The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,28
title is naught but a jest. And he’s married. And daft.” Her nose scrunched. “His friend, perhaps. The Lord Lockhart. We spoke that day in the square. I wasnae at my best, but mayhap he willnae remember.”
The prickling fire in John’s chest should have died the moment she mentioned Lockhart. He should be glad she wanted his help with pursuing another man. A Scottish lord.
Yes, relief would be the proper response. She’d told the truth; she didn’t want to marry John. And he had no intention of marrying her. So, they were in agreement. No reason to feel … whatever this was.
“I should think you’d prefer a Highlander,” he murmured.
“Oh, aye. But beggars cannae be choosers. Too few Highland lairds have kept their titles, and those that have behave more like Londoners, with their hired men removin’ their clansmen so they can fill their lands with sheep.”
“Yet, you intend to marry for a title.”
She sighed. “Aye. I must.”
“Why?”
“Now, that’d be my business.”
Frustrating woman. “And you want me to train you to be a lady so you may lure one of these men to the altar.”
Her temper caught fire, resulting in a hard shove to his chest. “I’m nae aimin’ to nab his purse, English, so ye can stow yer suspicions up yer—”
“Calm yourself. I made no mention of—”
Her chin tilted defiantly. “I’ll be a good wife.”
They all thought that. “Of course.”
“I’ll feed him proper.” She nodded to the basket of bread on the opposite end of the table. “I’ll let him do all the touchin’ and ruttin’ he wants.”
A second flood of prickling fire chased the first, stronger this time. He blinked. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say or why he suddenly wanted to beat a man he’d never met until nothing remained but a pair of boots.
“Whoever I wed will be pleased as a cow rootin’ in the oats bin, ye can be sure of that.”
John couldn’t look at her any longer. He stalked to the hearth and began stabbing the coals with the iron. Sparks flared upward.
“A lord will wish to marry a lady.” Annie fell quiet for a heartbeat. Two. “I’m many things, English, but that isnae among them.”
Something twisted hard inside his chest. He thought of his sisters, particularly shy Jane and rebellious Eugenia, who had struggled with being accepted. They’d found husbands, to be sure, and married well. But before their matches, they’d suffered for being different. And unlike Annie, they’d been trained in gentility from the cradle.
Returning the iron to its holder, he pivoted to examine her—the red hair, ragged and banner-bright. Eyes so direct, they stripped a man of his will. A mouth that scalded without mercy. And her clothing. Good God, she needed a modiste. Did she even wear a corset?
He tore his gaze away from her bosom. Best not to think about that.
“This won’t be easy, you know,” he warned. “You’ll have to change …” He shook his head and swiped a hand over his beard. “… everything. The way you speak. The way you dress. The way you walk and sit.”
“Aye.”
“Titled men are a hunted breed.” He should know. “They’re cautious. Discriminating. Proper decorum is merely the start—every young lady manages that much. To win a lord, you’ll need to be charming. Flattery, not insults. You understand?”
She swallowed. “I ken.”
He came around the table to examine her more closely. The woman wore breeches, for God’s sake. Breeches. Her boots were worn and muddy, her belt plain, her gloves cracked. All easily remedied by a dressmaker, of course. But her figure was plumper than the current fashion. Her walk was more striding than elegant. And while her voice was melodic, her brogue was thick. She’d have to soften it.
“Enjoyin’ the view, English?”
When he raised his gaze, he kept it direct and hard. “You’re going to hate this. It will suffocate you.” For some reason, the thought stung. “Are you certain it’s what you want?”
Before she answered, he noticed her right hand curling then stroking the side of her waist. “Aye,” she said, chin rising. “Make me a lady and I’ll make ye a Highlander. That’s my offer.”
His first instinct was to decline. But John had always despised losing. Whether it was a cricket match or a horse race or a negotiation over shipping costs, he played to win.