The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,111
only so he can invite all his Lowland friends to admire …” She trailed off then sat up straight. “English.”
“What is it?”
“The wee tartan peacock was in Edinburgh.”
A chill scurried down his spine. “When?”
“I saw him at the inn. The same day ye kissed me near the rubbish pile.” She slid her hand inside his coat and withdrew Dunston’s letter. Quickly, she scanned the first page. “Aye, here. ‘Per my contact in Edinburgh, three men at varying times have argued for more severe charges and swifter prosecution. None are acquainted with MacPherson, nor have they advocated such harsh measures in past cases.’” She paused, her lips moving while her finger traced down the page. “This. This is it. ‘The sole commonality I’ve observed between the abovementioned men—apart from their association with the High Court—is that each is rumored to have been a member of a certain clandestine club wherein acts of a scandalous nature are performed.’” Annie frowned. “Does he mean tuppin’?”
John cleared his throat. “I suspect it’s a bit more than that. Dunston is far from prudish.”
“What if Glenscannadoo is a member of this club? What if he’s blackmailin’ them?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Recalling his impressions of Gilbert MacDonnell, he struggled to make the possibility fit. “He did serve me brandy when I visited. I would have expected whisky.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “And brandy was in the load that Munro intercepted.”
“Yes.”
Silence settled between them as they both worked at the puzzle. Finally, Annie shook her head. “Nah. Cannae be the wee tartan peacock.”
His mouth quirked. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s a pure dafty. Comes from dafty stock.” She hissed out a scornful sigh. “The man spent a bluidy fortune to put that ridiculous statue in the middle of the village. He sold ten prime acres to Angus to fund it.”
“He does seem proud of his heritage.”
She rolled her eyes. “Only the look of it.”
“Hmm. Brandy over whisky.”
“Sheep over cattle. Aye. He hasnae forced his crofters from their farms like some. But I suspect that’s because he hasnae many left. Even the cottage he offered to Mrs. MacBean sits on MacPherson land.” She shook her head. “Nah, he’s a dafty. But he’s nae vicious, ye ken? To do what was done to Broderick, a man would need to find satisfaction in cruelty. I cannae see it.”
John nodded. “I agree. But that still leaves us with the question of who does possess such viciousness.”
Her gaze slanted to the window then came back to him. “I have a suspicion. No proof, mind. Only a feelin’.”
“Very well. Whom do you suspect?”
She nibbled her lip. “It mightn’t make sense to ye. He doesnae have any tie to the glen or Skene or the MacPhersons. And Broderick has never met him, so far as I ken.”
“Annie.”
“I dinnae expect ye believe me. ’Tis just a—”
“Love. Tell me.”
Her lips firmed and her chin tilted. “Lockhart.” Eyes sliding away from his, she tucked Dunston’s letter back inside his pocket then brushed at his lapel. Finally, she fussed with her skirt. “I think it’s Lord Lockhart.”
John sat back. Had she expected him to balk? Watching her nervously fidget, he could see she did. Because he hadn’t believed her about Finlay, which, he now understood, had been his most critical error. That, along with his desire for proof rather than fanciful stories, made her doubt him.
He covered her hand as she began sorting her embroidery supplies. “I believe you.”
She stilled. “Ye—ye do?”
“Yes.”
“Ye havenae asked why I suspect him.”
He angled his head to catch her eye. “It’s enough that you do.”
“Ye dinnae think me mad?”
A tiny thread of doubt in her eyes twisted his heart into a painful knot. “Annie Huxley, you are as sensible as an umbrella in a downpour.”
She traced a finger over the spot on his collar where her teeth had dented the wool. “So, not mad, then.”
“Not mad. I know it the way I know Highland rain makes better whisky and a Highland lass makes a better wife. Because only fools believe otherwise.”
Her smile grew. “Bonnie, charmin’ Englishman. Ye’re not just sayin’ that to get under my skirts, are ye?”
“Well, it’s not the only reason,” he teased. “Though I certainly wouldn’t decline the offer.”
She chuckled. Then kissed him. Then demonstrated how a Highland lass made her English husband an