stared straight ahead. “My what?”
Mistress. His mistress. But she couldn’t say that. There was too much between them, too much that tempted her to brush the lock of hair from his forehead or soothe that hard jaw with her hand.
“Kin,” she finished. “Mayhap a sixth sister.”
Those bonnie eyes lit and burned. “Nobody would mistake you for my sister, Miss Tulloch.” He licked his lips, stared at hers, then tore his gaze away. “Nobody would be that blind.”
She swallowed and let silence fall between them as they crossed the bridge and left Inverness behind. Wind came up, damp and icy. She shivered and unfolded the blanket he’d handed her earlier. A bundle of letters tied with twine tumbled onto her lap.
“What’s this?” She plucked them up to examine them.
“My correspondence, obviously.” He frowned and reached for the bundle. But, seeing his eagerness to remove them, she held them away.
“Are these from yer family, English? This top one appears written by a woman. A lady, perhaps.” She grinned as he frowned deeper. “I’ve heard ladies enjoy writin’ letters with their mornin’ tea.”
“It’s from my mother.”
She plucked through the corners of the stack. “And this one?”
“My father.”
The last four were from three of his sisters and his boyhood friend, Robert.
She examined the bundle carefully. “Fine paper, these. Every single one.” She wrapped the bundle in a second blanket and tucked it into the corner of the cart beside Mrs. MacBean. “Yer sisters married well, then.”
His tension eased once the letters were out of sight. “You might say that.” A small smile curved his lips. “The oldest, Annabelle, married my best friend.”
“Robert?”
His smile widened as he nodded. “They live near my parents in Nottinghamshire. Their youngest son is named for me.”
“They called him ‘English,’ then?” she teased.
He laughed. It was the first time she’d seen him do so with such ease. “Only you are permitted to use my special Highland moniker, Miss Tulloch.”
His broad grin struck her speechless.
She swallowed, tilting dizzily at the sight. Dear God, did he realize the effect he had merely by smiling? She hoped not. It was dangerous—a bit like being blinded by the sun.
“They called him John,” he said proudly, his smile lingering as he turned to watch the road. “Last I saw of him, he could fit in my pocket.”
Annie spent the next two hours querying him about his family. Apart from the occasional odd hesitation and careful dodge, he seemed eager to tell her about them. First, he shared stories about his childhood in Nottinghamshire: fishing with his hands in a rock-strewn river, sledging with his sisters when they had a good snow, playing soldiers with Robert until well past dark, and crashing his neighbor’s phaeton into a hedgerow.
“To be fair, I was twelve,” he explained. “I’d never so much as ridden in a phaeton, let alone driven one.”
Then, he described his parents. His mother was fond of long hugs, strategic meal planning, and cats, which made his father sneeze. His father, according to Huxley, had a decidedly tolerant disposition.
“My family was always a bit unusual in that regard. Mama and Papa preferred to allow their children to grow in their own directions.” Huxley chuckled. “It made for a number of eccentricities.”
“How so?”
“All sorts of ways, really. Kate is the youngest. She quotes Shakespeare in casual conversation and attempts to sing far too frequently. My second-youngest sister, Eugenia, is obsessed with hats. So much so that she worked as a milliner until she married last spring.”
Despite the chill of the evening air, his affection for his family warmed her. She wanted to hear more. “What is she like?”
“Eugenia? Charming. Opinionated—about feathers in particular. Never minces words. You and she would get on famously, I expect.”
Annie doubted it. She’d never gotten along with other females.
“Let’s see. My third-youngest sister, Maureen, enjoys cookery even more than you do. Every Christmas, she makes these little cakes.” Sadness clouded his smile.
Christmas was only a week away. Annie imagined he would miss spending it with them. Perhaps she’d invite him to dine with her and the MacPhersons. They weren’t his family, but at least he wouldn’t be alone. Yes. That was the solution. She’d insist he join them for Christmas dinner. And Hogmanay, too. And Twelfth Night. Did he bother celebrating Twelfth Night?
Before she could ask, he continued, “Jane is