The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,42
this to go on?
Another tug on his hand. A gentle touch on his back. “English.”
The whispered plea worked. He ushered her out of the shop and toward the cart. “Where is Mrs. MacBean?” he asked, struggling to keep his anger from boiling over.
“The haberdashery. She’s lookin’ for tartan and seashells. Oh, and an ivory button.” Annie’s small, amused snort eased the pressure in his chest a bit.
He pulled her to a halt beside the cart’s wheel. “Tell me what happened.”
“Who can guess what sort of oddity she has in mind? Daft auld woman.”
“Not with Mrs. MacBean. In the dressmaker’s shop. Why were they—”
Her eyes skated away from his. “I told ye, English. I hate shoppin’.”
“That’s not shopping. They were … blast, they surrounded you like a pack of feral hounds.”
“Worse.” A tiny grin curled one side of her mouth. “Bitches.”
Another small part of him eased. Her spirit wasn’t gone, merely hiding. “How long has this been happening?”
She didn’t answer.
His gut hardened. “A long time, then.”
“Dinnae fash yerself. It’s only bad when they’re all together. Most days, I’m able to avoid them.”
Except today, when he’d forced her to enter her tormentor’s shop and request the woman’s services. Never again. He’d make sure nothing like this ever happened again. “I intend to speak to your father about this,” he gritted.
She laid a hand on his chest. True, he was wearing his heaviest coat and another layer of wool beneath. But still. He felt her touch.
“Stepfather,” she murmured, her smile warming. “I’m fine. No need to involve the MacPhersons.”
“They should have ended this long ago.”
“They dinnae ken anything about it.”
“Why in blazes not?”
She shrugged. “I never told them.”
He started to answer, but Ronnie Cleghorn came running around the cart. The russet-haired boy collided with Annie’s hip and clutched her waist.
“Nannee!”
Immediately, Annie’s face lit up. She stroked the boy’s hair then crouched down to hug him tightly. “Ah, ye’re a breath of summer on this dreich day, laddie. Did yer da let ye keep that pup ye found?”
The boy nodded emphatically. “Stahbee.”
“Ye named him Strawberry?”
Another nod.
“Well, now, since that’s yer favorite fruit, he must be a grand pup, indeed.”
Mrs. MacBean joined them, informing Ronnie his father was searching for him. Smiling, the boy patted Annie’s cheeks. “Ah miss Innee,” he said quietly.
Annie’s eyes glossed and her lower lip firmed as though struggling against grief. “Me, too, laddie,” she whispered. Then, she kissed his forehead and sent him back to his father.
John didn’t know what the last part of their conversation had been about, but when she stood, her expression was wistful. It changed quickly when she met his gaze.
“Spare me yer pity, English,” she snapped, snatching her hat from the bed of the cart and tugging it low over her forehead. “I dinnae want it.”
What he felt wasn’t pity. It was hotter and deeper and more tender. But delving too far into what it was would only invite more complications. His connection with Annie Tulloch was complicated enough. “I can take you home, if you like,” he offered. “It’s fully three hours to Inverness.”
“I already said no. What’s the matter, English? Frightened I’ll start weepin’ and stain yer cravat with my womanly tears?”
He examined the defiant tilt of her chin, the stubborn glint in her eye. “The topic of our lesson hasn’t changed. We will be shopping. Are you prepared for that?”
“Help Mrs. MacBean onto her seat. A gentleman doesnae keep a lady waiting.” Turning on her heel, she marched to the back of the cart before climbing on with surprising dexterity.
With each moment that passed, his smile grew. “Very well.” He tugged his own hat tighter and offered his hand to Mrs. MacBean, who’d been watching with keen interest. “The shops of Inverness had best gird their loins.”
“And why’s that?” Annie’s tone was as sullen as the low, gray clouds above.
He lifted the old woman into the cart and came around to take his own seat before answering. “I suspect they’ve never had a customer as extraordinary as you.”
Chapter Nine
TlU
“Opera dress?” Annie’s query rang sharply off the shop’s fancy walls. She couldn’t help it. They’d officially entered the realm of the ridiculous.
She’d stood by silently while Huxley and the dressmaker, Mrs. Baird, discussed cloaks lined in “ermine”—a fancy word for weasel.