The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,96

of which were Finlay. “The fire spared no one, I’m afraid.” He’d sipped his brandy and sniffed. “Tragic.”

Now, John waited in the short drive outside Glenscannadoo Manor for one of the laird’s stable lads to bring his horse. Preoccupied with thoughts of Annie, he failed to notice the donkey ambling down the lane until it turned into the drive and headed directly for him.

When he raised his head, his heart nearly stopped. Scarlet curls gleamed in the patchy sunlight. They peeked out from beneath a straw bonnet with a blue silk ribbon that matched her gown.

The same gown she’d worn the day he’d proposed to her.

His body’s surging reaction was predictable, but seeing her so unexpectedly intensified it tenfold. Then he noticed her bosom. The motion of the donkey was not quite a walk, not quite a trot. And it made everything … bounce.

The lust hit him so hard, he nearly bent in half.

She should be wearing a riding habit, of course. But Annie wasn’t like other women. At the moment, her brows were drawn in consternation as she attempted to ride a donkey in an evening gown.

God, how he loved her.

And despite the pain of his arousal and the sharp need she invoked in him, he smiled. His grin had turned to a chuckle by the time she reached him.

“Ye’re a fine one to be laughin’, John Huxley,” she snapped. “I’d like to see ye try to ride wearin’ a skirt.”

He couldn’t stop. He was so bloody happy to see her. The past three days had been agony. “I’ll wear anything you like, love. Riding with you is one of my favorite diversions.”

“Stop yer nonsense and help me down. Bill is a mite aggravated. We rode all the way to yer castle only to have Dougal say ye’d come here to visit the wee tartan peacock.”

He looked at the long-eared donkey. The animal gave a lazy blink. “I suspect Bill is not the one who is aggravated,” he observed before gripping her waist and lifting her down.

Admittedly, he held her against him for longer than necessary. And he cupped her backside more firmly than necessary. And, very well, he ogled her bosom much more than necessary.

But she was irresistible. An enchantress from his deepest fantasies.

“If ye fancy keepin’ that bonnie nose unbroken, English, ye’ll take yer lordly hands off my backside.”

With great reluctance, he raised his gaze from the luminous bounty of her breasts. Her lips were pink and her cheeks flushed from the summer heat. Cornflower eyes snapped with ire. He wished her anger diminished his arousal.

It did the opposite.

“Why did you seek me out?” he asked hoarsely.

“A better question is why are ye here?” She nodded toward the manor house. “Never thought ye had much use for the wee tartan peacock.”

He considered not telling her. For long moments, he weighed the likelihood that she would hate him even more. But keeping things from Annie was a mistake he didn’t want to repeat. So, he told her the truth. “I came to view the MacDonnell ancestry.”

She stared silently for several breaths, glanced away, then said softly, “Ye were lookin’ for proof that Finlay existed.” A breeze ruffled her pretty hair. “Because ye dinnae believe me.”

His heart ached at the signs of hurt around her eyes. “I only wanted something tangible.”

“Did ye find it?”

“No.”

She nodded. Drew a deeper breath and blew it out. “Aye, then.” Her eyes came back to his wounded but resolute. “I sought ye out today because we have a matter to settle between us.”

Yes, they did. Whether she forgave him or not, he must persuade her to become his wife—and soon. Even now, she could be carrying his child.

Behind him, the lad arrived with his horse. John took Jacqueline’s reins and waved toward the lane. “Will you walk with me?”

Annie nodded and, together, they led their mounts down the short drive and along the village road. Glenscannadoo Manor sat a quarter-mile from the market square amidst a few pleasantly landscaped acres above the loch. Surrounding the laird’s groomed gardens were small farms filled with sheep. Most of the trees had been cut down for pasture. But the lane was lined with young oaks planted in tidy rows obviously intended to add grandeur to the manor’s approach.

“So, what do they call ye, English? When ye’re usin’ yer