The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,10

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 cannot 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