The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,11
finished. “I thought it best to see her home safely.”
Angus’s fist tightened on his glass. “I kenned somethin’ was wrong. Lass could scald the devil with her tongue. Isnae like her to go gentle on me.”
“Gentle?” The woman had bellowed like a fishwife.
“Aye. Now, with ye, she’s polite.”
John barely managed not to choke on his whisky.
“Ye’re English. She doesnae wish to offend.”
He didn’t want to laugh. For years, the urge had been absent. Now, it plagued him like an itch every time Anne Tulloch tossed an insult his way. Sighing away the absurdity, he glared at Angus and turned the conversation in a more productive direction. “The rights to the loch must be settled. The original terms of sale state—”
“The original sale was concocted by an eejit.”
John swiped a hand over his beard. “We agree on that much.”
Gilbert MacDonnell’s father, the one whose statue towered over Cross Street, had been breathtakingly daft. But, like his son, he’d also been infatuated with his Highland heritage. So, when the MacDonnells’ debts had demanded the chieftain sell off his ancestral lands, he’d rejected the path most other Highland lairds had taken. Rather than selling the whole lot to a wealthy Englishman or titled Lowlander, he’d broken MacDonnell lands into smaller parcels and sold them to Highland Scots—and not the lofty sorts, but men like Ewan Wylie, who’d earned his money on the decks of ships. Men like Angus MacPherson, who’d carved a backwater empire from sweat, dirt, cattle, and malted barley.
MacDonnell had included preposterous terms in the deeds: Each man must live upon the land for two full years; if he left for longer than a week, he forfeited his claim and his funds. For parcels with contested offers, ownership was decided at the Glenscannadoo Highland Games, a summer clan gathering in which men performed feats of strength, speed, stamina, and musicianship.
Nearly three decades past, Angus MacPherson had won his first parcel of MacDonnell land by flinging a hammer farther than any other competitor. He’d won his second by tossing a tree with astonishing precision, and his third by swimming the width of Loch Carrich in record time.
Ewan Wylie had won the land around Glendasheen Castle by being a proficient bagpiper.
With their past rivalry over Angus’s first wife, relations between the two neighbors had been rife with bitterness and mutual theft. Unfortunately for John, their long feud meant he was trapped here in Scotland, unable to leave for longer than a few days, lest his claim be challenged by MacPherson’s rapacious solicitors. The legal battles were ongoing. His negotiations with the surly old Scot were pure frustration. And his castle was a cold, damp shambles only slightly more welcoming than the Highlanders themselves.
He should be sailing to Antigua. He should be haggling over the price of carpets in a Constantinople market. He should be finding sweet release inside a Spanish courtesan or a French mistress—even a London mistress would do.
For John Huxley, this sort of deprivation was unnatural. And he couldn’t even blame Scotland. In truth, his drive to seek out new horizons had begun withering years before he’d arrived in the glen. Ewan’s death had worsened the strange void inside him, and a year of bad weather and isolation hadn’t improved matters. But the place wasn’t the problem. He was.
“Annie’s cookery will give ye notions,” Angus muttered. “But dinnae go lustin’ after a second helping. We’ll dine. Then ye’ll leave. Ye ken?”
The mention of Annie in the same breath with lust made John blink. He squelched the unwanted sensation snaking from his belly to his groin and lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Duly noted.”
An hour later, he understood Angus’s warning. Annie Tulloch’s venison was tender, simmered in a seasoned onion gravy, and better than anything he’d eaten in Paris or Tuscany. Each bite made his toes curl inside his boots.
Her bread was even better. Soft. Warm. Yeasty and light. He wanted to bloody weep.
She smirked at him across the heavy, scarred dining table and poured herself a cup of cider. “Slow down, English. Cannae be certain yer delicate constitution will tolerate proper Scottish food.”
She had a dot of flour on her chin, a stained apron tied over her plaid, and a scarf tied over her hair. She looked shapeless. A mess.
And he couldn’t stop stealing glances. Every third bite, he surreptitiously examined the ragged, fiery fringe brushing her