The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,63
Tulloch. I am Robert Conrad, an old friend of Mr. Dafty.”
Startled and delighted, she immediately grinned. “Robert? Ye’re the Robert?”
“Er, I don’t know about the Robert, but yes. That is my name.”
She swatted him with his own hat. “Och, why didnae ye say so? After all of Huxley’s tales about the two of ye chasin’ trouble together, I’d have thought ye’d visit him sooner.”
“Indeed, I should have done.” Robert glanced cautiously at his friend. “I wasn’t certain how long he would remain in Scotland. But his lands are splendid and the people charming. Understandable that he would lengthen his stay.”
“Well, come into the parlor and sit, for God’s sake.” She placed his hat on the hook and led the men into the adjacent room. Shooing one of her cleaning lads off to fetch bread and cider, she tutted, “Ye havenae come all the way from Nottinghamshire to stand about bletherin’ in my doorway. Has he fed ye properly yet?” She gestured toward one of the sofas. “I heard he hired Marjorie MacDonnell to be his cook.” Clicking her tongue, she called toward the doorway where Huxley had halted—still hovering, still staring like a pure eejit. “I warned ye Dougal would try to saddle ye with his entire clan, English. I hope ye didnae hire his worthless sons to clean yer chimneys. Whole castle’ll burn down before those laddies do aught that’s useful.”
He wandered deeper into the room. Flexed his hands. Swallowed again. “Her bread is dreadful,” he uttered.
At the sound of his voice—crisp and deep—her heart drummed faster.
He stopped about a foot away. “It’s nothing like yours.”
God, his eyes were burning her alive. Her chest ached. Her fingertips tingled with the need to touch him. “Ye’ve gone too thin.”
“I’ve been starving.”
“It—it’s yer own fault, stayin’ away from … my kitchen so long. This willnae do if ye intend to win yer wager.”
“No. It won’t do.”
“I’ll give ye loaves to take with ye.”
His breathing quickened. “Is that all?”
“Mayhap I’ve some venison left over from last night.”
He groaned. “Yes.”
Slowly, she smiled. Warmth glowed in her middle. “Ye like that, English?”
“I do.”
“Perhaps I could offer ye more.”
“I want everything. Everything you can give me.”
Heavens, she was hot. Her skin was pulsing. Her breasts felt swollen. Maybe it was the wool gown or the corset. Maybe her lads had built the parlor fire too large.
“You look … different,” he whispered, licking his lips.
“’Tis the gown.”
“Mmm.”
“Also the hair.” She touched the smooth strands above her ear. “And Mrs. Baird made me proper stays.”
Another groan. He closed his eyes briefly, moving his lips in a silent chant she couldn’t decipher.
“She’s still upstairs workin’ on the alterations. Ye bought far too many gowns, English.”
“I wanted you to have them.” He lowered his head and his voice. “Remember our bargain?”
She blinked. “Is that why ye’ve come? For a lesson?”
“Angus and I settled upon an … understanding. I spoke to him early this morning at the distillery.”
Alarm streaked through her. Immediately, she reached for him, patting his shoulders and inspecting his arms and ribs and hands. Finally, she drew his head down and ran her fingers over his scalp.
“Annie,” came his hoarse, amused response. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Did he hurt ye?” She hadn’t felt any lumps or swellings, but head wounds could be deceptive. “Is that why ye’re actin’ daft?”
He clasped her wrists and drew her hands down against his chest. “I’m fine,” he said gently. “Campbell was there. He kept the peace while your father and I discussed a few matters. Angus has no objection to our continuing our lessons.”
She turned to Robert, who stood quietly beside the fire looking bemused. “He didnae shoot Angus, did he?” She looked at Huxley. “Tell me ye didnae shoot him with yer wee pistols.”
“Of course not.”
“No ‘of course’ about it, English. The last time I mentioned yer name, Angus threatened to carve out yer heart and feed it to Bill the Donkey with a side of oats and gravy.”
“It’s been three months. His temper has had time to cool.”
“This was yesterday.” She crossed her arms and glowered up at the Englishman, who wore familiar triumph on his bonnie face. “What did ye say to Da that he’s so agreeable, now?”