The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,114
Perhaps that will improve yer knees and yer temper.”
“Are ye stayin’ for dinner?” he growled.
Annie assumed he was still speaking to Nora, as he hadn’t looked anywhere else.
“Annie has invited me, aye.”
He glared with a ferocious scowl. “Bluidy hell. I’ll have to follow ye home, then.”
Swiveling her gaze between the two, Annie blinked, her mouth gaping. “Ah, Da?”
“Do as ye please, Mr. MacPherson,” Nora replied, her expression a bit puckered. “I cannot stop you.”
Annie was about to ask what the devil was wrong with both of them when the new housekeeper showed Mrs. MacBean into the parlor. The frazzled old woman wore one of the green tartan gowns Annie had made for her, along with her apron. She offered Angus his liniment.
Angus snatched up the jar, grumbling that it was about time, then stormed out of the room.
“Och, now, Nora,” Mrs. MacBean said, digging inside her apron pocket. “I may have a wee bit of salve for that sunburn. Ye should wear a hat in this weather. Fair scorchin’, it is.”
“No need, Mary. I’m fine.” A red-cheeked Nora turned away to pour herself tea.
Annie narrowed her eyes upon the dressmaker then glanced toward the doorway Angus had recently vacated. She opened her mouth to confirm her suspicions, but Mrs. MacBean dangled an oddly shaped wooden lump in front of Annie’s eyes.
“’Tis a fertility charm, lass.” The thing was strung upon a leather cord and roughly resembled a thumb. “Go on, then. Take it.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Annie had her suspicions, and none of them were good.
“Wear it round yer neck. What did ye think?”
Not that, but she was relieved.
“’Tis a wee rabbit.”
Annie squinted, turning the charm this way and that. She supposed the two carved lines that resembled buttocks could be ears. If she held it at a distance. And closed her eyes.
“Is this meant to help me conceive a lad?”
“Ye didnae specify a male.” Mrs. MacBean accepted the cup Nora offered with a grateful nod. She took a sip then asked, “Have ye tried playin’ a wee bit of ram and ewe, lass?”
Nora choked and spilled her tea on her skirt.
“Stag and doe? Farmer and wheelbarrow? Some say it improves yer odds,” Mrs. MacBean continued calmly. “Though, I havenae found it particularly effective for aught but puttin’ a smile on a man’s face.”
Annie crossed her arms and glared. “Ye ken I wish to have a son. And ye ken why.”
The old woman’s good eye slid away. She took another sip.
“What arenae ye sayin’?” Annie demanded.
“Nothin’ at all.”
“Nah, there’s somethin’.”
“’Tis only a wee suspicion.”
Annie glared until Mrs. MacBean finished her sip. “Tell me what ye suspect, or those loaves I brought for ye will be goin’ to Inverness with Mrs. Baird.”
The old woman sighed. “Ghosties cannae be reborn.”
“Wh-why would ye say—”
“I began to suspect somethin’ was amiss when none of my remedies helped yer wee laddie.”
Annie swallowed around a suddenly tight throat. No. The old woman must be wrong. Or daft. Yes, daft. That was it. “But ye saw him. Ye said ye did.”
“Aye.”
“And he … he told me who he was.”
“He gave ye a name, aye.”
“He said he …” Annie’s hand automatically reached for the thistle charm in the wee pocket she kept sewn inside her petticoat. “He wants to return. It’s his destiny.”
“Is that what he said? Or is that what ye heard?”
Oh, God. Frantically, Annie searched her memory, clutching the thistle harder.
Sympathy shone in Mrs. MacBean’s gaze. She set her cup on the table and took Annie’s hand. “I didnae want to crush ye, Annie. I never wanted that.”
Her breathing grew shallow. “No. Ye’re wrong.”
“Ghosts dinnae have a destiny. That’s why they’re ghosts. They’re trapped in the crevices betwixt realms.”
Annie shook her head.
“Listen, lass. No ghostie is capable of attachin’ to a livin’ person for nigh twenty years. It simply isnae possible. Most of ‘em cannae travel far from where they died, else they wink out of existence. Ghosties are victims, ye ken? They’re able to wreak a wee bit of havoc from time to time. Shakin’ the lantern. Tappin’ the window. Knockin’ a book off a shelf.” She snorted. “Why do ye suppose I bury mine, eh? They’re mischief-makers. ’Tis all they have, the mad wee buggers. But no