The Making of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  His wife was working hard, he knew. She’d begun by purchasing a dizzying quantity of household goods in Inverness. She’d filled their larder past its capacity. She’d hired additional maids and three more of Dougal’s cousins. Then, every Sunday, she’d gone early to her father’s house for Lady Lessons. He’d told her a thousand times they weren’t necessary, but she was adamant. And proud. And determined “nae to disgrace ye in front of yer mother, John Huxley.”

  He’d also taught her a few new dances for the upcoming ball. She’d been nervous about that, too.

  Her letters to Sabella Lockhart and his visits with Gilbert MacDonnell appeared to have borne fruit. Lockhart and his sister planned to attend the Glenscannadoo Gathering. Broderick was recovered enough to have moved back into his own house. The MacPhersons were increasing production at the distillery. Soon, they’d be hiring more men. John’s training for the Games was progressing steadily. And, apart from the cracked tower window and a persistent rat problem in the cellar, the castle’s repairs were all but complete. Most everything was falling into place.

  He ran a hand over his face. God, he was bloody tired. It was the dreams, he thought. They’d disturbed his sleep for several nights in a row, always the same: He awakened in the dark with an overwhelming sense of doom. He searched the bed for Annie, but she was gone. Frantic, he rose from the bed and nearly fell sideways as the room wavered. Then, he saw the bird, a white raven perched on the foot of the bedframe. It stared at him until he walked toward it. Then it plucked up Annie’s plaid from the bed and dropped the thing at John’s feet. John wrapped himself in it. Watched the bird fly to the chest of drawers where his dirk lay. Picked up the dirk. The bird flew out of the room, and John followed. All the while, words chanted in his ears: Dark is here. Dark is here. Dark is here.

  The dream was pure, heart-pounding panic. Confusion. His sense of loss and urgency coiled up into a knot, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Often, the bird led him to the tower then showed him the window he’d been unable to repair. It was always shattered. Blood always dripped from the jagged glass. And he always turned around to find Annie lying behind him, chest still, eyes blank, blood pooling on the floor from wounds in her belly. The seeping pool would reach his bare toes, and he would collapse to his knees with a roar of anguish.

  That was where the dream always ended. For the last five mornings, he’d awakened in a sweat to find her lying beside him. He’d wrap her in his arms until she protested sleepily that she needed to breathe. Then, he’d love her until his heart felt capable of letting her leave his sight.

  His training with the caber and hammer and stones helped release some of the tension, but he hadn’t slept well in days. Now, he felt worn, his muscles sore. He cast off his kilt—a second, lighter one Annie had made for his training sessions—and waded into the pool beneath the fall. The water was a glorious chill on his skin, the cascade a brisk, much-needed pounding on his weary shoulders.

  Through the curtain of falling water, he glimpsed a figure in shades of scarlet, cream, and lilac. She came toward him across grass and wildflowers, at first ambling. Then striding. Then running.

  He waded toward her, his body going predictably hard. By the time the water was waist-deep, she’d reached the pool’s edge and begun splashing toward him. He halted. “Love, wait. Your gown …”

  She didn’t seem to care. Lilac muslin ballooned around her as she strained to descend deeper and deeper. “I need ye, English.”

  He could see that she did. Cornflower eyes were fixed upon him, hungry and near-desperate. His wife usually fretted if a drop of rain landed on her skirts. He moved swiftly before she waded any deeper than her knees, taking her in his arms and cupping her nape as she clutched him around his ribs, her fingers digging into his back and her cheek settling over his heart. She was trembling, her skin hot and her breaths uneven.

  Stroking her back, he rested his cheek upon her hair. “What’s wrong, Annie?”

  “I need ye,” she repeated.

  “You have me.”

  Her entire body began shaking.

  He scooped her into his arms and climbed out of the water, going to where his kilt was laid out on a flat rock and settling down with her in his lap. Methodically, he ran his hands over her soft curves, reassuring himself she hadn’t been injured. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  For a long while, she said nothing. Then, she explained what had upset her—Mrs. MacBean’s revelations about Finlay, how he’d misled Annie into believing he was a ghost. How she’d misled herself into believing they could be together again if she only married a lord. “I dinnae ken what’s real anymore, English.”

  “We’re real, love. You and I.”

  “I’ve lost him. And I miss him. And I have no way of bringin’ him back to me.”

  “I know.” He kissed her. Caressed her cheek. Stroked her hair.

  “This doesnae mean ye’re absolved of yer duty.” She slid her hand to the center of his chest. “I mean to have yer bairns, English. Ye must still apply yerself.”

  He smiled. “Of course, love.”

  A sniff. “Ye’re naked now.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I ruined my dress.”

  “It’s only a bit damp.”

  She played with the hair on his chest. Nibbled at the skin of his throat. “Nah. I’ll have to remove it.”

  He tugged at her skirt and slid his hand up her leg to her thigh. Then between her thighs. Then higher. “What if I did this, instead?”

  She sighed and drew his mouth down to hers for a long, sweet kiss. “Clever Englishman,” she whispered. “I kenned there was a reason I married ye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  TlU

  The dream came again, as it had before. The white raven appeared to lead him to the tower. But the end was different this time.

  This time, when John climbed the stairs to the uppermost story, a boy of perhaps six years stood in a shaft of moonlight. He had dark hair and blue eyes. His face was sweet and soft. He wore simple clothing—a white shirt and black breeches. No shoes. The boy stretched out a hand as John took the final stair and halted.

  “Dark has come,” the boy said. He turned and pointed toward the window, which had the web of cracks but no blood, no jagged glass. “She needs ye.”

  Frowning, John drifted forward, drawn by the boy’s familiar face. His features were small yet hinted at strength. But he couldn’t place them. Why did the boy look so familiar?

  John moved toward him, reaching out for the small hand. When he touched the tiny fingers, he knew. A shockwave rippled through his body. “I saw you.” He swallowed, his breathing short and tight. “That day in the haberdashery. You were playing with the Cleghorn boy. I saw you.”

  Blue eyes came back to him. For an instant, they flashed with the same warm, playful gleam he’d seen then. A crooked smile appeared.

  John’s heart turned inside out. He crouched down to the boy’s level, gazing in wonderment. “Finlay.”

  The boy inclined his head.

  John stroked his soft cheek with his fingertip. “I can scarcely believe it.”

  Finlay’s grin gentled into understanding. Then, those sweet eyes turned solemn. “Ye must awaken, John. Ye must save her.”

  “Annie?”

  Finlay clasped John’s fingers and squeezed. He then turned his hand over, lifting it so John’s palm lay open. A thistle appeared there. Wooden but recognizable. John had seen Annie worry at it with her fingers when she was missing her laddie. Finlay knelt and retrieved something from the shadows. It was John’s dirk, the one with the stag blade. The boy held it out, handle first.

  Reluctantly, John took it. “What am I to do with this?”

  “Protect.”

  “From what?”

  Before his eyes, the boy became a bird. The white raven flapped its wings and landed upon the windowsill.

  “Finlay. What does this m
ean? What must I do?”

  Blue eyes flashed again, this time turning white as the moon. And in his mind, he heard a single word in a thousand voices. “Awaken.”

  TlU

  Annie’s head hadn’t ached this badly since she’d let Rannock fill her whisky glass one too many times, tripped on a crate of turnips, and slammed her nose into the sideboard. Presently, sound rushed in and out in loud whooshes while pain threatened to split her skull. Something was digging into her stomach. Something stank like sour sweat. Something was grunting and not letting her breathe.

  Or, more rightly, someone.

  She was being carried over a man’s shoulder, she thought. Every step jostled her aching head and deflated her lungs. With an effort, she forced her eyes open. Darkness. Rough wool. Stink. Faint echoes of footsteps on wood. She blinked. After another jarring jostle, she sensed turning. But her hair was loose, so the slight light from passing windows shone through a curtain of red.

  More grunting. Harsh panting. Her hands were numb, and now that she looked, she saw they’d been bound with twine similar to what she used in the kitchen.

  Gray spots floated before her eyes. Sound disappeared.

  They were moving toward a set of stairs now, she thought. The tower stairs.

  Why the tower stairs? They only led down to the kitchen and the cellar. She swallowed, wondering if she’d be sick. Another turn. Starting down steps.

  The cellar had a door to the garden, she recalled.

  Someone was taking her to the cellar. Her head was thick, the light thin, and her mouth dry.

  Someone was trying to take her from her husband. Her home.

  He staggered and braced himself against the wall. Cursed in Gaelic. She recognized the voice. Skene. Though the pounding in her head made thinking near impossible, she tried to make sense of it.

  Skene was in her house. Carrying her down the tower stairs. Had he been nearby all along? What did he want? She recalled the MacPhersons had laid a trap for him. Was he taking her to use against her brothers?

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that she must free herself.

  Another jostling step sent pain stabbing behind her eyes.

  Quickly, she took stock. Hands tied. Legs dangling. Skene gripped them around her knees, but he seemed distracted and off-balance, so his grip was loose.

  No time. She had to get free now. Had to find John. Had to run.

  At the final turn, just as she felt him start down a new flight, she reared up and slammed her bound fists into his ear. He howled and staggered. Fingers clawed painfully at her thigh, but she worked her body like a fish’s, forcing their combined weight into a wide teeter.

  The wood landing rushed toward her, slamming into her upper body. Her vision went black. Sound went muffled. Breathing came hard. Everything bloody hurt, especially her head. But she had to run.

  No time, no time, no time.

  Frantically, she rolled away from Skene’s bruising grip, kicking blindly and striking flesh. She used the wall to brace her shoulder. Used her fear to drive her to her feet.

  No time. She had to run.

  She ran. Used her bound, numb hands to claw her way up the stairs. Screamed for her husband. “English!” Over and over, she screamed, though something told her she wasn’t loud enough. Her lungs were flat and useless. And he was a hard sleeper. But, God, she needed him. Now. Bloody now.

  If she could just make it back to the first floor, she’d sprint for the master bedchamber.

  Skene wheezed behind her. She chanced a glimpse over her shoulder. Beady, malevolent rat eyes roiled with mad rage. Blood trickled from a rat nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve. He was right behind her.

  She scrambled higher, kicking backward. He grasped her ankle, pulling her toward him. But she swung her hands into his damaged nose and broke free. Then scrambled away. Higher and higher. Toes slipping. Fabric tripping. Up and up.

  Glancing back, she saw him close.

  And in his hand was a blade, gleaming in the faint moonlight.

  Only then did she realize, in her panic, she’d passed the doorway to the first floor.

  A wave of sickening terror gripped her hard. There was no way past him. She could only go up. The tower was nothing but winding stairs and a series of empty bedchambers. The stairs led nowhere, but she hadn’t any choice.

  Up she went. Each step was too slow, almost dreamlike. Her shift tangled around her legs, her toes digging into stone. In her ears, blood and breath pounded.

  “English!” she screamed again, hearing the echo spiral. Her voice was thin. Too thin. He’d never hear her from the other end of the house in the middle of the night.

  Up and up. She took the steps at a frantic pace that still felt slow and clumsy, rounding each landing with a desperate glance behind her. Skene was there, following with the slow prowl of a predator that knew its prey was cornered.

  His smile relished the chase.

  Sweet Christ. He had her trapped. And he knew it.

  Even if she reached the top of the stairs, there was nowhere to go. A window and an empty bedchamber. No weapons. No passage to another part of the house.

  No way out.

  “English!” she screamed again, hoping someone might hear her. If not John, then one of the MacDonnells. But they, too, slept in a different part of the castle. They, too, were unlikely to hear her.

  Her feet slipped, and her shoulder slammed into the wall. She shoved with all her might and forced herself up onto the landing. More stairs. The last of them.

  She reached the third story and searched for something—anything—she might use as a weapon. But there was only a long, low window, and a cracked one, at that.

  Moonlight poured through the glass, making a prism of the webbed pattern. She gasped for more air—enough to scream louder and summon help. “English!”

  The rat’s head appeared on the landing below. He still wore his smile. “Ye’re wastin’ yer breath,” he sneered. “They’re all sleepin’ sound. Wee bit of encouragement added to the cider casks took care of that.”

  He’d drugged them. That must be why she hadn’t awakened when he’d taken her from her bed. Why she felt weak and dizzy and sick and like her head was splitting open.

  Terror coiled like a serpent, squeezing until she wanted to whimper. But she refused to show this vile pestilence her fear. “They’ll kill ye, Skene,” she spat, her voice slurring and shakier than she’d like. “They’ll tear yer ugly head from yer shoulders and drop it next to yer puny ballocks.”

  His gaze flattened into meanness. “No, lass. They’ll return what belongs to me. And, if I’m feelin’ generous, I’ll return their sister to ‘em.” His smile stretched wide. He wiped his nose with his wrist. “A wee bit worse for wear, I grant ye. Recompense for my trouble, eh?” He climbed two more steps, taking them slowly. “The MacPhersons have caused me a great deal of trouble. Price for that will be steep.”

  She backed away, her elbow catching on stone.

  Oh, God. She needed a weapon. Anything.

  Light glittered in the corner of her eye. The window. Cracks. Ordinarily, she’d need a rock or a hammer to break glass this thick. But not now.

  Now, she could use her kitchen-strong arms and numb, useless hands.

  No sooner did she have the thought than she reeled back to take a wide, two-handed swing. The first one thudded hard and expanded the web.

  Not enough.

  The second swing shattered the glass into shards. One of them lay on the low sill, dotted with her blood. She forced her fingers to work. To pick it up.

  With a nasty growl, the rat charged her, knocking her back into the wall. They struggled for control of the shard. Skene was stronger, but Annie was more determined.

  “I will kill ye!” she screamed, aiming kicks at his ballocks and biting the hand that tried to grip her jaw. His knife flew, skidding across the floor to the chamber door. She sliced and jabbed at him wit
h the glass, pleased with his grunts of pain. But she couldn’t hold onto it. He managed to grasp her wrists and twist. Torturous agony weakened her grip and forced the shard from her fingers. He pushed her harder against the wall, flattening his body against her until she felt crushed.

  Then the strangest thing happened. He reeled backward, screeching. Freeing her. White wings flapped on either side of his neck.

  Annie blinked and tried to make sense of it. A bird had flown in through the shattered window. It had sunk its claws into Skene’s nape and was presently using its beak to sever the top of his ear. He clawed and howled and tore at the bird.

  A white raven.

  She mustn’t let Skene hurt the raven. She lunged to retrieve the knife, but her hands were slick and numb, and she couldn’t grasp it properly. By the time she turned around, Skene had knocked the bird away. The bonnie white creature lay still near the stairs with one wing outstretched.

  “No,” she wailed. “Ye killed it!”

  “I’ll do the same to ye,” he snarled. “MacPherson bitch!”

  She gripped the knife harder, recalling what he’d done to Broderick. Pain disappeared. Light sharpened. Blood pounded and pounded. “My name is Huxley, ye putrid pile of shite! And if ye think the MacPhersons have done ye damage, wait ‘til my Englishman gets hold of ye!”

  She knew she was screaming nonsense, but she had nothing left. The knife was slipping. Her hands were weak. Cuts on her arms and wrists dripped blood in a steady stream. He had her cornered, and they both knew it.

  Cold air gusted through the shattered window. A wave of dizziness assailed her. She slumped against the wall, her arms shaking.

  Skene started toward her.

  And that’s when she heard the primal roar. “Annie!”

  Like a Highland barbarian, her beloved Englishman topped the last stair wearing nothing but her plaid around his waist. He looked crazed. Ferocious.

  Heavenly.

  He charged Skene, who had spun to face him. The two men grappled for a moment before Skene leapt back and retrieved another knife from his boot.