“Spirit who lieth in hallowed ground, come forth to the ring where my offering may be found. For, as the seed I plant doth grow …” She examined the carving in her hand. “Now, I suppose ye want me to bury the thing, ye daft auld woman.”
Her fingers stung as she clawed the frozen dirt. Finally, she dropped the mushroom-thistle into the shallow hole, scraped the dirt back into place, and read Mrs. MacBean’s rhyming blather. “Spirit who lieth in hallowed ground, come forth to the ring where my offering may be found. For, as the seed I plant doth grow, a bridge betwixt realms I do sow.”
She waited. Held her breath in a moment of foolish hope. But nothing happened.
Not a breeze. Not a tickle of her palm or a wee spark between her ribs.
Her fingers hurt from weeding and wrenching and digging. Her knees were wet and numb from kneeling. She’d likely have stains to scrub from her trews.
She rocked forward, her palm flattening the little mound of dirt where she’d buried the thistle charm. “I’m sorry, Fin,” she whispered, barely a breath. “I’ll find a way. I promise.” She patted the soil. Hung her head and let herself ache. Then, she gritted her teeth and shoved to her feet.
Making her way back toward the castle, she battled despair by scrambling for new solutions. Perhaps she would accompany the MacPherson men next time they took a shipment of whisky to Edinburgh. Surely there were more knowledgeable sources than Mrs. MacBean in a city of that size. Not that she went there often. Or ever, really.
Fifty feet from the castle, she stumbled to a halt as something extraordinary caught her eye. A hammer. Soaring through the air.
Her eyes widened as the thing arced above her head. It hit a pine tree behind her and tumbled to the ground amidst a flurry of evergreen.
She scowled at the thing before turning back to retrieve it. Longer and heavier than a normal hammer, it resembled the type used to pound fence posts. She hefted it onto her shoulder and muttered, “I hope ye dinnae have another of these, English. I like my head where it is.”
Then, she approached the castle, keeping a watchful eye for more flying tools. “Huxley!” she called as she drew near the main door. “Where in blazes are ye?”
When he appeared, he was in his shirtsleeves—sweat-stained linen sleeves rolled up to expose forearms dusted with brown hair.
Her eyes caught on those bare arms. The shocking thickness of the muscles. The strength they implied.
“Miss Tulloch?”
She blinked. Realized she was staring like a moony lamb. He’d rounded the corner of the stable twenty yards away, crossing the space between them in long, sure strides. His hair and beard shone brown with hints of gold.
Bare arms. Fancy that—the Englishman wearing only a shirt. The rest of him was decently covered, she supposed. Tan breeches that had seen better days. Boots he obviously wore for work rather than visiting. But he hadn’t any of his usual finery.
A coat should make him handsomer. A hat should make him more polished.
So, why was her heart pounding? Because she could see his muscles? How daft.
She started forward again, tapping a finger against the hammer’s handle. “Your distance is a mite short, English, but at least yer aim is shite.”
He scowled and stalked closer. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “Came to see if ye’d cracked your skull with a hammer yet. Appears I arrived just in time.”
He plucked the hammer from her hand with enviable ease. “I was repairing the stable. It slipped.”
“Right.” She crossed her arms and eyed the width of his shoulders. Impressive, she had to admit. Not MacPherson proportions, but not bad. “Have ye made progress on the castle, then?”
“A bit.”
“Chimney appears to function.”
“I had a mason here from Inverness. He’s one of the few willing to travel this far.” His voice laced with sarcasm. “If only I were permitted to hire locally.”
“Aye. ’Tis a bother.”
He rubbed a hand over his beard and shot her a hostile glare. “Why are you here, Miss Tulloch?”
Slowly, she grinned. “Well, I thought ye’d never ask. Let’s discuss it by the fire, eh?”
“I cannot invite you inside.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no servants. We are alone here.”
“And?”
He sighed. Tossed the hammer thirty feet behind him with the flick of his arm. It landed with a thudding clatter inside a bucket near the stable door.
Impressive.
“MacPherson and I made a wager. If he wishes to change the terms, he can come here himself.”
She chuckled. “Angus plans to win, English. He thinks the terms are grand.”
“Then, why send his daughter to be compromised?”
Compromised? As in … good God. It was a rare day when Annie was struck speechless. But just now, she couldn’t move her mouth, let alone speak.
“Did you suppose I wouldn’t understand the game?” His eyes flashed gold in the morning light. “You come here alone, invite yourself inside. Angus or one of your brothers comes to fetch you, finds us together. Et voilà. We’re forced to wed, and the MacPhersons have a claim upon my land, if only through marriage.”
“Wed.”
“Come now, Miss Tulloch. You cannot be ignorant of what it means to visit an unmarried man’s home without a chaperone.”
Her head was spinning. He’d uttered something foreign in the midst of his strange ramblings, but she’d understood the rest of it well enough. He thought her a tart. Worse, a tart aiming to trap him like a stag with a particularly large rack.
Annie had Angus and four giant MacPherson brothers to take care of, along with her wee laddie, should she ever find a way to bring him back to her. One thing she didn’t need was another male around, dirtying up her house and grumbling about his empty stomach. And a husband? He’d demand far more than dinner and mending. He’d want to lie with her. Naked, most likely. He’d want her to give him bairns.
If the notion of trapping herself a husband by pretending to be compromised weren’t so daft, she would be laughing.
Instead, she glanced pointedly at their surroundings and raised a brow. “Perhaps ye didnae notice, but we’re nae precisely hostin’ a clan gatherin’ out here. ’Tis but you and me, indoors or out. The only difference is that inside the castle, I’ve a wee chance of feelin’ all my numb parts go tingly before I head home.”
He blinked. Scowled. His gaze dropped to her plaid briefly before flying back up to her face.
“Och, the cold is turnin’ ye all ruddy, man.” She clicked her tongue. “Ye should be wearin’ a coat.”
“I was working. Alone. Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to resume said task.”
She scoffed and headed for the castle door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside,” she called over her shoulder. “Where it’s warm and sensible.”