The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,32

to muted in seconds. He didn’t like it. Worse, he didn’t like being the cause.

Gently, she tugged her hand away and started down the trail, pausing a moment to gaze at the churchyard. Then, she ran a hand over her ribs and disappeared amidst the pines.

John followed slowly, examining the churchyard he often ignored, trying to see what Annie saw. There was nothing. Nothing but arches for windows that had long since shattered into dust. Nothing but weeds and crumbled stones and rust. The decay of an abandoned faith.

Annie saw magic amidst the ruins. John only saw emptiness.

Shaking his head, he quickened his pace. But at the last bend in the trail, just before the churchyard disappeared behind thick saplings and heavy pines, he heard an odd, mournful caw. He stopped. Retraced his steps. Peered through an opening in the brush.

There, atop the tallest arch, perched a raven. Or, at least, it had the shape of one. But its feathers weren’t black. They were white. Its beak was pink. And its eyes were pale—perhaps even blue. He drifted closer, curious about the bird. He’d never seen one like it before, though he’d heard tales of such oddities from a naturalist chum at Oxford.

A white raven. How rare. How extraordinary.

The bird called again, scratchy and swooping, like a widow weeping for her lost man. Several more times: caw, caw, caw. The white bird turned its head this way and that. Then, it looked down upon him. Blue eyes flashed. Were they blue? Yes, he thought so.

Rain struck John’s cheek. He reached up to wipe away the drop. Felt a sudden, frigid gust. And when he looked again at the peak of the tallest arch, the bird was gone.

Chapter Seven

TlU

Halfway through their fourth round of Lady Lessons, Annie concluded their bargain had been a bad idea. Granted, she was exhausted from staying up the previous night. Angus had arrived home with wretched news about Broderick, and she hadn’t been able to sleep.

But Huxley’s mood was even blacker than hers. It seemed the more time they spent together, the worse it got.

“Again, Miss Tulloch,” he ordered from his dark, imperious corner of the drawing room. “This time, do refrain from stomping as though the floor were infested with spiders.”

She gritted her teeth and crossed to the fireplace before “gliding” back to the lone chair at the other end of the room.

He sighed. “We’ve discussed this. When you prepare to take your seat, it is a gentle pivot upon your toes, not a flat-footed visit to the privy. Where are the slippers I asked you to bring?”

“I told ye—”

“Told you. Not ye. You.”

“I told you I havenae any slippers.”

“Haven’t any.”

“Aye. That’s what I said.”

He rubbed a hand over his beard—a sure sign of frustration—before bracing his hands on his hips. “All ladies wear slippers, particularly indoors. Half-boots are acceptable for walking dress or riding. Tall boots are not acceptable in the slightest.”

By God, if he weren’t the only man for a hundred miles who knew the difference between a teacup and a tankard, she’d use her unacceptable boots to stomp his infuriating—

“Again,” he snapped.

She started forward, her throat burning.

“Chin level with the floor. Lower your gaze. Modesty at all times, Miss Tulloch.”

She raised her chin, lowered her eyes, and tried her best to glide the way he’d shown her—like she was floating. Or balancing a full chamber pot on her head.

“Do not swing your arms.”

She stopped mid-glide. Pivoted on her toes. Glared at the man who’d become her nightmare. “If I dinnae move my arms, I’ll look like an eejit.”

“Nonsense.” He closed the distance between them in two strides and reached for her wrists. His grip was warm and firm when he bent her arms and folded her hands at her waist. His fingers lingered upon hers for long seconds to show her precisely the position he wanted.

John Huxley, she’d discovered, was a thorough man.

“There. Pretend you’re carrying a small bird. Step lightly, now.”

His nearness sent disturbing waves of heat over her skin. The sensation was worst wherever he touched her. Almost tingly. She’d noticed it more and more since that day in the square. At times, such as now, her mind filled with wool and she couldn’t think of a single word to say. At other times, such as the day