The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,68
altogether every day for the last seven,” Annie snapped. “Nobody here is any better than anybody else. Stop actin’ like ye’re embarrassed to be breathin’.”
The other woman flinched and cowered.
Bloody hell. With an effort, Annie softened her tone. “All I mean is that ye needn’t be nervous to speak yer mind. I hired ye because ye’ve a bit of talent for”—she gestured to the gowns then swirled a hand around her own head—“this sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry,” Betty whispered.
“Dinnae apologize, for the love of …” Annie bit down on the remainder then patted the woman’s spindly shoulder. “Let’s try the lavender one, eh?”
Betty nodded. Then hesitated. Then moved to the grass-green walking dress. “Th-this one is a bonnie shade fer spring.”
Despite her own melancholy, Annie gave Betty an encouraging nod. “Right ye are. A much better choice.”
Betty smiled then helped her dress. A short time later, while Annie’s new maid removed wee wraps from the curls along Annie’s temples, one of her lads ran into the bedchamber to deliver a note from Angus.
As she read his blunt, blockish scrawl, Annie’s stomach tightened and swooped and panged. Then, her chest expanded until she felt it might burst. She covered her lips with trembling fingers. Could it be?
Betty whispered, “Is the news dreadful, then?”
Annie shook her head in wonderment, struggling to contain herself. “No,” she choked. “Ah, God bless us all. The charges against Broderick will be dismissed. The Lord Commissioner has accepted the exciseman’s original statement, and Broderick’s sure to be released.” Without thinking, she stood and embraced Betty, who gave a startled jerk at the gesture.
“Och, I’m a pure disaster.” Annie drew back, sniffing and swiping at damp cheeks. “I’ll need yer help with packin’. Angus will want to leave for Edinburgh straight away. Ye must stay here.”
Betty hesitated, blinking and moving her mouth as though she wished to speak.
Annie explained, “Broderick’s health is quite poor, and he’ll need a lot of care when we bring him home. I’d like ye to prepare his old bedchamber on the ground floor. He has a fine house of his own, ’tis true. But for a time, he must stay where we can care for him properly.” Annie patted Betty’s shoulder, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’ll want yer help with that, too.”
“Of course.” Betty’s eyes went soft with sympathy. “We’ll have him feelin’ braw in no time.”
Two hours later, Annie and the MacPherson men left the glen and headed south. While she remained dry inside the enormous travel coach her father had hired, Campbell and Alexander rode their horses alongside, their postures intimidating and vigilant. Angus rode outside with the coach driver, his favorite hunting rifle braced across his knees.
David Skene had not yet been found, after all.
For the following three days, they set a rapid pace over muddy March roads. The few times Annie had traveled such a distance, she’d sat between her brothers in a rough wagon. She’d worn her trews and plaid and tucked her hair up beneath her hat. Now, she was dressed like a lady in a proper gown with a proper straw bonnet. She sat upon cushioned seats and slept against a tufted coach wall. She watched out the window while the starkly beautiful mountains and steep, green glens of the Highlands gradually softened into hills, swells, and finally, rolling pastures.
And she hated every moment. Idleness drove her mad. She spent the first couple of days working on her sewing projects. Those were coming along splendidly, but the motion of the carriage and uncertain light made for slow work. Without anyone to talk to, she slept when she was able. And she practiced speaking the way Mrs. Baird did, with softer R’s and gentler O’s. Mostly, she tortured herself with thoughts of everything she might lose.
Her brother.
Her laddie.
Her … whatever John Huxley was.
From time to time, despair overwhelmed her, and she reached for the thistle charm in her wee purse—or reticule, as Mrs. Baird called it. The little carving had been discolored and smoothed by her hand over the past few months.
She rubbed her thumb across its contours now as the coach rolled into the heart of Edinburgh. “Are ye seein’ this, Fin?” she whispered when the tall, crowded buildings of Lawnmarket gave way to the tall, crowded buildings of High Street. They passed Parliament Square, where Broderick’s fate had been weighed