The Making of a Highlander Read online

  Three years ago, he would have liked her. Hell, five years ago, he might have seduced her for the sport of it.

  Now? He didn’t know what to do with her.

  Which might explain the disquiet in his gut after witnessing her come apart over nothing much at all.

  “Ye needn’t have troubled yerself, English.” The tremulousness of her voice made his hands tighten on the reins. He almost wished for another insult.

  “No trouble. Your house is on the way to mine.” Nodding to the rutted cart path that forked into Glendasheen, he eyed the heavy clouds above, the dark hills to either side of them, and the fingerling mists caressing yellow birch and green pine. “Jacqueline may not win any races, but she’ll save your boots some wear.”

  “Jacqueline?”

  “The horse.”

  She fell silent, rocking with the motion of the cart.

  He glanced at her hands, which flattened protectively along the right side of her waist as though covering a wound. “Did the boy hurt you?”

  Eyes the color of cornflowers flew up to his. “B-boy?”

  “Cleghorn’s son. When he accosted you back in the square. Did he injure you?”

  Destitution shadowed her eyes before they fell away. “No. Ronnie is a good lad.”

  Perhaps she was mad, after all.

  Certainly, he’d known men who appeared normal for days or weeks at a time, only to fall into a state of sudden, confused agitation. War could produce such a plague upon the mind. So could grave losses.

  He’d once befriended a tribesman in the Cape Colony of Africa. The man had spoken English, so John had hired him as a translator and guide. They’d gotten on famously until the night he’d mistaken John for a ghost from his past and tried to gut him with the spit from their campfire.

  John later learned the man’s two brothers, wife, and five children had been slaughtered by a rival tribe years earlier. Madness. Grief. Torment. A decade after the tribesman had buried his family, memories had risen up like an ancestral spell to sow chaos in his mind.

  Now, John wondered if Mad Annie Tulloch suffered something similar. Normal behavior most of the time—well, normal for her—then a sudden break.

  “I’m not mad.” Those unnervingly blue eyes met his again. “I ken ye think so. But I’m not. So, stop yer gawpin’.”

  As usual, her mouthy ways struck him like an itch. He wanted to laugh and, at the same time, to shut her up. Instead, he focused on the road ahead and held his tongue. At least she’d regained some color.

  “What are ye haulin’ back to that decrepit auld pile of stone ye live in, English?” She glanced back at the cart’s towering load, covered in canvas. “More than a bit of linen for yer drawers, I reckon.”

  “Materials for repairs.”

  A snort. “Repairing Glendasheen Castle will take more than this lot. Ye’ll need a bluidy miracle.”

  He frowned. “I’d make swifter progress if your fellow Scots would agree to work for me.”

  “Better chance of Christ himself ridin’ his unicorn down here for a dram and a biscuit.”

  “Hmm. I could use a good carpenter.”

  Another snort. “Amusin’, English.” She removed her hat and shook the rain from the wide brim before plopping it back into place. “’Tis cursed, ye ken.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Angus didnae lie about that. Somethin’ bad happened there. The castle willnae let ye get too far in yer improvements before knockin’ ye back on yer arse.”

  “Thus far, the castle’s proven more amenable than the MacPhersons. Perhaps it prefers the hands of an Englishman.”

  “An Englishman’s hands are soft as a bairn’s wee backside, right enough.”

  He slanted her a glance. “Examined a great many English hands, have you?”

  “Nah. Just yours.”

  This time, he couldn’t stifle the itch. He handed her the reins, ignoring her startled frown, then removed his gloves. Holding out his palms for her inspection, he tilted his head to catch her cornflower gaze. “Obviously not, Miss Tulloch.”

  She eyed the calluses on his palms and fingertips before raising a brow. “Well, now, a man with only himself for company will test his grip a wee bit more than average. Careful ye dinnae go blind, English.”

  Bloody hell. Mad or not, she never missed an opportunity to insult him in the vulgarest of terms. He tugged his gloves back on and snatched the reins from her. “Careful you don’t invite more than you intend.”

  “Invite?”

  “Hmm. You’re fortunate I’m a gentleman.”

  “Is that what ye are? I have wondered a time or two.”

  “Another man might mistake your insults for deliberate provocation.”

  She snorted. “No mistake, English. When that muscle in yer jaw flickers, I feel a wee little glow inside.”

  “Why the devil would that be?”

  Brilliant blue eyes wandered his face. “Dinnae ken.” She shrugged. “My brothers say I’m contrary.”

  “How perceptive. Do they also say the loch is a mite chilly for swimming in winter?”

  “No. But, then, they’re nae so dainty as you.”

  The itch intensified and began to burn. Despite her admission that she provoked him intentionally, he found himself clenching his jaw.

  She nudged his elbow with hers. “Dinnae be sore. Ye’re a fine diversion. That’s all.”

  “Diversion from what?” He glanced down at her, but she’d turned away, staring into the passing underbrush. Though her hat hid her expression, he could still see her lips. Ordinarily, they were quirked into an amused half-grin. Now, they were downturned. Trembling at the corners. He watched her swallow. Saw her shoulders curl inward, her hands cradling her right side.

  It might be the cold. It might be madness.

  But it looked like sadness.

  He didn’t know what was wrong with her. And even if he did, she wasn’t any of his business.

  No, his business was to renovate his castle, sell his land, and get the bloody hell out of Scotland. The only use he had for Mad Annie Tulloch was as a tool for softening Angus MacPherson’s black heart.

  As the cart rolled through a drift of yellow leaves and past a rail fence, they came within sight of MacPherson House. The old stone farmhouse was large for a cottage, small for a manor, and surprisingly welcoming. He pulled Jacqueline to a halt a few feet from the front door.

  Annie remained still, her breathing shallow.

  Frowning, John climbed down from the cart and rounded to her side. From this angle, he could see her face. The cold, hard pressure in his chest that he’d wanted to blame on the weather intensified.

  Normally creamy-white, her skin now hued closer to gray. Her stare was vacant. She wore fingerless gloves, and he watched her form claws against her ribs, pressing and pressing.

  “Miss Tulloch,” he prompted quietly. “You are home, now.”

  She blinked. Looked at him. Her eyes were dull and mournful. They began to gloss with tears.

  He held out his hand. “Come. Let me help you down.”

  She tightened her jaw. Raised her chin. Blinked until the gloss disappeared. “I will get him back,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Doesnae matter. I shall do it. I willnae stop until I find a way.”

  He nodded as though she made perfect sense. Interrupting a woman’s mad ramblings with rationality was a fatal error. As the only brother to five sisters, he’d learned that lesson early and learned it well. “Right, then. Let’s get you inside, shall we?”

  She grasped his hand tightly and leaned forward until the brim of her hat dripped on his chin. Her other hand landed on his shoulder. Her face was inches away, her breath mingling with his.

  He was relieved to see the spark return to those blue eyes, but she was too close. What was she doing?

  “Ye’ll come inside with me, English. I’ll not be sendin’ ye up t
o yer rubbish castle without some sustenance.”

  Frowning, he tried to keep a proper distance between them, but she wasn’t having it. She circled his neck with one arm, tucked their clasped hands together at her waist, and climbed down from the cart by sliding her body awkwardly against his.

  Bloody hell.

  His heart kicked at the feel of her. What the devil was she hiding beneath all that wool? Soft, cushiony, voluptuously curved. Automatically, his free arm circled her waist, small compared with what lay above it.

  Their brims bumped. Her thigh slid between his. He lowered her to the ground with a plunk, disconcerted by his body’s reaction.

  Clearly, he’d been too long without a woman.

  He released her quickly, but she hung on, steadying herself against him.

  Finally, she patted his shoulder. Then his jaw. “Thank ye, English. Ye’ve some ways to go before a lass could call ye graceful, but yer help is appreciated.”

  “Has a man ever assisted you down from a cart before?”

  “Aye, of course. My brothers haul me down when they’re quick enough. Otherwise, they complain I didnae wait for them.”

  “Haul you down.”

  “Aye.” She frowned up at him. “Like a bag of tatties.”

  “They haul you down like a bag of potatoes.”

  “Am I speakin’ Gaelic, of a sudden? Aye. Have done since I was a wee lassie.” She eyed his shoulders and patted his upper arm again. “Och, I didnae mean to bruise yer tender feelings, English. We cannae all be as strong and braw as a MacPherson. Ye did fine.” Turning on her heel, she crossed to the massive oak door and shoved it open, waving him forward. “Come inside, now,” she ordered, removing her hat and brushing the rain from her plaid.

  The brisk sweep of her hands over those mysterious curves drew his eyes.

  Bloody disturbing.

  “I should be on my way,” he said.

  “Nah. Ye should do as I tell ye. Else, ye’ll have nothin’ to show for your trouble, apart from soggy trousers and a hungry horse.” She turned and shouted orders to a lad, who scurried outside to take care of Jacqueline.

  His stomach chose that moment to grumble its emptiness. He sighed. Perhaps she had a point. All he’d eaten for the past month was fish from the loch. The thought of facing his shambles of a kitchen followed by his shambles of a bedchamber had him trailing her inside.

  Warmth hit him like whisky.

  Angus MacPherson’s house was nothing like the man himself. It was welcoming. Clean. Cheerful, even. The walls were white plaster and wood paneling, the floors polished planks, the ceilings beamed and unusually high. All the doorways were similarly oversized. But then, so were the MacPhersons.

  “Annie!” The deep, rumbling bellow traveled through the open door to his left. “Where in bluidy hell have ye been? That venison willnae cook itself!”

  She took John’s hat from his fingers and rolled her eyes. “Have ye tried settin’ fire to it, auld man?” she shouted. “Or are ye just going to sit on yer arse and yawp about yer empty belly?”

  Heavy footfalls sounded before Angus MacPherson appeared in the doorway—all six-and-a-half feet of Scottish crags and obstinance. The man had a full head of iron-gray hair and shoulders that, despite his age, nearly matched the door’s width. His eyes were sharp, his nose blunt, his brow heavy. He was more than twice Annie’s size.

  And the moment he set eyes upon her, his glower turned ferocious. “What’s wrong?”

  Annie moved to deposit her hat and John’s on hooks near the door. “Nothin’ apart from the weather.”

  Angus stomped toward her, looming protectively. “Nah. Ye’re off yer color. Did Huxley proposition ye?”

  “Good God, MacPherson,” John snapped. “Of course not.”

  “I wasnae talkin’ to you.”

  Annie planted her hands on her hips and calmly met her stepfather’s suspicious glare. “He brought me home when it was pissin’ rain. He didnae have to. I’d take those fine English manners over a pair of muddy boots gladly. And so would you, were ye not so bluidy crabbit.”

  “He’s just tryin’ to get under yer skirts, lass.”

  “I dinnae wear skirts.”

  Angus grunted his displeasure.

  “Go offer him whisky, auld man. He’ll be stayin’ for dinner.”

  John’s “No, I shan’t” overlapped with Angus’s denial.

  Their rare agreement seemed to amuse Annie. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. More than enough time for another land haggle over a wee dram, eh?”

  With that, she disappeared through a second doorway, presumably headed toward the kitchen.

  Angus released a bullish snort and turned his glare on John. “Lay a finger on my daughter, Huxley, and I’ll turn ye into a woman, right and proper.”

  Recalling his earlier reaction to discovering she was, in fact, entirely female, he shrugged off a prickle of unease. “Don’t be a fool, MacPherson. I require your cooperation to sell my land. Importuning your daughter is the last thing I would—”

  “Aye, ye need to sell yer land. For that, ye need me to roll over like a hound wantin’ its belly scratched, eh? Mayhap ye believe she’ll be seduced by bonnie words and a comely face. Mayhap ye think she’ll take yer side, and I’ll give ye what ye’re really after—which isnae her. But she’ll nae realize yer trick until ye’ve left her with naught but yer bairn in her belly.”

  Everything inside John went hot then cold. He glared at the towering Scot and lowered his voice until it resounded in the empty hall. “As a gentleman, I take your presumptions as a grave insult.”

  “No trouble with yer hearin’, then.”

  “I also have five sisters and a mother, you bloody-minded Scot.”

  “Aye. And ye’re male.”

  John glanced down at himself. “Fancy that. So I am.”

  “Ye’re nae one of those peculiar fellows, are ye?”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “Annie luiks like her mother.”

  John frowned, baffled by the man’s certainty that Annie was an irresistible beauty rather than a hoyden garbed in shapeless wool and worn breeches. He shook his head. How to explain without giving offense? “All I want,” he gritted, “is to sell my land and leave this place. I’ve no designs upon Miss Tulloch’s virtue, I assure you.”

  Angus’s grunt suggested disbelief. “I need whisky,” he muttered before turning on his heel and disappearing into the room he’d earlier vacated. He didn’t slam the door in John’s face, which John took as an invitation. It was the best he was likely to receive.

  Angus filled a glass from a dark bottle and plunked it down on the outer edge of his desk. He filled another and downed it in a single swallow before filling it again and sinking into his leather chair.

  The study was plain and weighty. A fire burned in the stone hearth. A lamp burned on the desk. A clock ticked from between shelved books.

  John dragged a chair from beneath the window and sat across from Angus. He lifted the glass from the desk and tilted it toward the light. Then, he took a drink.

  Oak, honey, and peat fire slid its seduction across his tongue.

  By God, the MacPhersons might be Highland barbarians, but they made the finest whisky he’d ever tasted.

  “Sell yer land to me, Huxley. ’Tis the only way ye’ll rid yerself of it.”

  John took another sip. “I cannot.”

  Angus cursed. “Bluidy Ewan Wylie spites me from the grave.”

  “That he does.” And John would not break his word to the salty old Scotsman who’d saved his life not once but thrice. Just picturing that scarred, weathered face sent a hollow pang through his chest. “You should take my last offer. I’ve told you I’ll ensure the owner will be Scottish. A Highlander, even.”

  “But the land would never be mine.”

  “No.”

  “Nor would it belong to my sons.”

  “I can
not sell to them, either.”

  Angus fell silent for a time. Then, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk and fingering his glass while he peered at John through glinting eyes. “What were ye doin’ with my daughter, Huxley?”

  John drank again, gathering his patience. “We happened upon each other at Cleghorn’s shop.”

  “Did that fat sod speak cruelly to her? I warned him—”

  “Not that I heard.” John kept his voice neutral. Careful. “Something odd did occur after she left the shop, however.”

  “Odd how?”

  “Cleghorn’s son ran out into the square. He seemed distraught. Clung to Miss Tulloch’s waist, wailing nonsense.” He took another drink, remembering the boy’s panic, remembering how Annie had turned gray, how vivid her hair had looked against her skin when she’d lost her hat. The fiery red had dampened, darkened in the rain. She’d spun in circles, her right hand grasping, reaching for something—or someone—she’d lost. Even after Gilbert MacDonnell’s well-dressed guests had approached her, she’d stood unnaturally silent, weaving as though she’d been stabbed through the heart and all she could do was bleed.

  “She appeared quite … distressed by the incident,” he finished. “I thought it best to see her home safely.”

  Angus’s fist tightened on his glass. “I kenned somethin’ was wrong. Lass could scald the devil with her tongue. Isnae like her to go gentle on me.”

  “Gentle?” The woman had bellowed like a fishwife.

  “Aye. Now, with ye, she’s polite.”

  John barely managed not to choke on his whisky.

  “Ye’re English. She doesnae wish to offend.”

  He didn’t want to laugh. For years, the urge had been absent. Now, it plagued him like an itch every time Anne Tulloch tossed an insult his way. Sighing away the absurdity, he glared at Angus and turned the conversation in a more productive direction. “The rights to the loch must be settled. The original terms of sale state—”

  “The original sale was concocted by an eejit.”

  John swiped a hand over his beard. “We agree on that much.”

  Gilbert MacDonnell’s father, the one whose statue towered over Cross Street, had been breathtakingly daft. But, like his son, he’d also been infatuated with his Highland heritage. So, when the MacDonnells’ debts had demanded the chieftain sell off his ancestral lands, he’d rejected the path most other Highland lairds had taken. Rather than selling the whole lot to a wealthy Englishman or titled Lowlander, he’d broken MacDonnell lands into smaller parcels and sold them to Highland Scots—and not the lofty sorts, but men like Ewan Wylie, who’d earned his money on the decks of ships. Men like Angus MacPherson, who’d carved a backwater empire from sweat, dirt, cattle, and malted barley.