiddle.”

  “She’s more lad than lass, true enough.” Flora’s pitying glance was its own form of ridicule. She spoke slowly and loudly, as though Annie were simpleminded. Or mad. “Ye really must have a corset first. I cannae fit ye properly with ye bein’ so …” The woman fluttered her fingers at Annie’s bosom. “Indecent.”

  The second woman snorted her agreement. The third woman giggled. Grisel added, “Best ye wear gloves if ye’re forced to be near her, Flora. Mad Annie’s been known to bite.”

  As they all laughed, a storm gathered in his chest.

  “Miss Tulloch.”

  Annie’s eyes flew to his.

  They gutted him. She looked hunted. Tormented.

  He didn’t know why she hadn’t already lashed the women with her sharp, defiant tongue. He didn’t know why she was pale and holding herself protectively. All he knew was that he must remove her from this place. Now.

  He beckoned her with a wave of his hand. “We are leaving,” he said, using every ounce of authority he’d learned from his father.

  She gave a jerky nod and started toward him. Grisel grasped her arm and whispered something to her as she passed. Annie flinched and yanked her arm free.

  John’s fury was ordinarily the slow-burning sort. But not now. Fire flooded his veins until his vision tinged red. He charged forward and clasped Annie’s hand in his. She seemed startled but didn’t pull away. In fact, she hesitated only a moment before squeezing his hand in return.

  “Come along,” he said, directing his most superior tone to the women who’d insulted her. “No sense purchasing gowns from a dressmaker who will very shortly be out of business.”

  Flora MacDonnell blinked, her mouth agape and her face red. The others slunk backwards. Perhaps they understood their error. Perhaps not. But they soon would. He would make certain of it.

  “M-Mr. Huxley,” Flora stuttered. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

  “I think a proprietress who’d like to keep her shop should treat her customers with better courtesy.” He lowered his voice. “I’d wager the MacPhersons agree.”

  “Oh, no. I—I mean, aye.” Flora darted glances at the other women, but they all looked away. “I was only tryin’ to be … helpful.”

  Annie’s fingers squeezed his again. “We should go,” she murmured.

  He tucked her behind him then gave the women one last, hard look. This was not the first time they’d tormented Annie, that much was clear. Every one of them would need to be dealt with. He must speak with Angus. How had the MacPhersons allowed this to go on?

  Another tug on his hand. A gentle touch on his back. “English.”

  The whispered plea worked. He ushered her out of the shop and toward the cart. “Where is Mrs. MacBean?” he asked, struggling to keep his anger from boiling over.

  “The haberdashery. She’s lookin’ for tartan and seashells. Oh, and an ivory button.” Annie’s small, amused snort eased the pressure in his chest a bit.

  He pulled her to a halt beside the cart’s wheel. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Who can guess what sort of oddity she has in mind? Daft auld woman.”

  “Not with Mrs. MacBean. In the dressmaker’s shop. Why were they—”

  Her eyes skated away from his. “I told ye, English. I hate shoppin’.”

  “That’s not shopping. They were … blast, they surrounded you like a pack of feral hounds.”

  “Worse.” A tiny grin curled one side of her mouth. “Bitches.”

  Another small part of him eased. Her spirit wasn’t gone, merely hiding. “How long has this been happening?”

  She didn’t answer.

  His gut hardened. “A long time, then.”

  “Dinnae fash yerself. It’s only bad when they’re all together. Most days, I’m able to avoid them.”

  Except today, when he’d forced her to enter her tormentor’s shop and request the woman’s services. Never again. He’d make sure nothing like this ever happened again. “I intend to speak to your father about this,” he gritted.

  She laid a hand on his chest. True, he was wearing his heaviest coat and another layer of wool beneath. But still. He felt her touch.

  “Stepfather,” she murmured, her smile warming. “I’m fine. No need to involve the MacPhersons.”

  “They should have ended this long ago.”

  “They dinnae ken anything about it.”

  “Why in blazes not?”

  She shrugged. “I never told them.”

  He started to answer, but Ronnie Cleghorn came running around the cart. The russet-haired boy collided with Annie’s hip and clutched her waist.

  “Nannee!”

  Immediately, Annie’s face lit up. She stroked the boy’s hair then crouched down to hug him tightly. “Ah, ye’re a breath of summer on this dreich day, laddie. Did yer da let ye keep that pup ye found?”

  The boy nodded emphatically. “Stahbee.”

  “Ye named him Strawberry?”

  Another nod.

  “Well, now, since that’s yer favorite fruit, he must be a grand pup, indeed.”

  Mrs. MacBean joined them, informing Ronnie his father was searching for him. Smiling, the boy patted Annie’s cheeks. “Ah miss Innee,” he said quietly.

  Annie’s eyes glossed and her lower lip firmed as though struggling against grief. “Me, too, laddie,” she whispered. Then, she kissed his forehead and sent him back to his father.

  John didn’t know what the last part of their conversation had been about, but when she stood, her expression was wistful. It changed quickly when she met his gaze.

  “Spare me yer pity, English,” she snapped, snatching her hat from the bed of the cart and tugging it low over her forehead. “I dinnae want it.”

  What he felt wasn’t pity. It was hotter and deeper and more tender. But delving too far into what it was would only invite more complications. His connection with Annie Tulloch was complicated enough. “I can take you home, if you like,” he offered. “It’s fully three hours to Inverness.�
��

  “I already said no. What’s the matter, English? Frightened I’ll start weepin’ and stain yer cravat with my womanly tears?”

  He examined the defiant tilt of her chin, the stubborn glint in her eye. “The topic of our lesson hasn’t changed. We will be shopping. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Help Mrs. MacBean onto her seat. A gentleman doesnae keep a lady waiting.” Turning on her heel, she marched to the back of the cart before climbing on with surprising dexterity.

  With each moment that passed, his smile grew. “Very well.” He tugged his own hat tighter and offered his hand to Mrs. MacBean, who’d been watching with keen interest. “The shops of Inverness had best gird their loins.”

  “And why’s that?” Annie’s tone was as sullen as the low, gray clouds above.

  He lifted the old woman into the cart and came around to take his own seat before answering. “I suspect they’ve never had a customer as extraordinary as you.”

  Chapter Nine

  TlU

  “Opera dress?” Annie’s query rang sharply off the shop’s fancy walls. She couldn’t help it. They’d officially entered the realm of the ridiculous.

  She’d stood by silently while Huxley and the dressmaker, Mrs. Baird, discussed cloaks lined in “ermine”—a fancy word for weasel. She’d held her tongue while they discussed walking gowns—as though she couldn’t walk unless she was dressed a particular way. She’d even stayed quiet while they debated whether fichus had run their course. What on earth was a fichu? A kerchief women wore to cover their bosoms, evidently. Why couldn’t the gown’s bodice do its job properly? She didn’t know. No one did. Instead, dressmakers shaped bodices indecently low, requiring women to stuff spare fabric into their necklines to prevent exposure.

  Fichu. It sounded like a sneeze. The word was French, according to Huxley. Annie thought French women must be fond of displaying their bosoms, and French men rather clever for encouraging such fashions.

  Still, she hadn’t uttered a single protest during the fichu debate or the ermine discussion or the walking gown nonsense. But opera dress? This was too much.