The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,4
heard the weight of the surrounding mountains in his words.
“Why?”
“I vowed I would not.”
She scoffed. “Ye promised an auld, jealous fool that ye’d spite the man who ‘stole’ his bride. Lot of male nonsense, if ye’re askin’ me.”
“I don’t believe I was.”
Sighing, she conceded the point. “Fair enough, English.” She patted the bolt of linen. “Dinnae forget the thread.” She plucked the ivory skein from her makeshift pocket then held it up in feigned surprise. “Och, no. Appears I’ve nabbed the last of it.” She clicked her tongue. “A pure shame. Yer petticoats willnae be so fine, after all.”
His lips twitched briefly inside his beard. “You might be surprised, Miss Tulloch. I’ve a way with petticoats.” He glanced down at her trews. “I see you’re still developing similar talents.”
Other lasses might be insulted, but Annie merely brushed the haphazard folds of her plaid and laughed. Had she been wearing it over skirts, the blanket-sized length of wool would be a proper arasaid, as other Highland women wore. But she hadn’t the patience for muddy hems and flammable layers. Too much work to be done. “Ah, ye amuse me, English. I must say, ye do.”
He huffed—nearly a chuckle—and donned his hat. “Give my regards to MacPherson.”
Cleghorn came to take Huxley’s coins, and Annie took her leave, waving Fin over to take her hand. Outside, beneath the shop’s eave, she paused. Huxley exited behind her and strode across the square to his cart. Her eyes followed him then caught on the two men standing near the MacDonnell statue. One was garbed in bright tartan, the other in refined riding clothes.
“Lord,” came a whisper from her side.
Her heart thudded.
Finlay hadn’t spoken in weeks. Was this a sign he’d begun healing?
Her eyes flew down, only to find the effort of a single word had cost him half his color. Worry sank its claws around her throat.
“Aye, Fin,” she managed past the ache. “’Tis the Laird of Glenscannadoo, for all that means. Can a man be a laird when he hasnae but five or six acres?”
Finlay peered at the popinjay gesturing grandly at his father’s statue.
Gilbert MacDonnell had rounder cheeks than one usually saw in a man above twenty. Wispy brows disappeared into his skin. His nose was short, a perfect match for his stature. And his speech hinted at a lisp. She’d say he wore a clan chief’s costume if clan chiefs strutted about like wee tartan peacocks. Most had more sense.
“No laird.”
Three words in one day! “Not a real one, that’s for certain,” she murmured, trying not to draw undue attention. “He’s dressed like that ridiculous statue.” The cap, the kilt, the sporran. Even the brogues and stockings. The only difference was the tartan. Scarlet didn’t translate into stone.
By contrast, the popinjay’s golden-haired companion wore a sensible hunting coat and fine-fitted riding breeches. She admired the gentleman’s backside for a moment before wondering who he might be.
Fine breeches, indeed.
Fin’s hand squeezed hers. She glanced down to see him mouth, “Must go.”
“In a wee moment, laddie.” Nudging her hat higher upon her head, she squinted across the rain-spattered square to get a better look. The man was passably tall—at least ten inches taller than the laird. Of course, the laird was even shorter than Annie, so that was no great measure. The Englishman would top the well-dressed stranger by several inches. Still, she admired the lean elegance of his shoulders, the fine cut of his coat. The firmness of his seat.
Nearby, two MacDonnell women exited the dressmaker’s shop. “Ye see there, Flora? Didnae I tell ye the laird had guests from Edinburgh?”
“Edinburgh!”
“Lowlanders. Titled ones.”
Annie sidled to her left, tugging Finlay toward home. Only when she angled past the post did she spy the third figure in the trio. A woman—no, a lady—huddled close to the golden-haired man. Her gaze was patient boredom. Her neck resembled a swan’s. Her gown was silk.
Silk. In the pissing rain of Glenscannadoo.
And not just any silk, but quite the finest blue satin Annie had ever seen. It glistened like the loch on a summer afternoon. The golden-haired man held an umbrella above her head, his shoulders canted in a posture that suggested she was delicate. Important.
Annie’s stomach panged oddly. He seemed to care for her, whoever she was. Whoever he was, for that matter. Annie still didn’t know.