sooner die than vent that rage at Annie, John became the sole, unfortunate target.
He attempted reason first. “Calm yourself, MacPherson. There’s no need for violence.” John retreated toward the windows, giving himself room while he braced for attack. Could a man prepare for four sets of MacPherson fists doing maximum damage? Probably not. “I was the one who insisted she obtain a chaperone.”
Breathing like a bull, Angus shot a questioning glance toward Annie, who nodded.
“Miss Tulloch seeks to marry a peer,” John continued. “I’ve some … connection to that world. She asked if I might serve as a tutor in matters of decorum.” Unbidden, his eyes returned to Annie, whose hair was damp from the misty night and whose plaid could use a proper washing. Her gaze narrowed as though anticipating harsh judgments of her appearance. If she knew what he really thought—what he really wanted—she wouldn’t be glaring. She’d be blushing.
Her father was more perceptive. “Huxley, I’ve warned ye already,” Angus growled. “Ye keep those bluidy English hands off my daughter, or it willnae matter whether yer connections include that fat king of yers.” The man stalked toward John, leaning close and quietly growling, “Or an earl’s whelp.”
John froze. He knew?
John glanced behind him at the three towering brothers. Rannoch seemed amused. Alexander seemed murderous. Campbell seemed forbidding. Nothing unusual there. Did they know, too?
Did Annie? She was frowning at her father, arms crossed, head shaking. Annoyed, perhaps. But no. John didn’t think she knew.
Angus continued his threats at a volume only John could hear. “Unless ye mean to put yer ring upon her finger, lad, ye’d best keep yer distance. No matter who a man is, gelded is gelded, I reckon.”
His ring? Cold flooded his body. No. He didn’t want a wife. He especially didn’t want one as frustrating and fiery and foul-mouthed as …
Annie. There she stood, chin tilted and cornflower eyes flashing.
“Och, ye’re waddin’ up yer drawers fer nothin’, auld man,” she scoffed. “Huxley is too bluidy proper to luik in my direction.” She came forward and tugged Angus’s arm, trying to pull him away from John and soothe him at once. “Dinnae fash.”
Angus didn’t budge. “He wants ye. I can see it.”
“Nah. ’Tis likely he’ll marry some milk-faced lass his mother serves up at a Nottinghamshire supper.” Those cornflower eyes caught him unawares. They should be teasing. Amused. They were not. Rather, they seemed melancholy as the moon. “Isnae that so, English?”
Something foreign moved through him. He couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. All he knew was that the wistful note in her voice made him want to howl. And lift her off her feet onto his shoulder. And haul her out of her father’s house back to his castle. Then, he wanted to …
His breath halted. His hands clenched into fists.
He wanted to … God, he wanted to …
Claim her.
Yes, that was it. The knowledge surged. Thrummed. It took everything he had to hold still.
What the devil was wrong with him? He didn’t know, but something obviously was. She was bent on marrying a title—any title—regardless of the man who came with it. He’d spent his life avoiding women like her.
Apart from which, her father had just threatened to remove what Annie called his “manly bits.” And he heard at least two of her brothers making growling noises near the door. And her hair was a ragged, damp mess. And she couldn’t get through a sentence without cursing. And, despite his best efforts, he suspected she’d never be comfortable dining at his mother’s table.
And the way she’d spoken to a simple, freckled boy about his new pup had stirred something inside him he didn’t understand. Something needful. Near painful.
“I should go,” he rasped.
He didn’t belong here. Annie didn’t belong to him. Or with him. Or beneath him, moaning his name. Yet, he’d spent the day buying her gowns, envisioning her in each one. Fantasizing about how azure silk would look with that fiery hair. Contemplating what a proper corset might do for her lush bosom. Had he lost his bloody mind? Probably.
“English?” Her brow puckered with concern. “Ye’ve gone a bit peely.”
“I should go,” he repeated, pivoting toward the door.
“Angus didnae mean it. He’s just fashed I’ll marry ye and he’ll have to pay someone to cook his dinner.” She followed him to the door where her brothers