The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,12
forehead. The elfin nose. The rounded cheekbones and cream-flushed skin. She wasn’t ugly. Nor plain—her coloring was far too vivid. In truth, her features were rather pleasing if one ignored her brazen, inflammatory mouth. Overall, her face bore the fullness of a robust appetite and vigorous health. The rest of her was similarly fulsome. In fact, he’d guess her figure edged toward plumpness. A guess, merely. The woman might as well be wearing draperies.
Another bite of venison, and he dared a glance at her bosom, disguised beneath layers and folds. He hadn’t forgotten the proportions. The abundance.
God, he was losing his bloody mind. Time for a trip to Glasgow. The widow he occasionally visited there would stop these asinine musings.
“Ye’ll nae get what ye’re after, Huxley,” grumbled Angus from his left. The glowering Scot cut into his meat, his knife scraping the plate. “’Tis only a matter of time before that cursed castle breaks ye. Best ye sell the land to me and be done with it.”
Before answering, John used his bread to soak up the last of his onion gravy, both mourning and savoring the bite. “As I’ve explained, I cannot.”
“A man of yer word, eh?” Angus waved his knife in John’s direction. “Aye, well, another winter will loosen that cork a bit, I’ll wager.”
“Perhaps the two of ye should wager,” Annie said. “Whoever wins, at least it would bring yer daft male nonsense to an end.” She drank her cider then raised a sarcastic brow at each of them. “Have a tug-o-war. Rope’s in the stable.”
“Och, I’ve no wish to humiliate the lad.”
Ignoring the dig, John wiped his mouth with the dingy cloth next to his plate—the MacPherson version of a napkin, he supposed. “Whilst I appreciate the suggestion, Miss Tulloch, my terms must remain steadfast.”
Amusement pursed her lips. He noted the upper was thinner than the lower. Neither was plump. But they were forever quirked or moving. Now, she licked a drop of cider from the corner of her mouth and jabbed, “And in January, when yer drawers freeze to yer arse ‘til yer tender bits are all numb and frosty, surely those fine, gentlemanly principles will keep yer cockles warm, aye?”
Why was he staring at Annie Tulloch’s mouth? God, he needed to visit Glasgow. He needed to leave Scotland. Her madness was catching. “Your concern is sufficiently warming, I daresay.”
She frowned at his dry tone. “Somebody should be concerned about ye, English. Never seen a man so bluidy weary of his own existence that he’d run at Angus’s temper like he was beggin’ to be put out of his misery. Have ye no kin to speak sense to ye?”
The lad from earlier ran in to clear his plate, but John lifted it above the boy’s head before rising and helping himself to another serving of venison, bread, and cider from the dishes at the center of the table. If the MacPhersons weren’t going to bother with manners, he saw little point in controlling his appetite.
“Yes,” he answered, after devouring his next three bites. “Rather an abundance of kin, as it happens.”
“Five sisters,” Angus interjected, his suspicious gaze ricocheting between Annie and John. “Married, are they?”
“Four are, at last report. The youngest hasn’t yet settled on a husband.”
“Nor ye on a wife,” Angus said. “Yer mother cannae be happy about that.”
“Everyone would be better pleased if I were free to leave Scotland. You and your fellow Scots. My family. Me.” He shot Angus a dry glare. “Perhaps I’d be at liberty to secure a wife were I not yoked to a property I’ve little desire to keep.”
It was both true and a lie. Everyone would be happier if he returned to England—except him. And on certain days, when his loch reflected blue instead of gray, he considered keeping Ewan Wylie’s wild, beautiful land. But a wife? He’d no more desire to marry now than when his father had recommended it ten years ago, or when his mother had demanded it five years ago.
Annie glanced at Angus before crossing her arms over her bosom. “Make him an offer, auld man. Even the Laird of Daftness gave ye a sportin’ chance to bargain for this place, foolish though his conditions were.”
Releasing a disgusted snort, Angus shoved back from the table. “Ye’ve gone soft, lass. Coddlin’ Huxley like yer favorite wee lamb.”