The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,20
a while, English. Clear yer head.”
The outrageous statement, combined with her outrageous nearness, scattered all thoughts but one—the one he shouldn’t have.
With a fond pat, she sidled past him on her way to the scullery door. “I’m afraid it cannae be me, temptin’ though I am with my many, many charms.”
Her taunt struck him like a stag that hadn’t been watchful enough.
“Oh, and English,” she said, pausing in the doorway as morning light set her hair aflame. “When ye practice the hammer throw, loosen yer hips.” She demonstrated by moving her own hips in a circle.
His mouth went dry. Everything else went hard.
“Then counter the weight of the hammer and extend yer reach.” Again, she demonstrated, stretching her right arm opposite her jutted left hip. “Long strokes. Just at that fine edge betwixt a tight grip and losin’ control. That’s the secret.” She demonstrated the winding motion and the release.
It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
“Keep trainin’, John Huxley.” She tossed a grin over her shoulder. “If ye hope to win against Highlanders, ye’ll need all the practice ye can get.”
Chapter Four
TlU
Being hoisted seven feet in the air then hauled like a bag of tatties wasn’t Annie’s favorite method of disembarking from the MacPherson Distillery wagon. But it did seem to please her brothers, so she allowed it.
Presently, she steadied herself by clasping Campbell’s thick neck while he lifted her down. Her eldest stepbrother was also the tallest at eight inches above six feet, so it felt a bit like being on horseback. Except horses didn’t have Campbell MacPherson’s grim glower.
She patted his powerful jaw as he lowered her gently to the ground in front of MacPherson House. “It wasnae yer fault.”
He grunted. “Whose, then?”
Three of her brothers had returned safely from a delivery to Edinburgh. The fourth, Broderick, was in a fair spot of trouble. Shooting an exciseman was no wee matter to be resolved with a bit of coin. Broderick had been detained pending trial, even after the MacPhersons had applied maximum pressure to their contacts within the government.
“Skene,” growled Alexander, hauling a cider barrel on his massive shoulder. “Bluidy putrid pile of shite. I’d lay odds that’s who set him up.”
Rannoch carried a second barrel inside. His usual wicked grin was gone, replaced with a deadly glint. “We’ll see how certain the evidence is when Skene’s ballocks are lyin’ betwixt his boots.”
“Damage is done,” said Campbell. “Isnae Skene we’re fightin’ now, but the bugger who laid his fist on the scale.”
Annie followed her brothers through the door and busied herself removing her hat and donning an apron. It was best to remain distracted, else she might curl into a wee knot of dread and pain.
First Finlay, now Broderick. Losing one was unbearable. Losing both would kill her.
The third of four brothers, Broderick was the best of them all—generous, charming, easy-tempered for a MacPherson. When Campbell went too quiet, Broderick played his fiddle fit to make stone weep. When Alexander descended into one of his black moods, Broderick found him a task that didn’t involve killing. When Rannoch tupped the wrong man’s lass, Broderick made peace.
And when Annie spoke in passing about needing a new kettle, Broderick returned with a shiny new copper one.
Och, brother, ye shouldnae spend yer money on me.
Ye always take good care of us, Annie. If I cannae spoil ye from time to time, then what’s the point of havin’ money at all?
He was the face of the MacPherson Distillery, the presentable one. And a rival band of smugglers, of which Skene was the leader, had arranged for an exciseman to pay an unexpected visit during the MacPhersons’ recent delivery. Broderick had handled the man in his usual fashion with a discreet payment. But as he left the warehouse, someone had fired upon the exciseman—someone other than Broderick.
Campbell, Alexander, and Rannoch were convinced it was David Skene, who despised all MacPhersons, and Broderick in particular. He’d been a rival for years, causing mischief for the distillery through territorial scuffles and thievery. Every now and then, the MacPhersons swatted him like a bothersome midge. Skene’s smuggling operation always reemerged and the mischief resumed.
But none of Skene’s attacks had been this severe. Unless the MacPhersons found a way free him, Broderick could hang.
Angus had gone to Edinburgh to meet with solicitors and ram a few heads