The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,24
her chest aching, she opened her palm. And saw a wooden thistle.
Chapter Five
TlU
Standing on a scaffold three stories high while raising a pane of glass from the ground with a rope and pulley, John couldn’t afford distractions. Yet that was precisely what the bright flash of scarlet approaching along the castle road constituted—a dangerous distraction.
He lost focus long enough for his grip to slacken. The rope burned his palm. The glass he’d been hoisting swung into the scaffolding’s lower brace with a crack.
Damn Annie Tulloch and Angus MacPherson and every Scot ever born.
John lowered the now-useless glass to the ground, glanced at the tower window he’d intended to repair for the fourth time. Then, he cursed. Aloud. For long minutes.
“Is that you foulin’ the air with yer vulgar tongue, English?”
“This is my castle. Who else would it be?” he grated, leaning a hand against said castle and eyeing the web of cracks in the last pane of glass he’d installed.
“Och, I can fair see up yer skirts from here.” Indeed, her chuckle now floated up to him from the base of the ladder.
He hadn’t bothered to look down, as he feared what he might do if he glimpsed her smirk again. “We agreed you shouldn’t come here alone, Miss Tulloch.”
“Nah. You agreed. I let ye think ye were right. Sometimes a man needs a wee victory amidst all the losin’.”
“What do you want?”
“Now, there’s a ripe question. Come down and let’s discuss it.”
“No.”
“Someplace warm would be grand. ’Tis colder than Grisel MacDonnell in ten feet of snow. I’m breathin’ frost and pissin’ icicles out here.”
“Then, turn round and head back to—”
“Yer kitchen is a disgrace to kitchens—”
“—MacPherson land where you belong. I’ve no time to deal with you today.”
“—but the hearth is goodly sized. That’s where I’ll be when ye come down and stop yer fussin’.”
“No one invited you. Go home, Miss Tulloch.”
“I’ve a proposition for ye, English,” she said, her voice traveling toward the entrance. “And some bread, if ye find that more temptin’.”
He closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Gathered his control.
In the end, he wasn’t certain which promise made him follow her—the bread or the “proposition.” He wanted it to be the former. It should be the former. She made the best bread he’d eaten since he’d left France.
But he suspected it wasn’t the bread that drew him.
Upon entering the kitchen, his body reacted to the scarlet-haired tyrant with a hunger that had nothing at all to do with his stomach.
She bent forward, poking at the low fire. As usual, her plaid swaddled her from shoulders to knees. Today, she’d added a blue knitted scarf, lowering it off her hair. Fiery strands flew outward in a messy dither.
He frowned. The plaid was thick wool, so it would provide some warmth, but she should have a cloak. A hooded one lined in fur, preferably. And she should be wearing a gown with layers of fine wool and soft linen, along with stockings to insulate her legs and feet.
Furthermore, she shouldn’t be jaunting up to his castle in the middle of November without a chaperone.
She shouldn’t be taunting a man like him.
And she certainly shouldn’t be bending over in front of him. It gave a man indecent notions.
He shook his head and forced his gaze away from her hips. She had, indeed, brought bread, he noted. At least ten loaves overflowed the basket on the table.
“Och, ye’re quick, English. I reckoned ye’d sulk a wee bit longer. Hungry, eh?”
She’d turned and now grinned at him with a teasing blue glint.
His hands clenched before he forced himself to relax. The itch would go away when she did, he assured himself. The sooner he heard what she had to say, the sooner she’d leave.
“The bread is appreciated, Miss Tulloch,” he said. “However, I find your continued visits intrusive and vexing.”
“Do ye? Aye, I suppose ye would.” She searched his kitchen before snatching a knife he’d left on a shelf nearby. Then, she began slicing one of the loaves. “Look, English. You and I arenae so different.”
She’d removed her gloves, he noticed. Her hands were bare around the knife. Small yet strong. Her knuckles were almost … pretty.
“Ye’ve made a poor bargain with Angus. If ye hope to win, ye’ll need help.”