by Elisa Braden
Shaking off a shiver, she hugged herself tighter and trudged over MacDonnell gravestones toward the oldest part of the churchyard. Behind an ancient fence, near the base of one of the walls, a rusted iron gate lay propped awkwardly where it had fallen when the hinges failed.
This was where Finlay had been buried. Near the gate. On the northwest corner of the ruined church. No marker. No signs that his bones lay beneath the soil. She only knew because he’d shown her the spot years ago when she’d asked where he’d been laid to rest. Finlay hadn’t liked to visit here. He preferred not to dwell on his past.
Frozen grass rustled as she crouched beside the gate. Rusted iron groaned and stung her hands as she wrenched it away from the ground. Heaving it aside until it flopped flat, she cursed again. “Blasted, sodding thing,” she muttered, yanking at the weeds that covered Fin’s grave. Once the ground was cleared, she withdrew the small wooden carving from inside her plaid. It was supposed to be a thistle. It looked like a mushroom.
Sighing, she withdrew the note Mrs. MacBean had given her. She skimmed it silently before rolling her eyes. “Daft rubbish,” she muttered.
But this was for Finlay. So, she ignored all good sense and read the words aloud. “Spirit who lieth in hollow ground …” She frowned. “Hallowed ground, not hollow ground, ye daft auld woman.”
She started again. “Spirit who lieth in hallowed ground, come forth to the ring where my offering may be found.” She squinted at the paper. Glanced around. “Ye didnae mention any ring, ye daft auld woman,” she grumbled. Losing patience, she rose to gather a few stones, then arranged them in a circle. Kneeling, she tried again.
“Spirit who lieth in hallowed ground, come forth to the ring where my offering may be found. For, as the seed I plant doth grow …” She examined the carving in her hand. “Now, I suppose ye want me to bury the thing, ye daft auld woman.”
Her fingers stung as she clawed the frozen dirt. Finally, she dropped the mushroom-thistle into the shallow hole, scraped the dirt back into place, and read Mrs. MacBean’s rhyming blather. “Spirit who lieth in hallowed ground, come forth to the ring where my offering may be found. For, as the seed I plant doth grow, a bridge betwixt realms I do sow.”
She waited. Held her breath in a moment of foolish hope. But nothing happened.
Not a breeze. Not a tickle of her palm or a wee spark between her ribs.
Her fingers hurt from weeding and wrenching and digging. Her knees were wet and numb from kneeling. She’d likely have stains to scrub from her trews.
She rocked forward, her palm flattening the little mound of dirt where she’d buried the thistle charm. “I’m sorry, Fin,” she whispered, barely a breath. “I’ll find a way. I promise.” She patted the soil. Hung her head and let herself ache. Then, she gritted her teeth and shoved to her feet.
Making her way back toward the castle, she battled despair by scrambling for new solutions. Perhaps she would accompany the MacPherson men next time they took a shipment of whisky to Edinburgh. Surely there were more knowledgeable sources than Mrs. MacBean in a city of that size. Not that she went there often. Or ever, really.
Fifty feet from the castle, she stumbled to a halt as something extraordinary caught her eye. A hammer. Soaring through the air.
Her eyes widened as the thing arced above her head. It hit a pine tree behind her and tumbled to the ground amidst a flurry of evergreen.
She scowled at the thing before turning back to retrieve it. Longer and heavier than a normal hammer, it resembled the type used to pound fence posts. She hefted it onto her shoulder and muttered, “I hope ye dinnae have another of these, English. I like my head where it is.”
Then, she approached the castle, keeping a watchful eye for more flying tools. “Huxley!” she called as she drew near the main door. “Where in blazes are ye?”
When he appeared, he was in his shirtsleeves—sweat-stained linen sleeves rolled up to expose forearms dusted with brown hair.
Her eyes caught on those bare arms. The shocking thickness of the muscles. The strength they implied.
“Miss Tulloch?”
She blinked. Realized she was staring like a moony lamb. He’d rounded the corner of the stable twenty yards away, crossing the space between them in long, sure strides. His hair and beard shone brown with hints of gold.
Bare arms. Fancy that—the Englishman wearing only a shirt. The rest of him was decently covered, she supposed. Tan breeches that had seen better days. Boots he obviously wore for work rather than visiting. But he hadn’t any of his usual finery.
A coat should make him handsomer. A hat should make him more polished.
So, why was her heart pounding? Because she could see his muscles? How daft.
She started forward again, tapping a finger against the hammer’s handle. “Your distance is a mite short, English, but at least yer aim is shite.”
He scowled and stalked closer. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “Came to see if ye’d cracked your skull with a hammer yet. Appears I arrived just in time.”
He plucked the hammer from her hand with enviable ease. “I was repairing the stable. It slipped.”
“Right.” She crossed her arms and eyed the width of his shoulders. Impressive, she had to admit. Not MacPherson proportions, but not bad. “Have ye made progress on the castle, then?”
“A bit.”
“Chimney appears to function.”
“I had a mason here from Inverness. He’s one of the few willing to travel this far.” His voice laced with sarcasm. “If only I were permitted to hire locally.”
“Aye. ’Tis a bother.”
He rubbed a hand over his beard and shot her a hostile glare. “Why are you here, Miss Tulloch?”
Slowly, she grinned. “Well, I thought ye’d never ask. Let’s discuss it by the fire, eh?”
“I cannot invite you inside.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no servants. We are alone here.”
“And?”
He sighed. Tossed the hammer thirty feet behind him with the flick of his arm. It landed with a thudding clatter inside a bucket near the stable door.
Impressive.
“MacPherson and I made a wager. If he wishes to change the terms, he can come here himself.”
She chuckled. “Angus plans to win, English. He thinks the terms are grand.”
“Then, why send his daughter to be compromised?”
Compromised? As in … good God. It was a rare day when Annie was struck speechless. But just now, she couldn’t move her mouth, let alone speak.
“Did you suppose I wouldn’t understand the game?” His eyes flashed gold in the morning light. “You come here alone, invite yourself inside. Angus or one of your brothers comes to fetch you, finds us together. Et voilà. We’re forced to wed, and the MacPhersons have a claim upon my land, if only through marriage.”
“Wed.”
“Come now, Miss Tulloch. You cannot be ignorant of what it means to visit an unmarried man’s home without a chaperone.”
Her head was spinning. He’d uttered something foreign in the midst of his strange ramblings, but she’d understood the rest of it well enough. He thought her a tart. Worse, a tart aiming to trap him like a stag with a particularly large rack.
Annie had Angus and four giant MacPherson brothers to take care of, along with her wee laddie, should she ever find a way to bring him back to her. One thing she didn’t need was another male around, dirtying up her house and grumbling about his empty stomach. And a husband? He’d demand far more than dinner and mending. He’d want to lie with her. Naked, most likely. He’d want her to give him bairns.
If the notion of trapping herself a husband by pretending to be compromised weren’t so daft, she would be laughing.
Instead, she glanced pointedly at their surroundings and raised a brow. “Perhaps ye didnae notice, but we’re nae precisely hostin’ a clan gatherin’ out
here. ’Tis but you and me, indoors or out. The only difference is that inside the castle, I’ve a wee chance of feelin’ all my numb parts go tingly before I head home.”
He blinked. Scowled. His gaze dropped to her plaid briefly before flying back up to her face.
“Och, the cold is turnin’ ye all ruddy, man.” She clicked her tongue. “Ye should be wearin’ a coat.”
“I was working. Alone. Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to resume said task.”
She scoffed and headed for the castle door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside,” she called over her shoulder. “Where it’s warm and sensible.”
“Miss Tulloch—”
“Stay out here, if ye like.” She grinned and yanked open the heavy door. “Ye wouldnae want to compromise me, would ye, English?”
TlU
Following Annie Tulloch into his castle was a mistake. Firstly, the woman was pure frustration. She was also a risk. He’d been the target of too many matchmaking schemes from far more sophisticated players to think otherwise.
Yet, as she sauntered into the entrance hall, he found himself trailing her. Watching her. Anticipating her reaction with unwelcome intensity.
She spun in a circle in the center of the hall, gazing up at the restored beams and repaired stonework, then at the three slim windows above the door where he’d installed stained-glass depictions of vistas from the glen.
He waited.
Hands on her hips, she examined the floors. He’d purchased the stone from a nearby quarry and laid it himself. She lightly ran the toe of her boot over the smooth, dark surface.
Finally, she wandered to the archway leading into the main gallery. Light through the stained glass played with her hair. She wore it plaited today, he noticed. No hat. Just fire.
“Ye used the same slate for the roof and the floor. Mr. Gillis’s quarry, aye? A fine, cleaved stone,” she murmured, running a hand over the wooden casing of the archway. “Costly.”
He noticed she wore fingerless gloves, and her fingertips were dirty, her nails a bit torn. What had she been digging?
“Did Mr. Gillis lower his price to spite Angus?” she asked. “Or was he bewitched by those bonnie eyes of yours?”
“As you know, your father has made obtaining materials and hiring laborers difficult.”
“Stepfather.”
“Mr. Gillis agreed to sell me the stone, despite MacPherson’s intimidation.”
“Gillis sells slate to Lowlanders for their grand, gaudy houses.” She grinned over her shoulder. “He’s nae so concerned with pleasin’ the locals.” She ambled beyond the arch.
He followed, wanting more from her. An acknowledgment. Something. “I had to lay the stone myself. Repair the roof myself. Replace many of the windows myself.” The frustration of the past year surged as he trailed her through his half-completed house. “Had it not been for MacPherson’s interference, I would have finished months ago.”
“Aye,” she said, wandering through another arch into the drawing room, where he’d begun paneling the walls but hadn’t yet restored the fireplace. “Ye’ve some work left to do, that much is certain.”
He wanted to growl. The guttural reaction crouched inside his chest, unfamiliar and disconcerting. What the devil was wrong with him?
“I’d have considerably less to do if—”
“Where did ye learn such skills, English?” She hovered near one of the windows then turned to face him, a tiny frown puckering her brow. “Ye seem a bit gentlemanly for layin’ stone and hammerin’ posts.”
“You know nothing about me, Miss Tulloch.”
Her mouth quirked. “I know ye speak like ye’ve been fed knives and vinegar.”
“Knives and vinegar?”
“Aye. Every word is sliced clean. Polished bright.”
“Is that what offends you about me? My diction?”
She snorted. “Dinnae be daft.” Crossing her arms over her bosom, she looked him up and down. “Makes me wonder. That’s all.”
“Wonder what?”
“Who ye are.”
He paused, keeping his expression flat. “Hardly a mystery. You know my name.”
“Hmm. John Huxley,” she murmured.
He inclined his head.
“A gentleman.”
“Yes.”
Her fingertips idly traced his unfinished paneling. As morning light caressed her cheek and the fiery wisps brushing her jaw, she drew her thumb over a corner molding. “And a craftsman, by the looks of it.”
He couldn’t account for the heat that ran through him in that moment. The way she touched wood he had fashioned. The way her blue gaze lingered on his forearms. Her slightly open lips with their slightly tempting quirk.
Her admiration was such a subtle thing—a mere taste of what fed this damnable craving. But he wanted more.
Did she know?
Was Annie Tulloch seducing him deliberately? This would be among the more bizarre methods he’d encountered. But effective. Too damned effective.
God, this was madness. To seek her approval. To lust after her, of all people. He’d spent too much time alone in this place. Not even the widow in Glasgow had cured it.
“You never did answer my question,” he said, hardening his tone, even as he examined her hands. Dirty hands. Small. “What are you doing here?”
“Answer me first, English. How did ye learn to work with wood and stone, eh?”
He hesitated, knowing that the more information he gave her, the more he gave MacPherson. And the more MacPherson knew, the harder John’s task would be.
“Here, now,” she said, her smile teasing, her eyes glowing blue. “If ye tell me a wee bit, I’ll tell ye why ye cannae get the window in the tower to settle without crackin’.”
Bloody hell. That window frame had already damaged three panes of glass. The present one, installed only a week ago, resembled a spider’s web.
“What do you know about it?” he demanded.
She breezed past him and wandered back toward the gallery. “Tell me about you. That’s my price.”
He followed her, shamefully intrigued by the oddest details of her form: her shapely calves, which he could see because the woman wore breeches and boots rather than skirts. Her small, dirty hands, which she surreptitiously wiped on a corner of her plaid. The stains on her knees. Her hair, which flashed like copper rope and brushed the base of her spine.
Her thighs weren’t visible because they were draped in tartan. So were her breasts. He’d like to see her without her plaid. He’d like to see her without her tunic. Without anything at all.
“Go on. Tell me,” she said over her shoulder as they wandered from the dining room into the small corridor that led to the kitchen. “I promise I willnae laugh.”
He ducked past the temporary bracing he’d added to the passage and grasped her arm. “Be careful. I’m still reconstructing this part of the house.”
Though faintly lit from both the dining room and the kitchen windows, the corridor was dim and tight. Something soft and cushiony brushed his ribs as she turned.
“Aye.” She patted his hand where he held her. “Dinnae fash. The fire is leadin’ me straight and true. Already my backside is tinglin’.” Her hoarse chuckle seized parts of his body it shouldn’t even interest.
The lust was both unwelcome and exasperating, much like Annie herself.
Abruptly, he drew back, only to hit his head on the bracing. “Blast,” he hissed.
“Och, ye’re a clumsy one, John Huxley.” She tugged him forward. “Let’s warm ourselves and trade tales for a wee bit, eh?”
He didn’t want to trade tales. He didn’t want her here at all. Especially in his kitchen. The room was still in shambles, although he’d cleared away the debris, built a new work table, and repaired the hearth. It was functional. Barely.
She stood with her hands propped on her hips, ex
amining the place with a stern expression. “Have ye a larder?”
“It collapsed.”
“Where are ye storing yer food?”
“In the cellar. There’s a door to the garden that makes it convenient.”
She nodded. Held her hands out toward the hearth. Turned to warm her back. Wiggled her hips in an unconscious, highly arousing way.
“Tell me a bit about ye.” She tilted her head as though this were not an attempt at seduction. “Where are ye from?”
He swallowed and tried to ignore how much her eyes reminded him of cornflowers dancing in a summer field. “Nottinghamshire.”
“I’ve never been. Is it pleasant?”
“Lovely.”
“Better weather, eh?”
“Less cantankerous. But the hills are scarcely hills at all.” Without thinking, his eyes fell to her bosom. “I prefer this landscape, actually.”
“Where did ye learn how to do all this, English?”
“I built ships. Sailed them. Traveled to all sorts of places. Traded with all sorts of people. Did all manner of things.”
Red brows arched. “All manner? Sounds adventurous.”
“One might say so.”
“Yet ye always look forfochen, English.”
He frowned his puzzlement.
“Weary,” she clarified. “Did all that adventurin’ land ye here?”
“In a sense. It’s how I met Ewan Wylie. He knew ships better than most.”
“So, you and auld Wylie built ships together.”
“Yes. I sold the operation after he died.”
“Must have filled yer pockets right and proper. Is that how ye can afford so much slate from Mr. Gillis? Or Cleghorn’s finest linen for yer drawers?”
His gut hardened. He’d suspected MacPherson had sent her here, either for information or more devious purposes. Now he knew it.
“My drawers are none of your concern, Miss Tulloch,” he warned softly as he rounded the table and joined her beside the hearth. The heat made his beard prickle. “Neither are my pockets.”