The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,18
“I know ye speak like ye’ve been fed knives and vinegar.”
“Knives and vinegar?”
“Aye. Every word is sliced clean. Polished bright.”
“Is that what offends you about me? My diction?”
She snorted. “Dinnae be daft.” Crossing her arms over her bosom, she looked him up and down. “Makes me wonder. That’s all.”
“Wonder what?”
“Who ye are.”
He paused, keeping his expression flat. “Hardly a mystery. You know my name.”
“Hmm. John Huxley,” she murmured.
He inclined his head.
“A gentleman.”
“Yes.”
Her fingertips idly traced his unfinished paneling. As morning light caressed her cheek and the fiery wisps brushing her jaw, she drew her thumb over a corner molding. “And a craftsman, by the looks of it.”
He couldn’t account for the heat that ran through him in that moment. The way she touched wood he had fashioned. The way her blue gaze lingered on his forearms. Her slightly open lips with their slightly tempting quirk.
Her admiration was such a subtle thing—a mere taste of what fed this damnable craving. But he wanted more.
Did she know?
Was Annie Tulloch seducing him deliberately? This would be among the more bizarre methods he’d encountered. But effective. Too damned effective.
God, this was madness. To seek her approval. To lust after her, of all people. He’d spent too much time alone in this place. Not even the widow in Glasgow had cured it.
“You never did answer my question,” he said, hardening his tone, even as he examined her hands. Dirty hands. Small. “What are you doing here?”
“Answer me first, English. How did ye learn to work with wood and stone, eh?”
He hesitated, knowing that the more information he gave her, the more he gave MacPherson. And the more MacPherson knew, the harder John’s task would be.
“Here, now,” she said, her smile teasing, her eyes glowing blue. “If ye tell me a wee bit, I’ll tell ye why ye cannae get the window in the tower to settle without crackin’.”
Bloody hell. That window frame had already damaged three panes of glass. The present one, installed only a week ago, resembled a spider’s web.
“What do you know about it?” he demanded.
She breezed past him and wandered back toward the gallery. “Tell me about you. That’s my price.”
He followed her, shamefully intrigued by the oddest details of her form: her shapely calves, which he could see because the woman wore breeches and boots rather than skirts. Her small, dirty hands, which she surreptitiously wiped on a corner of her plaid. The stains on her knees. Her hair, which flashed like copper rope and brushed the base of her spine.
Her thighs weren’t visible because they were draped in tartan. So were her breasts. He’d like to see her without her plaid. He’d like to see her without her tunic. Without anything at all.
“Go on. Tell me,” she said over her shoulder as they wandered from the dining room into the small corridor that led to the kitchen. “I promise I willnae laugh.”
He ducked past the temporary bracing he’d added to the passage and grasped her arm. “Be careful. I’m still reconstructing this part of the house.”
Though faintly lit from both the dining room and the kitchen windows, the corridor was dim and tight. Something soft and cushiony brushed his ribs as she turned.
“Aye.” She patted his hand where he held her. “Dinnae fash. The fire is leadin’ me straight and true. Already my backside is tinglin’.” Her hoarse chuckle seized parts of his body it shouldn’t even interest.
The lust was both unwelcome and exasperating, much like Annie herself.
Abruptly, he drew back, only to hit his head on the bracing. “Blast,” he hissed.
“Och, ye’re a clumsy one, John Huxley.” She tugged him forward. “Let’s warm ourselves and trade tales for a wee bit, eh?”
He didn’t want to trade tales. He didn’t want her here at all. Especially in his kitchen. The room was still in shambles, although he’d cleared away the debris, built a new work table, and repaired the hearth. It was functional. Barely.
She stood with her hands propped on her hips, examining the place with a stern expression. “Have ye a larder?”
“It collapsed.”
“Where are ye storing yer food?”
“In the cellar. There’s a door to the garden that makes it convenient.”
She nodded. Held her hands out toward the hearth. Turned to warm her back. Wiggled her hips in an unconscious, highly