behind umbrella-shaped trees, a dolphin leaping from impossibly blue water, a heated rainstorm scented with plumeria.
He missed that feeling—the wonder of a sight no one else had seen. The real problem, of course, was that he’d stopped feeling it long before he’d come to Scotland. Long before he’d stopped seeking it.
By the end of his life, Ewan Wylie had begged him to go home before he got himself killed. Now, John wanted to laugh. Because being dead sounded better than this bloody emptiness.
He rubbed his returning beard. It made his face itch, but he couldn’t be bothered to shave. She’d liked him better without it, he recalled.
The thought made him smile. Lately, she was the only thought that did.
The last day they’d spent together, admiration had lit her up every time she’d looked at him. He pictured her now, standing inside an Inverness dressmaker’s shop, licking those pert lips and maddening him with her arguments.
Well, I dinnae ken if I can be bland, English. But decorative. Perhaps that I can do.
Indeed, she was anything but bland. He missed her. Craved her the way some men craved strong drink or poppy smoke.
At night, the craving had transformed into dreams so erotic, he’d become desperate to have them end—and equally desperate to have them return. In the past, finding a willing woman to manage his needs had been simple. Women liked him. Always had. A playful grin, a bit of flattery. Easy.
Now, nothing made him grin but her.
Nothing made him hard but her.
Nothing made him want but her.
How incomprehensibly mad. It was the worst thing to happen to him since the emptiness had begun seven years earlier. Back then, he’d distracted himself with wayfaring in Africa and building ships in Sunderland and making runs to the West Indies with a half-sotted Ewan Wylie bellowing at the mast.
Then, Ewan drank himself to death. And the emptiness caught up with John. Now, here he was in the arse crease of Scotland longing for a scarlet-haired hoyden to walk through his door and call him English.
Just that. Her voice. A sweet lilt of amusement. A wry taste of taunt.
He rubbed his jaw, watching the fire dance. It looked like her hair. Cursing, he returned to his desk. Perhaps whisky would improve this cursed mood. At least it might let him sleep.
Minutes later, a knock sounded at the study door. “Come,” he called hoarsely.
“I’m headed home, sir.” It was Dougal, looking weary from the day’s labors.
They’d nearly finished the castle’s interior. With Dougal, his two brothers, three sisters, and his mother all working at Glendasheen Castle, the place was coming alive, transforming into a proper house with a proper staff and real furniture.
When spring arrived, John would put Dougal and his brothers to work improving the gardens and the road along the loch. They’d need better roads if the MacDonnells were to travel safely to and from the village. Visitors, too. He didn’t want visitors coming to the castle until that road was repaired.
A brief vision of a red-haired hoyden struggling to pull a reluctant donkey through a muddy mess flashed through his mind. He shook his head. No. He couldn’t have that. What if she hurt herself? What if she fell?
“Er, Mam said ye werenae keen on her skink.” Dougal again. He was eyeing John’s untouched tray and wringing his cap between two hands. “I hope ye’re not set on dismissin’ her, Mr. Huxley. She does burn the potatoes from time to time, but it’s not for lack of tryin’.”
John frowned. “Is that why the soup is gray?”
Nodding sheepishly, Dougal explained, “It’s usually white. A fine dish, well prepared. If ye fancy smoked haddock, that is.” He paused. “She makes a grand shortbread, sir. I promise if ye keep her on, she’ll do better.”
Clearly, the man had oversold his mother’s talents. But John didn’t know how much longer he’d be in Scotland, so there was little point in seeking out a replacement. Dougal’s family needed the employment. They were all hard workers, respectful and reliable.
“Not to worry,” John replied. “Your mother’s position is safe.”
“Thank ye, sir.” Dougal dropped his gaze to his hands. “We cannae thank ye enough for all ye’ve done.”
“Thank me with shortbread, hmm?”
The other man smiled gratefully and turned to leave.
“Dougal.”
“Aye, sir?”
John hesitated. “Have you heard anything about the MacPhersons?”
Dougal