The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,34
his arm, noting how hard the muscles were—unusually so. “I’ve kenned Dougal since we were wee.”
“Why is he here?”
“He needs work. You need workers.”
“Your father—”
“Angus has agreed ye should be allowed to hire whoever ye like.”
Until now, Huxley’s glare had been boring a hole in Dougal’s forehead. Suddenly, it turned on her. “What changed his mind?”
She shrugged. “I might have mentioned ‘twould be to his benefit if ye restore the castle so he doesnae have to.” She smiled. “Assumin’ he wins the wager, of course.”
His gaze lingered upon her, assessing and a bit puzzled. Then, it hardened. “Return to the drawing room,” he murmured, nudging her in that direction.
“Dougal has two brothers and several cousins with bairns to feed—”
Huxley’s stiff posture and flickering jaw signaled his anger, though she found it baffling. She’d done him a favor.
“Miss Tulloch. The drawing room. If you please.”
She sniffed. “Fine. Just dinnae let Dougal talk ye into hirin’ his sons for yer stable. Laziest laddies I ever did see.”
In the drawing room, she practiced her “glide” from one corner of the room to the other. After seven or eight circuits, she discovered exaggerating her movements made them easier, though no less foolish. “Wee bird and chamber pot,” she whispered over and over, her neck lengthened in a swan-like fashion. Then, when she felt perfectly ridiculous, she glided to the chair. “Pivot on toes, float onto seat.” She spun and sank down. Because of how she’d positioned her hands, they landed neatly in her lap.
Her eyes widened. She’d done it. By heaven, she’d mastered sitting. She laughed aloud.
“You’ll need skirts and slippers.” The deep, masculine murmur came from the doorway.
She popped up and spun, sending the chair screeching across the floor again.
His arms were crossed, his expression dark and unreadable. “Have you ever had a proper fitting before?”
She swallowed, her heart pounding harder than it should have from gliding and sitting. “For boots.”
He eyed her feet and shook his head. “We must find you a dressmaker.”
“I can sew my own—”
“A milliner, too. Inverness may offer someone acceptable. Edinburgh would be better.”
Annie hated this feeling—as though she’d been shipwrecked in a foreign land where nothing was familiar, but she was expected to speak the language. “I dinnae see why I cannae make my own—”
“Because you would be mocked. Leave the gowns to those who understand current fashions.”
“I hate shoppin’. It’s too costly.”
He frowned. “The MacPhersons are far from poor. Doesn’t your father give you an allowance?”
Her chin went up. “Stepfather. Angus pays the bills I have sent to him.”
“Then, he’ll pay this one.”
An embarrassed flush heated her face. “I dinnae want him to.”
“Why? He knows about your intention to pursue a lord, yes?”
She looked down at her boots.
“Miss Tulloch.”
Then, she looked at the Englishman’s boots. They were superior to hers, she noted. Probably made in London.
“Miss Tulloch.” His voice was lower now. Closer. His boots moved within a few inches of hers. “You haven’t told him, have you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because he might take it as a rejection of everything he’d given her. And she couldn’t bear to hurt that beloved old man.
Huxley’s sigh ruffled the hair along her forehead. “It’s understandable you’d wish to minimize expenses for your family’s sake, but you haven’t chosen a meager endeavor. You’ll need his support. I’m certain if he knew you intended to marry, he would be pleased to—”
“Do ye ken what Angus said when I first met him?”
A pause. “Tell me.”
“The day before they married, my mother explained we were leavin’ Inverness to live with a new family. She said I’d have a father and four brothers.” She’d been nervous, her mother. Her fingers had fluttered oddly, tucking her red hair behind her ears and fussing with the collar on Annie’s cape. “I kenned why. She was a widow. We’d run out of peat more than once.”
She remembered her mother making a game out of the cold, swaddling Annie in several blankets and pretending they were on an expedition through a frozen wilderness. Och, Annie. Do ye see the bear? Perhaps he’ll be a friendly sort. Perhaps he’ll have a wee cub ye can cuddle. While Annie laughed and played, her mother had frantically tried to finish her sewing before the light disappeared. In winter, without candles or wood or