The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,105
ill-suited she was for me.”
“A milk-skinned beauty, was she?”
“A beauty, yes. Lovely to look at. Her charm lay in coy flirtation. She pretended to be drawn to me against her will.”
“Ah, very seductive.” Annie reckoned setting the woman’s hair on fire would make coy flirtation a wee bit harder. Perhaps one day, she’d have the chance to test her theory.
“This was seven years ago.” He’d quirked a wry half-smile. “I was too eager to have what I’d seen in good marriages. It made me foolish. Blind.”
“Nah,” she’d murmured, tracing the muscular ridges of his belly with her thumb. “Just hopeful, English.”
“I pursued her long enough to begin planning our nursery and imagine spending our winters in Marseille.”
She’d frowned. “Marsae?”
“Marseille. In France. She was half-French.”
“Frenchwomen do seem to light yer wick. Her name didnae happen to be Jacqueline, did it?”
“Perhaps.”
He’d winced as her fingertips dug into his ribs. “Easy, love.”
“Modest French mistress. Half-French tart with badly singed hair. A pattern’s a pattern, John Huxley.”
“For God’s sake, Annie. I found her romping in her uncle’s stable with another man. A Frenchman, by the by. She’d already been impregnated. She planned to wed me for my title, pass the child off as mine, and keep her lover for sport.” Frowning, he’d trapped her hand in his. “Why do you think I named a horse after her?”
Probably an insulting reminder to himself. Still, she didn’t like it. They’d have to change the horse’s name. “So, she cuckolded ye before ye’d married her?”
“Yes.”
“Was her vision very poor, then? Too vain for spectacles, perhaps?”
A frown tugged. “No.”
“Are ye certain? Because the only other explanation is her sufferin’ a head wound as a wee lass. Happens from time to time. Poor weans grow up simple. Cannae make proper judgments. Like when it’s appropriate to chew a bit of rope. Or keepin’ yer legs shut when ye have the bonniest man ever to draw breath offerin’ to make ye the luckiest lass ever to set eyes upon him.”
His eyes had glowed bright as sun-struck amber. “I’m the lucky one, love.”
His recollection had helped her make sense of why he’d lied, why he’d needed Annie to choose him without the title.
But some of the wounds he’d dealt her remained raw. This morning, when he’d reluctantly shared the letter from his brother-in-law, those wounds had opened again.
Now, Annie tossed aside her attempt at embroidery and shoved to her feet, coming to stand beside his chair. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the desk. “Ye told me Jane fancies readin’. Ye didnae tell me she was the Duchess of Blackmore.”
“When you meet her, you’ll understand why it doesn’t matter.”
“Neither did ye say Maureen is wed to the Earl of Dunston.”
He sighed.
She tapped the letter near her hip. “Who happens to work for the bluidy Home Office.”
John’s right leg began twitching, a sure sign of restlessness. “That’s not precisely—”
“Or that Eugenia—the milliner, mind—is actually wife to one of the richest men in England. Another earl, no less.”
“Her marriage was a recent—”
“Or that Robert will soon be a marquis, givin’ ye a matched set. The full assortment of titles perched in yer family tree.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I have already apologized in every way imaginable. I’ve begged your forgiveness, promised to restore the churchyard, bought you a coach”—he gestured to the carriage parked in the drive below—“specifically so you could visit MacPherson House in a godforsaken Scottish deluge.”
She glanced out at the absolute downpour. “’Tis a wee bit damp.”
“Would you have me on my knees, woman?” He sounded positively crabbit.
“Och, I would enjoy that, I must tell ye, English. Seems that’s where ye do yer best work.”
“God, Annie.” He gave an exasperated chuckle, bracketed her hips and drew her to stand between his knees. The emotions in those enchanting hazel eyes were as complex as the colors—adoration, frustration, regret, lust. “You’re vexed that I failed to inform you about my family, yet you’ve barred me from telling them about our marriage.”
“For now.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. “They’ll expect ye’ve married a lady.”
“You are a lady.”
“Nah. I’m a hoyden, English.” She brushed at her skirt. The light brown wool was very fine. But the woman wearing it? An imposter. “I’ll need many more Lady Lessons before I’m fit to be kin to