The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,45
if she didn’t wish to be embarrassed.
She wondered if Huxley intended to pay for her corset. Perhaps her petticoats and stockings, too. The thought made her chuckle.
“Och, lass. Are ye findin’ that yellow tartan amusin’?” Mrs. MacBean asked. “’Tis a pitiful choice of color, I’ll grant ye. Reminds me of milk gone sour.”
She examined the old woman, who’d been both patient and generous to accompany Annie all the way to Inverness. “Which one do ye favor, Mrs. MacBean?” she asked, waving to the long wall lined with wool ranging from deepest blue to boldest red.
Mrs. MacBean gave the bolts a long, considering perusal. Then, she pointed to two, both tartans in shades of brown and green. “These are bonnie. Mayhap ye could make yerself one of those fancy walkin’ gowns out of ‘em.”
Annie raised a brow. Apparently, Mrs. MacBean wasn’t as sound a sleeper as she let on. “A grand idea,” she murmured, watching the old woman drift toward a display of linen.
Glancing back to ensure Huxley was still huddled in conversation with the bespectacled draper, she continued along the wall until she reached the tartans at the end. There, in the shadows, she found the one she wanted.
It was a simple pattern woven of midnight blue and pine green. Similar to her plaid, but perhaps even richer, the wool was soft and fine. She rubbed it between her fingers. It would pleat beautifully.
Annie waited until Huxley was distracted by more of Mrs. MacBean’s bawdy tales about his “uncle,” then completed her purchases. She tucked the paper-wrapped bundle beneath her arm just as Huxley approached.
“Night falls early this time of year,” he murmured. “We’d best depart soon.”
She nodded, ignoring his curiosity about her purchase, and led the way to his cart. She’d already clambered up into the cart’s bed when Mrs. MacBean called up to her.
“Och, lassie. Might I persuade ye to trade places with me? I’m fair weary after our long travels.”
Annie frowned. She didn’t look weary. She’d spent two hours in the dressmaker’s shop napping. But old people tired easily, and it was no bother to comply, so Annie made up a pallet of blankets and straw for the woman then climbed onto the bench. Huxley handed her another blanket as he took his seat and started the horses forward.
Odd how large he seemed beside her. Their thighs were different sizes—his were thick, indeed. Thick and muscular. The length between his hip and knee was nearly twice hers. Then there were his shoulders. Were they wider than when she’d first met him? Possibly. He’d been working like a bloody draft horse to restore his castle. Additionally, he’d been heaving cabers and stones every day, as she’d instructed. That would add muscle to any man. She blinked as she realized she was staring at his jaw. The one that flickered when she vexed him. The one that made her glow.
She sighed. It was daft to moon over the Englishman. The man’s sole aim was to sell his land and leave. Her sole aim was to marry someone else. Besides which, he seemed a mite cynical toward women—especially ladies. Which was strange, considering he was so knowledgeable about them.
Still, he was the bonniest man she’d ever seen. His lashes were a pure luxury. His eyes, with their gold-glowing, changeable hues made her think of a woodland sunset. And his lips—good God, they were—
“Do you intend to use that blanket? Or merely clutch it like your favorite doll?”
She frowned. “Why did ye insist on payin’ for my gowns, English?”
He cast her a sideways glance. “Perhaps I like the thought of you being beholden to me. Perhaps I’m betting it will ensure you keep your end of our bargain.”
She snorted. “Ye wasted yer coins, then. Ye dinnae need such a debt. I’ve given ye my word.”
“Hmm. I prefer more tangible bindings.”
Why was he staring at her hands that way? She couldn’t make sense of it.
“Well, whatever the dressmaker charges ye—”
“The draper, too.” His mouth quirked. Again, that hint of triumph entered his expression. “Don’t forget him.”
Odd, exasperating Englishman. “I’ll be payin’ ye back for everything ye spend.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Aye, I will.”
He didn’t reply, but his answer was clear. He wouldn’t accept repayment.
“Look, English. As matters stand, you payin’ for my clothing makes it appear I’m yer …”