The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,72
dug inside her reticule for a kerchief to wipe her stupid tears. When she looked up, she saw a figure at the opposite end of the close.
Drifting deeper into the dark, narrow space, she wandered toward him, thinking she must be imagining things. Perhaps she needed him so badly, she’d begun having visions. Oh, God. Was she going mad?
No. He was there, at the other end of the close where daylight streamed down onto lean, strong shoulders and a bonnie, masculine face. Beneath his hat was hair of sun-streaked brown. By his side was a man with a cane.
And gathered around him were two men in wigs and another two men dressed in even finer garb. One had blond hair and the other dark hair with gray wings at his temples. Both were her Englishman’s height, give or take an inch or two. Both were handsome in the patrician way of aristocracy.
Who were they? And why was John Huxley in Edinburgh, near Parliament Square, talking to two men who looked like Lord Commissioners of the Justiciary and two more men who looked like they should be wearing crowns?
Her pace quickened. What the devil was Huxley up to? Why hadn’t Robert left Scotland already? Did this have something to do with Broderick?
Was this part of the bargain he’d made with—
Her toe caught on a rough plank hidden inside a rubbish pile. “Bluidy hell,” she cursed, hopping on the opposite foot while waves of agony pulsed from her abused toes.
Masculine voices halted. She braced her hand on the stone wall and glanced up.
Oh, God. He’d spotted her. Hazel eyes flashed with recognition beneath his hat’s brim. He said something to Robert and started forward at a stalking pace.
She stumbled back, trying to avoid the pile and regain her footing. “For the love of … blast.”
“Annie? What are you doing there?”
“Avoiding the damnable solicitors. And breakin’ my foot.” She frowned up at him as he bore down upon her. “Did I ever tell ye why I prefer tall boots to worthless slippers?” She gestured to said slippers. “Well, now ye ken.”
His perfect lips quirked. “Very sensible.”
“What business have ye here, of all places, English?” Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis a mighty odd coincidence.”
He glanced over his shoulder before herding her backward and tucking them both into a doorway. The sudden change of position—and his sudden nearness—sent her head spinning. She grasped his arms as he effortlessly hauled her up a step and deeper into the crevice.
Heavens, he was strong. And bonnie. And warm.
Crowding close, he braced her against cold stone. Then, he lowered his head until those splendid, glowing eyes leveled with hers. “I missed you,” he whispered.
Ah, God. He’d just echoed the wailing cry of her heart. Breathless and hot, she rested a fluttering hand upon his chest. If she weren’t wearing a bonnet, she’d lay her cheek against him and beg him to hold her. Instead, she could only sigh, “English.”
“Your carriage dress looks even better than I imagined.”
“Ye cannae even see me in this darkness.”
“I can. I feel you, too.”
She grunted a protest. “Dinnae use yer sweet words on me, John Huxley. I’ve questions for ye.”
With a sensual smile, he traced a line from her earlobe to her throat. “You smell good.”
She snorted. “Now I ken ye’re lyin’. Whatever’s in that rubbish pile, it isnae perfume.”
His hands moved to her waist, squeezing as he nuzzled her jaw. “The only scent I perceive is your skin. You always smell clean to me. Clean and golden and sweet, like caramel or …” Nuzzle. Tickle. “… honey.” Were those his lips?
Her hands fisted his coat. Her bones liquified into caramel and honey. “I must smell like distraction.”
“You do.”
“Fitting. Because that’s all this bonnie talk is, I reckon.” Perhaps her point would have more impact if she didn’t purr it against his jaw and rub her bosom against his chest. On the other hand, it felt heavenly to be in his arms.
Focus! She must focus. “Who were ye meetin’, English?”
“Friends.”
“What friends?”
Suddenly, he clasped her nape with lean, strong fingers and cinched her tightly against his hard body with an arm around her back. “I’m going to kiss you. Properly.”
A dozen responses flashed through her mind, starting with “About time,” and finishing with “Which parts?” But his voice and his breath and her