The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,33
he’d backed her against his kitchen table and trapped her between those powerful arms, she wondered if she was mad, after all.
Only a madwoman grew hot and dizzy from the scents of autumn air and fresh-cut pine and a man’s sweat. Only a lunatic thought touching him was worth any risk—and kissing him might be worth more.
She blinked away the wooliness as he moved back to his corner.
“Proceed.”
She nodded, starting forward. “A wee bird,” she whispered. “And a chamber pot on my head.”
“Shoulders back.”
“Aye, shoulders—” Her knee bumped the chair, scraping it noisily across the floor.
“Blast. If you wore proper skirts, this wouldn’t happen.”
“If you’d let me look where I was goin’ instead of starin’ at the floor like a pure dafty—”
“My instructions were clear, Miss Tulloch. You shouldn’t be staring at the floor, but rather keeping your eyes modestly averted—”
She grabbed the chair and plopped down on the seat, hooking her elbow over the back. “Why would skirts make any difference?”
“Skirts give you warning. They get there first.”
“They catch fire.”
Now, his hand scraped down his entire face, not merely his beard.
She grinned. “Do ye ken how many good women have died wearin’ proper skirts round a busy kitchen, English?”
“God, you are the most vexing—”
“Too many. I’ll nae be among their number, I assure ye of that.”
“Your plaid could catch fire.”
“Aye. But it willnae.”
Bonnie hazel eyes flared bright gold with increasing temper. “And why is that?”
She debated whether to tell him the truth. But, in the end, his opinion of her could hardly get worse. Honesty it was. “’Tis magic.”
“Magic.”
“From the nether realms. I’ve a friend who dwells there. He blessed this plaid ages ago. Said it would protect me.”
Another swipe of a lean hand across a handsome, exasperated face. “Must you attempt an outrageous distraction every time you fail a lesson? I don’t have a bloody eternity to waste.”
“Och, English. Your vulgarity fair singes my wee, virgin ears.”
“I suspect no part of you matches that description.”
At first, his snarled jab stung. Then, it made her angry. Then, she noticed he was staring at her bosoms. He did quite often, actually.
Did he suppose large bosoms meant she’d lie with anybody? Even if she’d wanted to—and she’d seen enough of men’s faults to know better—the MacPhersons would geld every man in the glen first.
Then there was Fin. No chaperone could be better than an ever-present ghost who looked like a sweet, innocent laddie.
God, she missed him.
Which was why she needed to swallow her anger and resume her Lady Lessons.
She must remember why she was doing this. For Finlay.
Still, Huxley needed to be set straight. “Is this how ye speak to yer sisters, John Huxley?”
Hazel eyes dragged up to her face. “No.”
“Well, now, perhaps it isnae me who needs the lesson in proper manners, eh?”
A ruddy flush climbed past his beard onto his handsome cheekbones. “My sisters have better sense than to provoke such behavior. They are not hoydens.”
“And I’m not a tart,” she retorted. “Manners or no, I dinnae deserve to be called one.”
His shoulders stiffened. After a long, hard silence, he nodded. “Quite right. I apologize, Miss Tulloch. My comment was thoughtless.”
Thoughtless. Not wrong, she noted. Merely a slip of the tongue.
Distantly, she heard knocking.
Huxley frowned and glanced through the drawing room doors toward the entrance hall.
“Expecting company?” she asked.
He shook his head and went to answer the front door. She followed closely, curious if her efforts on his behalf had yielded fruit.
It appeared they had.
“Mr. Huxley?” inquired the short, brown-haired crofter holding his cap. “My name is Dougal MacDonnell. I’ve heard ye might have a bit of work for me.”
“Aye, he does,” she replied, ducking beneath Huxley’s arm. “The kitchen floor is a disgrace. And the larder needs shelves.”
A hard hand gripped her arm, tugging her backward, but not before Dougal gaped and exclaimed, “Mad Annie. Is that ye?”
“Do not call her by that name again,” Huxley’s command whipped over her head as he pulled her back against his body.
“Och, aye.” Dougal lowered his head. “Sorry, Annie. Just surprised to see ye here.”
She started to answer, but Huxley pulled her farther from the door and tucked her behind him. Then, he snapped, “She is Miss Tulloch.”