The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,39
him until he disappeared inside the castle. Only then could she breathe properly. What was wrong with her? She’d seen him without his whiskers before.
Gathering her composure, she helped Mrs. MacBean down from Bill’s back before taking the donkey to the stable. She noted the new timbers and freshly built stalls, the tidy tack room and clean floors. Giving Bill’s neck a pat, she glanced around at what had once been open-air piles of old stone and rotting wood.
Even before Huxley had hired men, he’d worked wonders with Glendasheen Castle. She shook her head at the transformation. It was more than admirable. It was very near a miracle, considering the castle’s curse.
Somehow, he’d avoided the unnatural calamities of the castle’s previous owners. One MacDonnell chieftain had rebuilt the tower seven times before conceding defeat. Another had lost the use of his leg when a section of roof collapsed without warning or cause. A third gave up when the castle caught fire for the fourth time. Ewan Wylie’s misfortune had been less violent, perhaps, but his setbacks were no less effective—an invasion of bats, hearths that refused to stay lit, a tree falling upon the stable. Eventually, the expense and discomfort had forced Wylie to abandon the glen for employment elsewhere.
John Huxley, by contrast, had made startling progress in just over a year.
“Appears the spirits favor yer man,” Mrs. MacBean commented from the entrance. “The castle hasnae slowed him down, that’s for certain.”
Annie nodded. “Aye.” She’d given up on correcting the old woman’s assumption that Huxley was hers. “I’ve noticed the same thing.” She ran a hand over the nearest stall’s gate. “Why do ye suppose that is?”
“Cannae say. Spirits have naught but time and whim to weigh upon them.” The old woman brushed a piece of straw from her sleeve. “Mayhap they enjoy lookin’ upon his face. Dinnae blame them for that.”
A fair point. Annie recalled those handsome, refined features. The sculpted jaw. The aristocratic nose. The captivating eyes.
When they exited into the stable yard, his handsome face was wearing a scowl. He came toward them carrying a basket of apples. “When did you arrive?”
“A few minutes ago.” Annie grinned to disguise her fascination with his naked jaw and perfect lips. “Ye appear a mite pained, English. Strained a muscle, eh? Perhaps ye should leave the heavy liftin’ to proper Scotsmen.”
He ignored her to set his apples beside the stable entrance. Then, he returned to address Mrs. MacBean. “Madam,” he said quietly, giving her a respectful nod. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. I am John Huxley.”
The old woman ran a hand over her wild shrub of hair. “Mary MacBean, maker of potions and cures for ailments of every sort.” Her eyebrows bobbed. “And the pleasure is mine, lad. All mine.”
Huxley’s eyes crinkled at the corners, though he didn’t smile. He inclined his head before shifting his gaze to Annie. “Your chaperone, I take it.”
Annie raised her chin, daring him to complain. “Aye.”
“I’m afraid our lessons must wait, Miss Tulloch. Today, I’m traveling to Inverness for supplies. Perhaps next week—”
“Nah. Ye should stay here and keep yer end of the bargain.”
He propped his hands on his hips. “Next week will be soon enough—”
Her temper flared. If he thought to avoid her after their kiss, he could think again. They’d made an agreement. He’d given her his word.
“I didnae drag Bill and Mrs. MacBean all this way to turn round and—”
“Bill?” He tensed. “Who is Bill?”
“More of a gentleman than you, I tell ye that much.”
“Does he work for your father?”
“Stepfather. And aye, in a manner of speakin’.”
Hazel eyes raked her from boots to shoulders and back again. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, perhaps to himself.
“Och, Bill is a fine, muckle fellow,” Mrs. MacBean interjected. “Ears are a wee bit longer than may be regarded as attractive, and I’ve never encountered such a gassy creature. But all considered, he gave me a most pleasurable ride.”
Huxley blinked at the old woman. Paused a moment. Then his brow cleared. “Bill is a horse.”
“Donkey,” Annie corrected. “Now, do ye intend to keep yer word or not?”