by Elisa Braden
“When you’ve seen as much of the world as I have, you realize a man’s birth tells you very little about his true substance.” His voice snapped like icy sails.
Confusing man.
Annie glanced behind her to where Mrs. MacBean slept soundly. She drew the old woman’s blanket higher to protect her from the cold. Her fussing gave her time to formulate an answer. “If ye mean to imply I’m a wee bit curious about how rich ye are, then I must admit, ye have me.”
“Naturally.” A faint sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “Most women want to know what you can give them, be it fortune or title.”
Ah, they were back to that, were they? She let a moment pass so he could hear himself. “So, yer mother—the one who loves cats and begs her son to come home for a visit—she’s a mercenary sort, eh?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Perhaps it’s yer sisters. Let me guess. Annabelle married yer best friend for his title.”
The frown deepened. He rolled his shoulders. “Of course not. She’s been in love with Robert since they were children. He had no title.”
“Not yer sisters, then. Hmm. Perhaps it was the modest mistress from Paris who soured ye.”
“For the last time, she was a modiste. I should never have told you about her.”
“Why did ye?”
“You asked how I learned about women’s fashions. That is how.”
“Right.” She snorted. “And all the women’s fashions ye’ve removed in yer time had naught to do with it, eh?”
“God, you are the most vexing—”
“Who was it that tried to trap ye like a prize stag, John Huxley?”
His breathing seemed to halt. His eyes flashed to her then away. He didn’t answer.
Despite his stiffness, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “’Tis why ye havenae married, aye? Why ye’ve lingered here in the arse crease of Scotland, rebuilding a castle ye’ve no intention of keepin’, makin’ rubbish wagers with a crabbit auld man, wastin’ yer time teachin’ a hoyden to be a lady.”
“You are not a waste of time.”
She patted his knee. “I’d wager a mother like yers has a bride or two picked out for ye. A bit like preparin’ a feast to welcome ye home—except that ye’re the poor beastie on the platter. That’s why ye dinnae answer her prayers and return to Nottinghamshire, where ye belong.”
“Ewan Wylie helped me build the wealth you’re so curious about. I owe him a great deal, not least my life. I’ve remained in Scotland to honor his wishes.”
“That’s pure shite.”
He scraped a hand over his jaw. “Bloody hell, woman.”
“Ye could have kept yer piece of Glendasheen without ever settin’ foot upon Scottish soil. With Angus’s nonsense, ye’re better off keepin’ the land than sellin’ it, anyhow.” She snorted. “Not like ye need the funds. Payin’ dressmaker bills for lasses ye’re not even tuppin’ tells me that much.”
“I had to settle matters with your father—”
“Nah. Ye had to hide somewhere. Glenscannadoo may not be the most hospitable place, but it’s a long, miserable ride from Nottinghamshire. No obligatory visits to fash about. No schemin’ ladies conspirin’ to birth yer bairns and spend yer money.”
Stony and scowling, he refused to look at her.
Aye, she had him. Bonnie as he was, her Englishman had probably been pursued since the day he’d donned trousers. And, given his descriptions of his childhood, she’d guess his family had been both wealthy and well connected. Phaetons weren’t much use in farm fields and quarries, after all.
“So, who was the sly vixen that tried to steal yer purse and claim yer manly bits for trophies, eh? A London lass? A Nottinghamshire neighbor?”
His glare didn’t budge from the road. While they’d been talking, darkness had begun to fall. It cast strange shadows over his eyes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was crisp. Quiet. Precise. “You’re a fine one to ask such questions, Miss Tulloch, given you seek to marry a title.” His eyes shifted to her. They were colder than a Highland winter. “Any lord will do, hmm?”
“I notice ye didnae answer my question.”
“Why should I? You’ve avoided mine since our bargain was struck.”
She frowned. He had a point. “It’s not so much that I want to marry a lord. It’s that I must.”
“Why?” The word was low. Seething.
“To save a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Ye dinnae ken him.”
His jaw flickered.
“It’s complicated,” she insisted, fingering the edge of her blanket.
“Then explain.” He gestured to the empty, darkening road and the half-treed hills around them. “We have time.”
She sighed. “Ye willnae believe me. And ye’ll think me mad. Everyone else does.”
“Explain anyway.” He used his commanding tone—the one that both frustrated and weirdly excited her.
She examined his hands, the way he held the reins loosely, never letting his tension affect the horses. His posture was straight and yet comfortable, his movements controlled. Despite her provocations, he hadn’t bellowed threats or lobbed insults. He was a gentleman in the truest sense. More than that, he loved his family, eccentricities and all. Perhaps he would understand. Or, at least, listen.
“Very well, English,” she said softly. “His name is Finlay.”
As the last of the daylight weakened into gloam, she told John Huxley everything about her laddie. How he’d been with her since she was wee. How he’d comforted her when spiteful Grisel had convinced all the other girls to spit upon her as they passed, claiming it was the only way to protect themselves from her madness. How he’d blessed her plaid and promised it would keep her safe—which it had. How his wee little face had started turning gray, and his wee little voice had thinned, and how she’d panicked at the thought of losing him.
How she’d mourned him every day since he’d gone away.
Then, she explained about his visit. About his plea that she marry a lord so that, as her son, he could claim his rightful destiny.
And all the while, John Huxley listened. Silent. Calm. Unreadable.
“There ye have it, English,” she finished. Her hands strangled the edge of the blanket. “Now ye ken why they call me Mad Annie. And why I must marry a lord.”
A tiny frown formed between his brows. He nodded. But he didn’t speak.
She twisted the blanket harder.
Silence thickened as he guided the horses around a bend. “Wanting to marry a title is hardly unique,” he said finally. “There’s no need to invent outlandish stories to justify your aim.”
This time, she was the one who fell silent. Her stomach burned. Her jaw locked tight.
Of course the Englishman didn’t believe her. Why should she expect him to be different? Even the Scots she’d known since childhood—who had all grown up believing tales about ghostly glens and cursed castles—thought she was mad.
This wasn’t how ghosties behaved, they’d said. Mad Annie had simply invented a “friend” because she hadn’t any real ones. That was why she talked to herself and dressed in such a peculiar fashion.
Nobody considered that she might be telling the truth. They were too eager to toss her in the rubbish pile.
After a while, Huxley ventured, “Dougal mentioned the trouble with your brother.”
She watched the moon slip behind a cloud.
“Calton Hill Bridewell is an unpleasant place,” he continued. “Broderick has been imprisoned there for, what, two months? I understand his trial has been deliberately delayed in hopes of charging him with murder rather than assault.”
The wind picked up. She adjusted her blanket a bit higher and tucked her plaid a bit tighter around her neck.
“Someone powerful must be working against him,” he murmured. “Assault might earn him transportation. Murder will mean hanging.
”
One of the horses snuffled. She thought it might be Jacqueline. She wondered if the horse had been named for Huxley’s modest French mistress. The animal did have an unusually broad backside.
“If you are seeking a connection with sufficient influence to help your brother, marrying a lord is a rather permanent way to go about it.”
She snorted. Shook her head. The Englishman was desperate to fit her into a frame he understood. Well, she didn’t fit. And he could stow his suppositions up his—
“Miss Tulloch.”
She rubbed her arms and blew into her hands. Full dark brought on a deeper cold. They had at least another five miles before reaching Glenscannadoo. She busied herself lighting the lantern.
“Annie.”
Hearing her name on those perfect lips twisted her up tighter than rope. She steeled herself to remember who he was. Remember what he thought of her. “Aye, English?”
“Perhaps there’s another way. Perhaps I—”
“This isnae about Broderick.”
“It’s understandable you’d want to help him. If a member of my family were imprisoned for shooting—”
“Broderick didnae shoot anybody.” She secured the lantern and kept her gaze upon Jacqueline’s backside. Looking at Huxley’s perfect features only made her weak. “The craven bastards who conspired against him have no bluidy idea of the hell they’ve brought down upon themselves.” Absently, she rubbed her ribs, wishing Finlay were with her now. Every time she thought about Broderick, her chest ached. “The MacPhersons protect their own.”
“Does that include you?”
“Aye.”
“Have you told them your intentions?”
Annie could feel the Englishman’s eyes upon her. Studying her. Thinking he understood. He didn’t.
“Obviously not. Look, marrying a title is …” He sighed. “It’s an ambitious prospect for anyone, Annie. Even daughters from prominent families, those who prepare their entire lives for an advantageous marriage, have little certainty of landing a lord. Most fail. Or require multiple seasons. Or both.”
“Are ye backin’ out of our bargain?” she snapped.
A long pause. “No.”
“Then haud yer wheesht. Ye dinnae ken what ye’re talkin’ about.”
“The marriage mart?” His chuckle sounded cynical. “I know it all too well, I’m afraid.”
Wind surged again, this time gusting through the thickening trees. Jacqueline nickered and shook her head. The lantern glowed bronze amidst the vast blue dark, but it didn’t penetrate more than a few feet.
Annie checked on Mrs. MacBean, who appeared to be enjoying her snug bed. Then she glanced at the Englishman. Evidently, he was done smiling for the evening, his mouth now flat and his eyes weary.
An odd jangle sounded ahead of them. A series of clicks. The creaking whine of an old wheel. Annie straightened. Squinted. Blast. She couldn’t see a bloody thing with the steep hills and dense trees blocking the moonlight. “Did ye hear that, Engl—”
Three figures emerged from the thick underbrush to stand in front of their cart. Two had pistols.
One was David Skene.
Chapter Ten
TlU
“Tell me, English,” Annie said loudly as John drew the horses to a stop. “What are the chances of findin’ three men who could pass for rodents on the same stretch of road?”
John quickly sorted through all the ways he could shut her up. Her comment was reckless, though not far wrong. The three men were all wiry, filthy, and wearing hats that had seen better centuries. But each one shared verminous features. Perhaps it was the eyes. Beady as all hell.
“Mad Annie Tulloch,” said the one in the center—the rat, obviously, with his conical nose and long teeth. He was the only one without a pistol. John judged him the greatest threat. The other two—a mole and a vole, respectively—were holding their pistols all wrong. Were the weapons even loaded? It was too dark to be certain.
John elected to keep his posture relaxed. He pretended to shift positions while transferring the reins into his left hand. “Did you gentlemen lose your way in the dark?”
“Nah,” Annie replied before John could shush her. “They’re out here runnin’ their shite whisky where they shouldnae be.” That foolish, defiant chin thrust forward. “Isnae that so, Skene? Either that or ye’re lookin’ for a fist to flatten that unfortunate nose.”
“Ye offerin’, lassie?” The rat leered at her. “I fancy a scrapper.”
John’s blood heated until the urge to do far more than flatten the man’s nose beat a pounding rhythm in his ears. But he needed to stay calm. Reasonable. He needed to get them out of this with minimal bloodshed.
Annie saw no such necessity. “Only tuppin’ ye’re likely to experience is with the mud ye land in after the sheep rejects yer advances.”
The rodent on the right snorted. The rat swatted his fellow’s head, knocking his cap to the ground.
“Why did you stop us?” John kept his voice low and calm. If he’d been alone, these men would have already been dispatched. But Annie was with him.
For John, Annie changed every calculation.
The rat ambled closer and patted Jacqueline’s neck. The horse snorted. She’d always been a discerning sort.
“Thought to pass a message is all.” Those beady eyes focused on John. “Ye’re English.”
John didn’t bother to affirm the observation.
Annie, on the other hand, couldn’t resist. “Brilliant, as always.” She sat forward, drawing the blackguard’s eyes back to her. “Wee bit of advice, Skene. When ye’re operatin’ with half the wits of everybody else, best ye apply them to useful matters. Like pissin’ with yer back to the wind. Or keepin’ yer smugglin’ routes clear of MacPherson territory.”
Skene’s lips slid back to reveal his prominent front teeth. “Since we’re tradin’ advice, lass, here’s mine: Ye’ve naught but a fancy Englishman by yer side. I reckon he’d make ye a fine cup of tea, but he’s nae MacPherson.” His grin faded as he tilted his head toward the men with pistols. “Best ye mind yer shrewish tongue.”
Annie started to answer, but John had had enough. “What is your message?” he demanded.
Skene’s gaze slid to him then back to Annie. “My mates at the Bridewell tell me things are a wee bit rough for yer brother there.”
John felt Annie’s stillness.
“Bad as they are,” Skene continued, “they can always be worse.” The rat grinned. “I could ask my mates to look after him, provided the MacPhersons dinnae trouble me too much. Be a pity if somethin’ happened before his trial, eh?”
“Ye disgustin’ piece of—”
John grasped her arm, squeezing to shut her up and keep her in place. “We’ll convey the message,” he said. “Now, I fear we must be on our way.”
“Bluidy hell, English. Ye’re just going to let him—”
He gave her a small shake then tipped his hat. “Gentlemen.” The men didn’t move, but he did, snapping the reins. The horses started forward, but Skene grasped Jacqueline’s bridle and slunk near Annie. Then, the blackguard made his greatest mistake of the evening.
He put a hand on Annie’s knee and gripped.
In an instant, John withdrew his own pistol from inside his coat, leveled it upon Skene’s forehead, and cocked the weapon. “Remove your hand,” he ordered softly.
Shock froze the rat’s features. Round, beady eyes crossed as they took in the barrel. Skene swallowed. Lifted his hand. Backed away.
John held his aim. “Remote roads are dangerous at night, gentlemen. Years ago, I traveled a similar route in the mountains of Spain. The brigands who waylaid me then would likely warn you of the risks—were they breathing. Alas, they were buried right there by the roadside.” He smiled. “What remained of them, at any rate.” He handed Annie the reins and withdrew his second pistol, pointing it at Skene’s fellow rodents. “We’ll be on our way,
now. It’s been a pleasure.”
Annie took his hint and started the horses forward again. The men lowered their pistols and parted.
For the next quarter-hour, John let her drive while he kept watch. Finally, they rounded a bend and began the long descent into the glen. The loch glistened in the moonlight. Trees sighed in the softening wind. The faint glow of the village flickered in the distance.
Annie held her silence while he tucked his pistols back inside his coat. When he reached for the reins, however, she asked hoarsely, “Why didnae ye say ye carried weapons with ye?”
“On remote roads after dark, any fool would.” He frowned at her. “Why would you assume I’d do otherwise?”
Her long pause was unflattering.
“I’ve survived a lot of places more dangerous than ‘the arse crease of Scotland,’ you know.” He watched her expression, trying to discern whether she’d been rattled by the encounter with Skene. The stiff set of her shoulders indicated she had. Perhaps a distraction was in order. “In Africa, an unwary man makes a fine feast.”
“Feast? Ye mean … lions?” She stared at him, round-eyed, as though she’d never met him before.
“Mmm. Or leopards. Or rhinoceros.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “Bloody heavy when they sit on you.”
Her frown signaled the first hint of skepticism, though curiosity shone in those wide blue eyes.
“Oddly, predators weren’t the creatures I found most unsettling.”
“What, then?”
He leaned closer. “Giraffes.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Oh, no. Not unless you’re a treetop. Leaf-eaters, the lot of them.”
“Then, what’s unsettlin’?”
“Too gangly. Dreadfully long necks. It’s simply unnatural.”
She glanced around. Narrowed her gaze upon him. Then swatted his arm. “Cheeky Englishman. There’s no need to invent outlandish stories. I’m certain the giraffes trembled at the sight of yer wee pistols.”
He chuckled, glad to see his distraction had worked. Keeping his tone light, he remarked, “Skene seems a rather unpleasant fellow. I take it he and the MacPhersons share a mutual dislike.”