The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,47
the second-oldest. She and her husband live in Yorkshire with their vast brood of offspring. Jane would collect every book in the kingdom if she could. Despite having two libraries, she insists her husband’s definition of enough is never quite enough.”
Annie raised a brow. “Two libraries? I’m beginnin’ to understand why a bill from an Inverness dressmaker doesnae so much as flutter those bonnie eyelashes of yours.”
His smile faded. His jaw flexed. It was a long while before he answered coldly, “Whatever wealth I own has been earned, I assure you. Every farthing.”
She frowned. Obviously, she’d touched a sore tooth. “I didnae assume otherwise. Now, who drowned yer drawers in starch all of a sudden?”
“When you’ve seen as much of the world as I have, you realize a man’s birth tells you very little about his true substance.” His voice snapped like icy sails.
Confusing man.
Annie glanced behind her to where Mrs. MacBean slept soundly. She drew the old woman’s blanket higher to protect her from the cold. Her fussing gave her time to formulate an answer. “If ye mean to imply I’m a wee bit curious about how rich ye are, then I must admit, ye have me.”
“Naturally.” A faint sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “Most women want to know what you can give them, be it fortune or title.”
Ah, they were back to that, were they? She let a moment pass so he could hear himself. “So, yer mother—the one who loves cats and begs her son to come home for a visit—she’s a mercenary sort, eh?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Perhaps it’s yer sisters. Let me guess. Annabelle married yer best friend for his title.”
The frown deepened. He rolled his shoulders. “Of course not. She’s been in love with Robert since they were children. He had no title.”
“Not yer sisters, then. Hmm. Perhaps it was the modest mistress from Paris who soured ye.”
“For the last time, she was a modiste. I should never have told you about her.”
“Why did ye?”
“You asked how I learned about women’s fashions. That is how.”
“Right.” She snorted. “And all the women’s fashions ye’ve removed in yer time had naught to do with it, eh?”
“God, you are the most vexing—”
“Who was it that tried to trap ye like a prize stag, John Huxley?”
His breathing seemed to halt. His eyes flashed to her then away. He didn’t answer.
Despite his stiffness, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “’Tis why ye havenae married, aye? Why ye’ve lingered here in the arse crease of Scotland, rebuilding a castle ye’ve no intention of keepin’, makin’ rubbish wagers with a crabbit auld man, wastin’ yer time teachin’ a hoyden to be a lady.”
“You are not a waste of time.”
She patted his knee. “I’d wager a mother like yers has a bride or two picked out for ye. A bit like preparin’ a feast to welcome ye home—except that ye’re the poor beastie on the platter. That’s why ye dinnae answer her prayers and return to Nottinghamshire, where ye belong.”
“Ewan Wylie helped me build the wealth you’re so curious about. I owe him a great deal, not least my life. I’ve remained in Scotland to honor his wishes.”
“That’s pure shite.”
He scraped a hand over his jaw. “Bloody hell, woman.”
“Ye could have kept yer piece of Glendasheen without ever settin’ foot upon Scottish soil. With Angus’s nonsense, ye’re better off keepin’ the land than sellin’ it, anyhow.” She snorted. “Not like ye need the funds. Payin’ dressmaker bills for lasses ye’re not even tuppin’ tells me that much.”
“I had to settle matters with your father—”
“Nah. Ye had to hide somewhere. Glenscannadoo may not be the most hospitable place, but it’s a long, miserable ride from Nottinghamshire. No obligatory visits to fash about. No schemin’ ladies conspirin’ to birth yer bairns and spend yer money.”
Stony and scowling, he refused to look at her.
Aye, she had him. Bonnie as he was, her Englishman had probably been pursued since the day he’d donned trousers. And, given his descriptions of his childhood, she’d guess his family had been both wealthy and well connected. Phaetons weren’t much use in farm fields and quarries, after all.
“So, who was the sly vixen that tried to steal yer purse and claim yer manly bits for trophies, eh? A London lass? A Nottinghamshire neighbor?”