peat, Lillias Tulloch’s hours to earn a living were short. She hadn’t had the luxury of remaining unmarried.
“She met Angus when he came to town for supplies. He threatened a shopkeeper who was fussin’ over a bill she hadnae paid. Then he paid it. Then he offered her a position as a governess for his sons.” Annie smiled. “When she explained she had a daughter, he offered to marry her. All within an hour of first settin’ eyes upon her. He’d never admit it—to this day, he claims he only married her because his sons needed civilizin’—but I think Angus was smitten from the first.”
“And your mother?”
“She needed a husband.”
“Hmm. What did you think of him?”
“I didnae meet him until the day of their wedding, outside the kirk doors. Angus and his sons came walkin’ up the road wearin’ their kilts and lookin’ like a band of black-haired giants from a storybook.” She chuckled at the memory. “I was so frightened, I started greetin’.”
“Greeting?”
“It means weepin’. I was wee.” She shrugged. “I’d never seen a man his size before. But Angus wouldnae have it. He went to his knee right there in the dirt. He showed me his wrists and said, ‘Have ye ever seen such a big set of bones as these, lassie?’ Of course, I hadnae. But it stopped me cryin’. Then, he says, ‘Feel it. Go on, feel it.’ My hands were so tiny, even two of ‘em didnae cover half of his wrist. Then, he says, ‘From now on, yer mam and ye are a part of me as much as these bones. And ye need never fear again, for I’ll stand betwixt ye and all the dangers of the world.’”
Her throat tightened, and she fought the tears that always came when she let these memories surface. “After my mother died, he didnae say much for a long while. When he finally did, he told me, ‘I married yer mother. But my first promise was to ye, Annie. And I mean to keep it.’”
Warm knuckles brushed her cheek. Her eyes flew up and collided with his. Brown and green and gold—mostly gold. Too beautiful for a man.
“Why haven’t you told him you’re seeking a husband?” he asked.
“He owed me nothin’, English. He and my mother were married naught but a year. Yet he gave me a home. A family. Permanent as can be. Should I thank him by leavin’?”
“He loves you.” Somehow, his fingers were still stroking her cheek. Somehow, their mouths were a whisper apart.
“Aye. And I love him.”
A frown tugged at his brow. “Why do you insist on calling him your stepfather?”
“What do ye mean?”
“You often correct me. He calls you his daughter, but you go out of your way to call him your stepfather.”
She dropped her gaze to his beard, then focused on his lips. They were perfect. Defined at the edges, more thin than full. The upper curve seemed made for smiling, though he rarely did.
“Two reasons,” she answered. “First, I want all the daft villagers who believe me mad to remember that Angus and I dinnae share a bloodline. That way, should my brothers ever sort themselves out enough to find wives and sire bairns, there willnae be any question.”
“And the second reason?”
“To remind myself that he didnae have to love me. He chose to.”
Another stroke of a knuckle over her cheek. Another warm sigh across her lips. “I’d wager it was less of a choice than you suppose,” he murmured.
Loud, distant banging, like stone being struck with a hammer, rang throughout the castle. She blinked, realizing they’d been standing much too close to one another. Huxley seemed to realize it, too, given how swiftly he dropped his hand and backed away from her.
It felt like having her blankets torn away on a cold morning.
Gathering her composure, she nodded toward the door. “Dougal, I presume?”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve asked him to start straight away.”
“The kitchen?”
“The bedchamber.”
“Nah. Ye should put him to work on the kitchen first.”
Huxley frowned. “I’ll be hiring enough men to address all the necessary repairs. Household staff, as well.” He paused. “This brings me to the topic I intended to discuss with you.”
“Good. The kitchen floor is a disgrace. Anybody could stumble on the loose stones and land in the fire.”
“You mustn’t come here alone again.”