care, Broderick made his decision. His breathing steadied. His fever receded. His eye began to follow her around his chamber as she tidied and chatted and read to him. The physicians pronounced him “on the mend.”
Throughout their stay in Edinburgh, they had visits from John Huxley. Annie’s focus upon Broderick lifted like a thick fog in a bracing wind each time she heard his crisp, English voice at the door. She’d wander downstairs, dazed and worn and a pure mess. He’d open his arms for her. She’d let him enfold her with his strength and heat, feeling such relief she couldn’t speak. Neither of them spoke, really. She didn’t ask why he was there, why he kept visiting every few days. She only thanked God for those few precious minutes until Angus sent him on his way so she could sleep—which she rarely did.
Eventually, the physicians decided Broderick could tolerate travel, so she arranged for the house to be cleaned and packed up, prepared a new litter for the coach, and waited for John Huxley’s next visit. Instead, Angus informed her Huxley had headed back to the glen. Her heart plummeted, though she understood. She still didn’t know why he’d stayed so long in Edinburgh.
Now, five days later, she stepped from the coach, watching Rannoch and Alexander carry Broderick into MacPherson House. The long journey home had been an arduous one. Early summer rainstorms had turned the roads muddy, and the motion of the carriage disturbed Broderick. He didn’t speak, of course. He made no sound at all. But Annie had come to recognize every tiny twitch of his face.
When she could, she comforted him with piles of blankets, the laudanum from the physicians, and the soup he loved best, the one with leeks and potatoes. Because her voice seemed to help him rest easier, she’d read aloud from newspapers and blethered on about things that had happened while he’d been away.
She’d told him about Flora MacDonnell losing her dress shop. About Grisel MacDonnell moving to Dingwall. About hiring Betty MacDonnell to be her lady’s maid.
Mostly, she’d told him about John Huxley—more than she should have, perhaps, but Broderick was a good listener.
Now, standing in the drive outside her house, Annie watched her lads rush out to unload the coach and care for the horses. In her mind, she was listing everything she must do—rally her kitchen lads to get water boiling, start preparing dinner, ensure Broderick’s chamber had been properly aired and a fire properly built—when the muscles in her abdomen and thighs began to quiver. Her blinking fell out-of-rhythm.
Then, light began to dim.
She frowned. The afternoon was bright for a change, no clouds in sight. Why was it darkening? Her next blink went on too long. Birds chirped in the leafy birches, but the sound washed in and out like waves on a shoreline. The stones of her house blurred strangely. The doorway wavered. Shaking her head, she felt herself tilting. Or was that the ground?
“Annie?”
Weak. She was so bloody weak.
Her legs turned to water. Folded.
“Och, my sweet lass.”
Wool and peat and Highland air. Strong arms that had never failed her. Lifting. Carrying.
“Ye’ve fair worn yerself to the bone, daughter. ’Tis time ye slept.”
A kiss upon her forehead. Then, the light was gone.
TlU
Sound sifted into Annie’s consciousness through a thick, gray fog. Her eyelids weighed a ton. Try as she might, she couldn’t force them open.
“… cannae let ye press her into such a decision until she’s improved.”
“I’ve waited months already, Angus. Bloody months.”
“Aye.”
“… continue my search … after Annie … my wife … refuse to be separated from her … belongs with me …”
To her great frustration, his voice kept fading in and out. But she recognized her Englishman. She wanted him closer.
“… appreciate all ye’ve done, lad.”
“Then, let me—God, just let me—”
“Ye’re nae thinkin’ straight. She’s done in. Give her a day or two.”
Annie wanted to protest. She’d never be too tired to reach for him. Gathering every ounce of her stubbornness, she forced her eyelids up. The light was a bit blurry, a bit gray. It was her bedchamber window, she supposed. She recognized the blue checked curtains she’d sewn herself. With another great, heaving effort, she drew a breath and mumbled, “English.” Her pillow half-smothered the word.
But he heard.
The next sight to appear was his