The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,56
turned solemn. “Nothin’ good. Broderick MacPherson’s bein’ charged with murder. His kin are fightin’ the High Court, but it doesnae bode well.”
As he left, cold settled into John’s gut. All winter, he’d waited for Campbell to ask for his help. None of the MacPhersons had contacted him. He imagined Annie’s pain as she waited for her brother’s fate to be decided. The urge to see her, to comfort her was a deep, agonizing itch with no relief in sight.
He shouldn’t feel this. She shouldn’t matter this much.
To distract himself, John picked up Kate’s letter, thinking he should finish reading it. His mother insisted his youngest sister needed “brotherly guidance”—whatever that meant. He’d just started on the second page when another knock sounded.
“Come,” he said absently, wondering what on earth Kate meant by quoting a lengthy passage from a Walter Scott novel, followed by a brief scene from Macbeth. She appeared to be asking about tartans and clans, but with Kate, conversation often ran in nonsensical circles.
Dougal cleared his throat. “Beg yer pardon, sir.”
“Did you forget something, Dougal?”
“As I was leavin’, I discovered a gentleman outside. I fear the cold has him a wee bit addled. He asked for Lord Huxley.”
John’s head jerked up. The man entering behind Dougal was roughly John’s height but had broader shoulders and nearly black hair. That hair dripped across a scowling face. Leaning upon his cane, the man moved stiffly into the lantern light.
“Con?” John blinked to be sure. But yes, it was Robert Conrad. Here. In his castle. In bloody Scotland. John bounded to his feet and embraced his sodden, weary best friend. “Good God, man. What are you doing here?”
“Presently? Freezing to death.”
They pounded each other’s backs before John asked Dougal to have his mother prepare tea then invited Robert to sit by the fire. “Annabelle sent you, I take it,” John said. He handed Robert a glass of whisky and took a sip of his own. “Her last letter sounded motherly.”
Sighing, Robert relaxed into his chair and propped his cane beside his knee. “She is a mother many times over. But no, she didn’t send me.” Brooding blue eyes grew solemn. “I came on my own accord. Your letters have been bleaker than usual the past several months.”
John stared into his glass. “It’s winter.” He took a drink then pointed to the window. “As you can see, bleak is something of a theme.”
“There’s more to it than the weather, man.” Robert shrugged out of his coat and resettled himself before saying quietly, “I’m here to tell you it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Robert took a drink and ran a hand through his thick, damp hair. “For you to stop running.”
John’s gut hardened. He tilted his glass to indicate their surroundings. “Odd sort of running. I’ve been here two years.”
“You know what I mean.”
He knew. But he didn’t have to like it. “My father is in excellent health. Chances are he’ll outlive us all.”
“Producing an heir is important, but that’s not what I’m talking about, Hux.” Robert stared down into his glass, swirling the golden liquid. “Do you think we don’t see? You’ve been miserable for years.”
Cold settled deep. John tossed back the last of his whisky and hoped the burn would help. It didn’t. “Miserable is a strong word.”
“Is it?” Robert shook his head and sighed. “Don’t forget, I spent seven years in a similar state.”
“That was different.”
Robert raised a questioning brow.
“You knew what was missing.”
A smile touched Robert’s lips. “Annabelle. Yes. But knowing did not lessen the pain of it.” The smile faded. “I do understand, Hux. The need to prove your mettle. The need for distraction. To fill the emptiness with something—anything.” He swirled his glass thoughtfully. “It works sometimes. So, you keep doing it. But more often, it doesn’t work at all. Even when it does, you’re left with less than you had before. Somehow, the things you do to distract yourself corrode the hollow places, leaving nothing but a cavernous hunger that will never be satisfied.”
Yes. That was it precisely. John wished hearing Robert describe his problem helped. It didn’t. If anything, he felt colder. Older. Tired. He refilled his glass and Robert’s then sat back with a sigh. “Let us drink, old friend.” He raised his glass. “To Annabelle. Thank heaven she is more forgiving than you deserve.”