The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,21
together, hoping to discover the identity of Skene’s influential partner. The “putrid pile of shite” obviously had one. Skene was clever and vicious, but Broderick’s troubles seemed too well orchestrated.
Skene had someone powerful in his pocket. And that man was pressuring the courts to charge Broderick with murder, even though the exciseman had not yet died from his wound. Campbell had assigned guards to the exciseman and paid a surgeon to keep him alive. Only God knew whether he would recover.
She’d kept busy since her brothers’ return a few days past. She’d washed and mended their trews and plaids, stirred up a bit of salve for their aches and scrapes, fed them enough lamb pies and hare stew for ten MacPhersons, and forced each of them to vent their frustrations by adding to the wood pile rather than draining the whisky supply.
Busy was better. It shoved helplessness down beneath the surface.
As she followed her brothers into the kitchen, she ordered two hired lads to tend the horses. Then she fetched flour from the larder and began making bread.
While Rannoch and Alexander carried the cider down to the cellar, Campbell sat at the kitchen table, his massive arms folded over his chest. “I should return to Edinburgh.”
She added salt to her bowl. “Nah. Ye should stay here and manage the new shipment, as Broderick asked ye. We’ll need the funds to fight this.”
As usual, Campbell bore his burdens with as few words as possible. But she knew that jaw. The tension there spelled violence. He and Alexander had once been soldiers—among the deadliest of their Highland regiment. Campbell could kill Skene five times before dinner and scarcely mind the mess. So could Alexander, albeit with less mercy and more mess. Unfortunately, Skene’s death would create more problems than it solved.
“Give Angus a chance to do what Angus does,” she advised, stretching to reach another bowl from the shelf above the sideboard. Campbell stood and retrieved it for her, plopping it on the table before resuming his seat.
His silence was his reply.
She let him stew a bit while mixing her eggs, butter, and milk. “Mind the shipment first,” she cautioned. “Whilst the solicitors work to free Broderick, we’ll deny Skene what he was after.”
Campbell’s eyes narrowed. “Shutting down the distillery.”
“Aye.” She retrieved her bottle of ale-yeast and poured her wet ingredients into the flour before working the mixture with her hand. “Once this delivery is made, ye can send Alexander to do some persuadin’.”
“Why delay? I’ll go tonight,” came Alexander’s reply as he and Rannoch returned from the cellar. Each of them carried a bottle of whisky.
“Och, now,” she chided. “Nae before dinner.”
Rannoch was the first to protest. “Annie, ’tis Halloween—”
“Put the bottles down,” she barked, wiping her sticky hands on a towel before laying damp linen over her dough. “Come sotted to my table, and ye’ll eat elsewhere.”
Alexander scowled, looking every inch the ruthless, black-hearted MacPherson that he was. “Ye wouldnae dare.”
She rounded the table to poke him in his black-hearted chest. “Ye ken I would, Alexander MacPherson. Now, go wash. Ye reek of horse and peat smoke.”
Rannoch smirked in his brother’s direction.
“What are ye grinnin’ about?” she said. “Ye smell worse.”
Her youngest brother sniffed his plaid and grinned wider, his handsomeness a wicked thing. “Yet, the lasses cannae resist, eh?” He swooped forward and lifted her off her feet before she could escape. Then, he heaved her up onto his shoulder as he had when they were wee. “If we cannae have whisky, then ye must make gravy,” he growled playfully. “One way or another, I mean to be sotted ere midnight.”
Rannoch was only an inch shorter than Campbell, so her perch on his shoulder was dizzying. She chuckled and swatted the back of his head. “Put me down, ye dafty.”
He’d always been good with distractions, and his antics lightened her heart for a moment. “Ah, there’s a smile, sister,” he said as he stooped to set her down. “I’ve missed it since we arrived home.”
After shooing the two younger men out to wash, she resumed preparing dinner.
“He’s right,” said Campbell. “Ye have been melancholy.”
She gathered onions from the basket and began chopping. “The news about Broderick wasnae exactly glad tidings.”
“Da said ye havenae mentioned yer laddie in weeks.”
The MacPhersons knew about Finlay, and they accepted she had a friend they could