The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,97
title?” She asked the question idly, as though they were having a friendly chat.
Guilt assailed him. “Annie, I am sorry I didn’t tell—”
“Lord Huxley, aye?” She didn’t look his direction, merely kept her eyes forward as they walked, her bonnet shading her expression. “And yer wife would be Lady Huxley. A viscountess. Do I have that right?”
His chest ached. “Yes. You would be Lady Huxley.”
She nodded, her neck tight, her lips pursed. “And one day, yer son will have a title, too.”
“Our eldest son will become Lord Huxley, yes, when I become the Earl of Berne. Which will not be, as I explained previously, for some years. My father is in excellent health, barring any future cohabitation with cats. Never know when Mama will make another disastrous attempt to bring one home. But, in general, we Huxleys are reliably long-lived.” He smiled wryly. “Prolific, too. But that is a subject for another day. I shouldn’t like to frighten you.”
Her lips tightened as though stifling a smile.
The sight made him hard. But then, everything about her made him hard. He cleared his throat and surreptitiously adjusted his coat.
“Have ye responsibilities from yer title? Parliament business or some such that requires ye to live in England?”
“No. I only visit England to see my family. My father has a seat in the House of Lords. He and my mother visit London each spring whilst Parliament is in session. By the time summer arrives, they are eager to return home to Nottinghamshire.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “But yer father is healthy, ye say.”
“Yes.”
“And it will be some years before ye and yer wife would have to travel to London for yer lordly duties.”
He frowned. “Yes.”
She nodded. Whispered something to herself. Then halted in the middle of the road. Finally, she turned to face him. Her eyes blazed with odd defiance. “Ye’re goin’ to marry me, John Huxley.”
He froze, riveted in place as lightning coursed through him. Had she just said …?
“Tomorrow,” she specified. “I bribed the priest to marry us at the auld churchyard near the castle. He didnae want to do it there. But his purse is empty, and he’s desperate. Gamblin’s a sinful habit. Do ye suppose it’s more sinful to gamble with church funds?” She clicked her tongue. “I’d say so, but perhaps God doesnae care for context.”
“Annie,” he breathed.
“Fornication. Now, there’s a sin with context, aye? Outside marriage, sinful. Inside marriage, encouraged.” She shrugged. “Either way, we’ll be doin’ that, too, English. A lot of it.”
“Bloody hell,” he groaned.
“No sense complainin’ about it. Cannae make bairns without fornication.”
“Excellent point. I shall apply myself to the task with considerable vigor,” he murmured, scarcely able to form a sentence.
“This doesnae mean I forgive ye. Because I hate liars, John Huxley.” Her lower lip firmed and her chin went up. “Ye cannae trust them.”
“Annie, I’m so bloody sorry. I should have told you.”
“Aye, ye should have. Perhaps forgiveness will come, but we cannae wait that long. I mean to have my laddie back. And ye’re the one who’ll make that happen.”
He was startled to have her agree so readily to his precise conclusions. Annie was a sensible woman with a pragmatic approach to most things. But he’d hurt her deeply. He could see it in the way she looked at him, that beam of admiration dimmed and tainted by pain he had caused. “I will earn your forgiveness, love.” He moved closer but stopped when she stiffened. “Once we marry—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“In the auld churchyard.”
“Yes. I’ll ask Dougal to clean it up a bit, shall I?”
She nodded. “Angus and my brothers will be there. Broderick, too, if he can manage. Mrs. MacBean. Mrs. Baird.”
“Your dressmaker?” Didn’t she hate the woman?
“Wear yer blue coat. It looks grand on ye.”
Slowly, he smiled, realizing the tension beneath her defiance was nervousness. She was nervous. Because of him? This called for reassurance. “I cannot wait to make you my wife, Annie. Nothing on earth could bring me greater pleasure. Apart from fornication, of course.” He’d hoped to make her smile, but she didn’t.
Instead, she swallowed, staring at his mouth.
“Must we wait until tomorrow?” he asked.
“Aye. And one last thing, English.”
“Anything.”
“Ye cannae tell yer family. Not even Robert. Not yet.”