The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,109

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 lord,” 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,