The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,2

gate as Grisel stammered, “D-does it seem colder of a sudden?”

As the women scurried inside the cottage, Annie chuckled, ruffling Finlay’s hair. “Ah, that trick never loses its shine, Fin. Well done.”

They continued into the village square, a rather grand description for anything in Glenscannadoo. In truth, it was an irregular, roughly cobbled strip bounded by a single inn, three taverns, and five shops. At the center towered a statue of a MacDonnell laird. Annie supposed it was meant to represent Gilbert MacDonnell’s father, but the likeness was far handsomer—and assuredly had more sense—than the man she remembered. He stood proudly in a kilt, cap, sporran, and brogues, gazing over haggard rooftops toward Loch Carrich. One hand rested upon his sword as though prepared to battle beside Bonnie Prince Charlie for the honor of his family name.

And he was that foolish, she thought, sniffing as she passed through his shadow.

Finlay clung to her side as they entered the haberdashery, but the moment her laddie spotted the tartan display, he drifted toward the colorful bolts of wool at the rear of the shop.

“Dinnae go far,” she murmured.

He gave a distracted nod and continued on.

Behind the counter, the portly Mr. Cleghorn glanced about his empty shop and shot her a suspicious frown.

She ignored him to peruse the skeins of thread. Plucking a fine ivory and a rich blue, she bent to consider the greens on the lower shelf.

“Ye’re puddlin’ my floor, Anne Tulloch,” Mr. Cleghorn grumbled.

Annie glanced down to where her plaid ended and her trews tucked into her boots. A cascade fell from her hat’s brim. “So I am,” she said, feigning surprise. She swiped a finger across one of the shelves and held it up so he could see the grime. “Seems somebody should introduce this place to a bit of water now and then.”

“Do ye intend to buy that thread or steal it?”

Knuckling her hat back, she replied, “Well, now, I didnae reckon you’d be amenable to thievin’, Mr. Cleghorn. Generous of ye to give us an option.” She pretended to weigh the skeins between her hands. “Pay or steal? Pay or steal? A pure dilemma.”

“Wee harridan. Ye’ll nae steal from me.”

Grinning, she called, “Hear that, Fin?” Her laddie turned. “Mad Annie isnae merely mad, but a thief in the bargain.” She glanced down at the wet spot around her boots. “A proper storm come to drench the haberdasheries of Glenscannadoo.”

Cleghorn drew back, his expression edged with fear. “Who are ye talkin’ to, lass?”

Disgusted, she plucked a green skein from the lowest shelf and stalked to the counter. “Add these to Angus MacPherson’s bill,” she snapped.

“Yer stepfather didnae approve—”

“Angus likes his shirts mended. That’s all the approval I need.”

Cleghorn frowned until his shaggy brows knitted together, but he didn’t argue further. Moments later, the bell above the door rang. The next thing Annie felt was a collision in her lower half.

“Ooph!” She twisted to see freckled arms hugging her waist and a mop of russet against her hip. The lad’s hair wasn’t quite so fiery as her own, rather the color of autumn leaves. But his smile warmed her better than any hearth. She chuckled and stroked rainwater from his cheek. “Ah, ’tis glad I am to see ye, Ronnie. Only this mornin’, I was sayin’ how one of your smiles would cheer this pisser of a day.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Finlay approach. “Isnae that so, Fin?” He nodded and Ronnie laughed.

“Ronnie, leave go,” Mr. Cleghorn grumbled to his son while penciling her purchase into his shop accounts. “Miss Tulloch must be on her way.”

“Must I, now?”

Cleghorn glanced up with hard eyes. “Aye. Ye must.”

Ronnie’s arms slid away with his usual reluctance. She glared at his father a moment before kissing the boy’s russet head. His smile faded into mild confusion. Finlay distracted the lad by waving him toward the tartans. They raced off together while Annie leaned close to the shopkeeper.

“The youths in this village knock yer son flat on his arse for the sport of it, Mr. Cleghorn. ’Tis a wonder he isnae skinned elbow to knee. Ye might consider such things when ye’re deciding his friends for him.”

“He has enough troubles,” came the accusatory answer. “He doesnae need yours.”

Galling, but likely true. The lad was simple—a pure delight, of course, but different and, therefore,