The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,9
tried to keep a proper distance between them, but she wasn’t having it. She circled his neck with one arm, tucked their clasped hands together at her waist, and climbed down from the cart by sliding her body awkwardly against his.
Bloody hell.
His heart kicked at the feel of her. What the devil was she hiding beneath all that wool? Soft, cushiony, voluptuously curved. Automatically, his free arm circled her waist, small compared with what lay above it.
Their brims bumped. Her thigh slid between his. He lowered her to the ground with a plunk, disconcerted by his body’s reaction.
Clearly, he’d been too long without a woman.
He released her quickly, but she hung on, steadying herself against him.
Finally, she patted his shoulder. Then his jaw. “Thank ye, English. Ye’ve some ways to go before a lass could call ye graceful, but yer help is appreciated.”
“Has a man ever assisted you down from a cart before?”
“Aye, of course. My brothers haul me down when they’re quick enough. Otherwise, they complain I didnae wait for them.”
“Haul you down.”
“Aye.” She frowned up at him. “Like a bag of tatties.”
“They haul you down like a bag of potatoes.”
“Am I speakin’ Gaelic, of a sudden? Aye. Have done since I was a wee lassie.” She eyed his shoulders and patted his upper arm again. “Och, I didnae mean to bruise yer tender feelings, English. We cannae all be as strong and braw as a MacPherson. Ye did fine.” Turning on her heel, she crossed to the massive oak door and shoved it open, waving him forward. “Come inside, now,” she ordered, removing her hat and brushing the rain from her plaid.
The brisk sweep of her hands over those mysterious curves drew his eyes.
Bloody disturbing.
“I should be on my way,” he said.
“Nah. Ye should do as I tell ye. Else, ye’ll have nothin’ to show for your trouble, apart from soggy trousers and a hungry horse.” She turned and shouted orders to a lad, who scurried outside to take care of Jacqueline.
His stomach chose that moment to grumble its emptiness. He sighed. Perhaps she had a point. All he’d eaten for the past month was fish from the loch. The thought of facing his shambles of a kitchen followed by his shambles of a bedchamber had him trailing her inside.
Warmth hit him like whisky.
Angus MacPherson’s house was nothing like the man himself. It was welcoming. Clean. Cheerful, even. The walls were white plaster and wood paneling, the floors polished planks, the ceilings beamed and unusually high. All the doorways were similarly oversized. But then, so were the MacPhersons.
“Annie!” The deep, rumbling bellow traveled through the open door to his left. “Where in bluidy hell have ye been? That venison willnae cook itself!”
She took John’s hat from his fingers and rolled her eyes. “Have ye tried settin’ fire to it, auld man?” she shouted. “Or are ye just going to sit on yer arse and yawp about yer empty belly?”
Heavy footfalls sounded before Angus MacPherson appeared in the doorway—all six-and-a-half feet of Scottish crags and obstinance. The man had a full head of iron-gray hair and shoulders that, despite his age, nearly matched the door’s width. His eyes were sharp, his nose blunt, his brow heavy. He was more than twice Annie’s size.
And the moment he set eyes upon her, his glower turned ferocious. “What’s wrong?”
Annie moved to deposit her hat and John’s on hooks near the door. “Nothin’ apart from the weather.”
Angus stomped toward her, looming protectively. “Nah. Ye’re off yer color. Did Huxley proposition ye?”
“Good God, MacPherson,” John snapped. “Of course not.”
“I wasnae talkin’ to you.”
Annie planted her hands on her hips and calmly met her stepfather’s suspicious glare. “He brought me home when it was pissin’ rain. He didnae have to. I’d take those fine English manners over a pair of muddy boots gladly. And so would you, were ye not so bluidy crabbit.”
“He’s just tryin’ to get under yer skirts, lass.”
“I dinnae wear skirts.”
Angus grunted his displeasure.
“Go offer him whisky, auld man. He’ll be stayin’ for dinner.”
John’s “No, I shan’t” overlapped with Angus’s denial.
Their rare agreement seemed to amuse Annie. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. More than enough time for another land haggle over a wee dram, eh?”
With that, she disappeared through a second doorway, presumably headed toward