The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,27
brow. “Aye,” she said cautiously.
“Civilization is useful.” Slowly, he let himself smile. “Until it no longer serves a man’s purpose.”
“Have ye been eatin’ many queer-lookin’ mushrooms of late, English?”
He couldn’t help himself. Crowding closer until the folds of her plaid pressed flat against his coat, he lowered his head and watched pink bloom bright in her cheeks. “I am a man,” he murmured in her ear.
“A-aye.”
“Say it.”
“Why?”
He nuzzled the fiery wisps along her jaw. “Just say it.”
“Well, I can feel yer whiskers, right enough. Most women cannae grow a beard. Except Grisel MacDonnell’s mother. I’ve long hoped Grisel might inherit the ability. She’s most deservin’.”
Annie’s scarf was bundled around her neck, and the rest of her was swaddled in wool. But he wanted to kiss her … absolutely everywhere. Her throat, her breasts, her thighs. Between her thighs. He wanted to strip her bare right here in his shambles of a kitchen then carry her upstairs to his shambles of a bedchamber. He wanted to prove he was a man and she was a woman and this agony of desire was natural. Not shocking or inappropriate or indecent.
“Admit I am a man, Miss Tulloch. A simple request.”
“A daft request.”
His hands curled into fists upon the table. God, she was infuriating. And God, he was hard as stone feeling those lush, soft breasts brushing his chest. “Do me the courtesy of answering, if you please.”
Her exasperated sigh washed warm over his lips and jaw. “And they call me mad.” The hoarseness in her voice, along with the way she arched against him, contradicted her words. “Very well, English. Ye’re a man. Happy?”
Yes and … no. If she’d held out much longer, he’d have an excuse for satisfying his craving. A mistake, of course. Annie Tulloch was the last woman he should want, much less bed.
But want her he did.
He must extract himself. Distance himself.
She cupped his jaw, her touch light. Tentative. Then, her hand slid down the side of his neck and flattened on his chest.
The unexpected caress nearly buckled his knees.
“Ye ken I only meant to tease ye a wee bit, English. ’Tis plain ye’re not a woman, though ye’re bonnie enough to make one envious.”
He stood rigid for a long minute, breathing her clean, sweet scent and willing his body to obey him.
She slid her hand down his ribs and gave his belly a pat. “A fit man, indeed. We’ll have a goodly start on yer trainin’. There, now. Feel better?”
His control was shredded, so he couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping. It emerged as a rusty cough while he braced himself against the table. “You manage men quite well, Miss Tulloch.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“So, what do you really want from me in exchange for helping me win my wager?”
She stiffened. “I told ye.”
“I thought you were insulting me again.”
“Dinnae be daft. I need someone to teach me to be a lady. Ye’re a gentleman.” She paused. “Most of the time. And ye have five sisters. Surely ye ken what’s necessary.”
Slowly, he forced himself to back away from her. To look her in the eye. To assess her seriousness. “Why me? Why not the laird’s wife or some other female?”
Annie’s eyes hardened. “No females.”
“It’s true I know a great deal about … ladies. But a genteel woman will have knowledge I cannot possibly—”
“I dinnae get on with other women.” Her chin tilted to that familiar, defiant angle. “’Tis you or nobody, English. Ye’ve fine manners when ye’re not out of temper. I only need ye to teach me the important bits.”
“To what purpose?”
“Doesnae matter.”
“It does.” He frowned at her, frustrated now for a different reason. She made no sense. “Do you intend to travel to London? Edinburgh? Attend a soiree? Be presented at court? Each of these will require different skills—”
“I intend to marry a lord.”
He’d been stomped by a horse once. The ill-tempered Arabian had taken exception to the heat, thrown him off its back and broken two of his ribs for good measure. Annie’s declaration had a similar, lung-flattening effect. Which explained his taut, painful silence before he could inquire, “Anyone in particular?”
“Nah. I dinnae ken many titled men.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the table, nibbling her lower lip. “Only Gilbert MacDonnell, really. His