The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “She was ugly, then.”

  “No, she was pretty enough. Merely less fetching than the village barmaid who’d captured my fancy.”

  “Did the barmaid have large bosoms?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  “Aye, she did. This explains a great deal, English. Mayhap ye’d like me to wear a barmaid’s dress, hmm?” She waggled her brows. “I could serve ye whisky, and ye could act very lordly.”

  He didn’t laugh, but the tension around his mouth and eyes eased, which had been her aim. “The governess sought me out numerous times, approaching me in empty corridors and pretending to accidentally find me alone in the library. She hinted that she’d been meant for a higher station in life, that she’d let me do as I liked to her if she knew we would be wed. That sort of thing.”

  Annie sensed where this was going and had to picture serene waterfalls to keep her temper. “Bold of her. But ye werenae interested.”

  “No.”

  “And she wasnae pleased with that answer.”

  Several heartbeats passed while he stared down at her with a bleak expression. “No.”

  Annie didn’t want to ask. “What did she do?”

  “I was asleep. When I awakened, she was … astride me. Attempting to impregnate herself.”

  She swallowed hard, nausea and fury building. “Without yer bein’ conscious.”

  He nodded. “At a minimum, she hoped I would feel obligated to support her and her child for the rest of her life. But she knew my family. Knew there was a good chance I would be forced to marry her for honor’s sake. Fortunately, one of our loyal maids had learned of the governess’s scheme and alerted my father. Papa and the maid entered my bedchamber before the deed was … finalized. I woke to find the governess atop me and my father shouting.”

  Annie told herself to breathe, though it was difficult when her chest felt so painfully tight. “She tried to take what ye wouldnae give her willingly. So that she might be elevated. By a title.”

  His mouth twisted. “Some would suggest a young man should find pleasure in such a scenario.”

  Her temper, already at the edge of combustion, went dark. “And I’d suggest those daft bastards should shut their ignorant bluidy mouths.”

  His brows arched in surprise.

  She couldn’t bear it any longer. Bracing her hand on his shoulder, she rose and pivoted then knelt beside him on the seat, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him as tightly as she could. “She tried to trap ye while ye slept. For God’s sake, ye were sixteen. Naught more than a lad.” Her eyes began to fill, and she blinked faster to stop them from leaking. “How old was she?”

  He stroked her back. “Six-and-twenty.”

  “I want to kill her. Tell me her name.”

  “It’s not important.”

  She gripped his shoulders then drew back to hold his gaze and whisper fiercely, “It’s damned important to me, English.”

  Multi-hued eyes that had been stark while telling his story slowly warmed and softened. “I’ve only ever spoken of this with two other people, you know. My father, who dismissed the governess that very night. And Robert.” His hands roamed her waist and hips before one came up to brush her cheek, as though he needed the contact for comfort. “I always assumed my reaction was … strange. A man’s body at that age is a bit ungovernable, his desires far from discriminating. But when I awakened and saw her …” He sighed and drew her closer. “I cannot explain it. My skin began crawling. I felt smothered and sick.” His gaze dropped briefly while she stroked his jaw with her knuckles. “After my father tossed her out, when I realized what she’d intended, I … I vomited.” He looked at her, and for a moment, she could see a boy’s pain. “I didn’t want her to do what she did, Annie.”

  “I ken,” she answered, holding his face between her hands. “I ken it well.”

  A breath shuddered in his chest then whooshed out in a sigh. “At any rate, a number of years later, I happened upon a cousin of hers. He told me she’d died. Apparently, after being dismissed, she returned to London, where she made similar attempts to entrap an heir to a coal fortune. The heir was fifteen at the time. His father thrashed her and threw her out into the street. She became a baronet’s mistress for a short time. Then she fell into prostitution and eventually perished whilst trying to rid herself of the pox by drinking arsenic.”

  “I hate her,” Annie gritted. “I’m glad she’s dead. She deserved worse.”

  A smile touched his lips. “Worse than pox and arsenic?”

  “She killed somethin’ innocent in ye. Somethin’ she hadnae any right to touch. So, aye. Worse.”

  His smile grew. “My fierce Highland lass.”

  She kissed him tenderly. “If we werenae almost at Mrs. Baird’s shop, I’d show ye how fierce I can be.” Another kiss. “Alas, we’ll have to play lord and barmaid a wee bit later.”

  Several hours and a great deal of shopping later, the coach pulled up to the constable’s office. Her husband eyed the downpour before opening the carriage door. He advised her to wait in the coach.

  “I may be a lass, John Huxley, but I’ll nae be left behind whilst ye go about havin’ yer manly conversations,” she said sharply. “Broderick is my brother, and I ken the smugglin’ routes better than most.”

  His smile turned wry as he retrieved an umbrella from the coach floor and opened it. “Indeed. But I thought you might like to wait until I have this open.” He tapped the handle of the umbrella he held above the door. “Or perhaps you enjoy being drenched.”

  She paused. Gazed at her husband. He’d always treated her like a lady, she realized. Even when she’d been a perfect hoyden wearing trews and hurling insults, he’d insisted on a chaperone and resisted improprieties that might compromise her. John Huxley treated her as though she were delicate. Precious.

  But he also afforded her the respect of making her own decisions. When she’d exhausted herself caring for Broderick, he’d understood it was what she had to do. So, rather than forbidding or taking charge, he’d given her his arms as a shelter. Without her needing to ask, he’d used every connection at his disposal to help her brother, not to gain her favor but because he knew how Broderick’s suffering broke her heart.

  True, he hadn’t believed her about Finlay. That still stung. He’d failed to listen when he should have. And he hadn’t trusted her to love him for more than his title. But she understood his reasons better than before. He wasn’t perfect, her Englishman, but the way he loved her was.

  Even now, he offered his hand with a look of amused expectation. She took it and stepped down into the shelter he offered. Rain pattered and splashed. His shoulder was getting wet.

  “I love ye, English,” she said softly.

  Warm, golden hazel sparked. A slow, devastatingly handsome grin appeared. “And I you.” For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but he offered his arm and gestured toward the door of the two-story stone building in front of them. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, overwhelmed by the glow inside her. “When we’re done here, ye’re goin’ to have a good night,” she said casually, looping her arm through his. “Very good.”

  He chuckled, low and sensual. “Mmm. That sounds splendid, Lady Huxley. Does this mean I am forgiven?”

  Arching a brow as he opened the door, she replied, “It means ye’ll be glad ye married a wee Scottish hoyden.”

  He closed the umbrella and lightly cupped her waist before murmuring in her ear, “Too late, love. If I were any gladder, you’d never stop blushing.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TlU

  Constable Neil Munro was a barrel-chested man of middling height with long, gray side whiskers and a steely demeanor. His office was spartan, small, and orderly. A framed letter of commendation hung on the wall. A plain but clean hat hung on a rack in the corner. And a sketch of David Skene lay on the desk.

  “I do wish I could be of help to ye, my l
ord,” Munro said. He stood erect, his hands clasped behind his back in a military pose. “’Tis my earnest desire to dismantle Skene’s operation and put the blackguard where he belongs. If only I’d the resources available to do so.”

  Given the zealous light in Munro’s eyes, John believed him. “We have reason to think Skene remained in Scotland. You’ve pursued him in the past. Is there anywhere he might consider sanctuary? His kin, perhaps?”

  “He has none apart from a brother who hates him. The brother helped us shut down his distilleries last summer.”

  John frowned and glanced at Annie. She shook her head as though this were the first she’d heard of it.

  “Skene’s gang doesnae depend upon his own distilleries, so it was a temporary victory,” Munro explained. “Transport is his game. He has whole villages beholden to him. Allies that protect him. Makes catchin’ the rat nigh impossible.”

  Nodding, John asked, “Do you know who his backers are?”

  Again, the feverish light of a zealot entered the constable’s eyes. “I’ve a notion.”

  Annie clutched John’s arm harder. “Who?” she asked.

  Munro’s gaze slid over her dismissively before returning to address John. “Angus MacPherson.”

  Annie’s head snapped back. “Are ye mad?”

  John comforted her with a stroke of her waist. “Mr. Munro.”

  “Sergeant Munro, m’lord.”

  “Of course. Sergeant. I am … acquainted with Angus MacPherson, and I can assure you, he despises David Skene.”

  The man bristled. “The MacPhersons skirted the law with their distillery for many, many years. Over my strenuous objections, they were granted a license last month.”

  Indeed, John had helped facilitate it. He couldn’t have Annie’s family—his own family, now—at risk of being jailed for running an illegal distillery. But the MacPhersons had operated outside the excise laws for a long time, well earning the dislike of Sergeant Munro, which was why John and Annie were the ones paying him a visit. If Annie could refrain from revealing they were her family, John was likelier to get helpful answers than her father or brothers.

  The officer continued, “I’ve no proof of their partnership, only a suspicion. But MacPherson control of Glenscannadoo is absolute. And I ken Skene’s support is centered there.”

  “In Glenscannadoo? How do you know?”

  “Last year, we intercepted his men transporting a load of French brandy between Inverness and Glasgow. One of the men carried a note from Skene to somebody in Glenscannadoo. Didnae say who. But every man, woman, and child in that village protects the MacPhersons no matter what. Excisemen come, their distillery is empty. My men and I go about askin’ questions, nobody kens anythin’. The MacPhersons are the only power in the glen.”

  “What did the note say?”

  Munro gave John a hard stare before rounding his desk and plucking a square of paper from beneath the sketch of Skene. He offered it to John.

  The note contained a few sentences—no greeting and signed only with an S. As John read it, his blood went cold. “When did you obtain this?”

  “September.”

  Annie plucked it from his fingers. Her eyes widened with horror. “Good God, English. This is—”

  He clasped her wrist gently and handed the note back to Munro. “You’re certain this was to be delivered in Glenscannadoo.”

  Munro frowned. “Aye. Their route forked west when it should have continued south. One of Skene’s newer lads said they were meant to stop in the glen. He didnae ken where.”

  Annie looked pale, so John thanked Munro and guided her back to the coach. As he gave instructions to the driver and climbed in behind her, she rasped, “Somebody we ken did that to Broderick, English. Somebody I ken.”

  “We’ll discover who it was, love.” He offered his hand and instantly, she laced their fingers together.

  “I must speak with Da.”

  “Of course. We’ll speak with all the family.”

  “That rat-faced piece of shite put his men in the Bridewell to kill my brother.” A tear fell down her cheek before she swiped it away angrily. “And somebody I’ve spoken to, perhaps somebody I fed at my table, paid for it to be done.”

  The note had been chilling.

  Twenty more in place at Calton Hill. Payment received. Delivery imminent. Best avoid Glenscannadoo ‘til all roads clear.

  The MacPhersons had long suspected Skene, of course. They’d spent the past several months tracking down every man who had taken part in the beatings Broderick had suffered. They’d made those men pay dearly. Then, they’d systematically destroyed Skene’s smuggling operation. Piece by piece, route by route, town by town, they’d taken every resource he had and ground it to dust. They’d even discovered a rich cache of cognac Skene had planned to sell in Edinburgh—obviously intended to fund the rat’s escape.

  That was how John and the MacPhersons knew Skene was still in Scotland. He hadn’t the funds to go anywhere else.

  John gathered his wife gently into his arms. Immediately, she turned her face into his neck, wrapped her arms around him, and heaved a great sigh.

  “We’ll find out who did this,” he assured her.

  “Aye. Then I’ll kill him.”

  He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Fierce Highland lass.”

  She snuggled closer. “I dinnae understand. Dunston’s letter said the backer had to have been in Edinburgh round the time Broderick’s charges were dismissed.”

  “True. The resistance came too swiftly for it to be otherwise.”

  “And to have the necessary influence with the High Court, he’d have to be highly placed.”

  “A peer, yes.”

  “There arenae any peers in Glenscannadoo.”

  John frowned, staring out the window as the wet streets of Inverness rolled past. “What of the laird? Not a peer, but titled. Perhaps he’s grown jealous of the MacPhersons having more land and vastly more respect in the glen.”

  She snorted. “The laird is naught but a joke. Best thing he offers his people is the Gatherin’, and that’s only so he can invite all his Lowland friends to admire …” She trailed off then sat up straight. “English.”

  “What is it?”

  “The wee tartan peacock was in Edinburgh.”

  A chill scurried down his spine. “When?”

  “I saw him at the inn. The same day ye kissed me near the rubbish pile.” She slid her hand inside his coat and withdrew Dunston’s letter. Quickly, she scanned the first page. “Aye, here. ‘Per my contact in Edinburgh, three men at varying times have argued for more severe charges and swifter prosecution. None are acquainted with MacPherson, nor have they advocated such harsh measures in past cases.’” She paused, her lips moving while her finger traced down the page. “This. This is it. ‘The sole commonality I’ve observed between the abovementioned men—apart from their association with the High Court—is that each is rumored to have been a member of a certain clandestine club wherein acts of a scandalous nature are performed.’” Annie frowned. “Does he mean tuppin’?”

  John cleared his throat. “I suspect it’s a bit more than that. Dunston is far from prudish.”

  “What if Glenscannadoo is a member of this club? What if he’s blackmailin’ them?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Recalling his impressions of Gilbert MacDonnell, he struggled to make the possibility fit. “He did serve me brandy when I visited. I would have expected whisky.”

  She nibbled her lower lip. “And brandy was in the load that Munro intercepted.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence settled between them as they both worked at the puzzle. Finally, Annie shook her head. “Nah. Cannae be the wee tartan peacock.”

  His mouth quirked. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s a pure dafty. Comes from dafty stock.” She hissed out a scornful sigh. “The man spent a bluidy fortune to put that ridiculous statu
e in the middle of the village. He sold ten prime acres to Angus to fund it.”

  “He does seem proud of his heritage.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Only the look of it.”

  “Hmm. Brandy over whisky.”

  “Sheep over cattle. Aye. He hasnae forced his crofters from their farms like some. But I suspect that’s because he hasnae many left. Even the cottage he offered to Mrs. MacBean sits on MacPherson land.” She shook her head. “Nah, he’s a dafty. But he’s nae vicious, ye ken? To do what was done to Broderick, a man would need to find satisfaction in cruelty. I cannae see it.”

  John nodded. “I agree. But that still leaves us with the question of who does possess such viciousness.”

  Her gaze slanted to the window then came back to him. “I have a suspicion. No proof, mind. Only a feelin’.”

  “Very well. Whom do you suspect?”

  She nibbled her lip. “It mightn’t make sense to ye. He doesnae have any tie to the glen or Skene or the MacPhersons. And Broderick has never met him, so far as I ken.”

  “Annie.”

  “I dinnae expect ye believe me. ’Tis just a—”

  “Love. Tell me.”

  Her lips firmed and her chin tilted. “Lockhart.” Eyes sliding away from his, she tucked Dunston’s letter back inside his pocket then brushed at his lapel. Finally, she fussed with her skirt. “I think it’s Lord Lockhart.”

  John sat back. Had she expected him to balk? Watching her nervously fidget, he could see she did. Because he hadn’t believed her about Finlay, which, he now understood, had been his most critical error. That, along with his desire for proof rather than fanciful stories, made her doubt him.

  He covered her hand as she began sorting her embroidery supplies. “I believe you.”

  She stilled. “Ye—ye do?”