“Miss Tulloch—”
“Stay out here, if ye like.” She grinned and yanked open the heavy door. “Ye wouldnae want to compromise me, would ye, English?”
TlU
Following Annie Tulloch into his castle was a mistake. Firstly, the woman was pure frustration. She was also a risk. He’d been the target of too many matchmaking schemes from far more sophisticated players to think otherwise.
Yet, as she sauntered into the entrance hall, he found himself trailing her. Watching her. Anticipating her reaction with unwelcome intensity.
She spun in a circle in the center of the hall, gazing up at the restored beams and repaired stonework, then at the three slim windows above the door where he’d installed stained-glass depictions of vistas from the glen.
He waited.
Hands on her hips, she examined the floors. He’d purchased the stone from a nearby quarry and laid it himself. She lightly ran the toe of her boot over the smooth, dark surface.
Finally, she wandered to the archway leading into the main gallery. Light through the stained glass played with her hair. She wore it plaited today, he noticed. No hat. Just fire.
“Ye used the same slate for the roof and the floor. Mr. Gillis’s quarry, aye? A fine, cleaved stone,” she murmured, running a hand over the wooden casing of the archway. “Costly.”
He noticed she wore fingerless gloves, and her fingertips were dirty, her nails a bit torn. What had she been digging?
“Did Mr. Gillis lower his price to spite Angus?” she asked. “Or was he bewitched by those bonnie eyes of yours?”
“As you know, your father has made obtaining materials and hiring laborers difficult.”
“Stepfather.”
“Mr. Gillis agreed to sell me the stone, despite MacPherson’s intimidation.”
“Gillis sells slate to Lowlanders for their grand, gaudy houses.” She grinned over her shoulder. “He’s nae so concerned with pleasin’ the locals.” She ambled beyond the arch.
He followed, wanting more from her. An acknowledgment. Something. “I had to lay the stone myself. Repair the roof myself. Replace many of the windows myself.” The frustration of the past year surged as he trailed her through his half-completed house. “Had it not been for MacPherson’s interference, I would have finished months ago.”
“Aye,” she said, wandering through another arch into the drawing room, where he’d begun paneling the walls but hadn’t yet restored the fireplace. “Ye’ve some work left to do, that much is certain.”
He wanted to growl. The guttural reaction crouched inside his chest, unfamiliar and disconcerting. What the devil was wrong with him?
“I’d have considerably less to do if—”
“Where did ye learn such skills, English?” She hovered near one of the windows then turned to face him, a tiny frown puckering her brow. “Ye seem a bit gentlemanly for layin’ stone and hammerin’ posts.”
“You know nothing about me, Miss Tulloch.”
Her mouth quirked. “I know ye speak like ye’ve been fed knives and vinegar.”
“Knives and vinegar?”
“Aye. Every word is sliced clean. Polished bright.”
“Is that what offends you about me? My diction?”
She snorted. “Dinnae be daft.” Crossing her arms over her bosom, she looked him up and down. “Makes me wonder. That’s all.”
“Wonder what?”
“Who ye are.”
He paused, keeping his expression flat. “Hardly a mystery. You know my name.”
“Hmm. John Huxley,” she murmured.
He inclined his head.
“A gentleman.”
“Yes.”
Her fingertips idly traced his unfinished paneling. As morning light caressed her cheek and the fiery wisps brushing her jaw, she drew her thumb over a corner molding. “And a craftsman, by the looks of it.”
He couldn’t account for the heat that ran through him in that moment. The way she touched wood he had fashioned. The way her blue gaze lingered on his forearms. Her slightly open lips with their slightly tempting quirk.
Her admiration was such a subtle thing—a mere taste of what fed this damnable craving. But he wanted more.
Did she know?
Was Annie Tulloch seducing him deliberately? This would be among the more bizarre methods he’d encountered. But effective. Too damned effective.
God, this was madness. To seek her approval. To lust after her, of all people. He’d spent too much time alone in this place. Not even the widow in Glasgow had cured it.
“You never did answer my question,” he said, hardening his tone, even as he examined her hands. Dirty hands. Small. “What are you doing here?”
“Answer me first, English. How did ye learn to work with wood and stone, eh?”
He hesitated, knowing that the more information he gave her, the more he gave MacPherson. And the more MacPherson knew, the harder John’s task would be.
“Here, now,” she said, her smile teasing, her eyes glowing blue. “If ye tell me a wee bit, I’ll tell ye why ye cannae get the window in the tower to settle without crackin’.”
Bloody hell. That window frame had already damaged three panes of glass. The present one, installed only a week ago, resembled a spider’s web.
“What do you know about it?” he demanded.
She breezed past him and wandered back toward the gallery. “Tell me about you. That’s my price.”
He followed her, shamefully intrigued by the oddest details of her form: her shapely calves, which he could see because the woman wore breeches and boots rather than skirts. Her small, dirty hands, which she surreptitiously wiped on a corner of her plaid. The stains on her knees. Her hair, which flashed like copper rope and brushed the base of her spine.
Her thighs weren’t visible because they were draped in tartan. So were her breasts. He’d like to see her without her plaid. He’d like to see her without her tunic. Without anything at all.
“Go on. Tell me,” she said over her shoulder as they wandered from the dining room into the small corridor that led to the kitchen. “I promise I willnae laugh.”
He ducked past the temporary bracing he’d added to the passage and grasped her arm. “Be careful. I’m still reconstructing this part of the house.”
Though faintly lit from both the dining room and the kitchen windows, the corridor was dim and tight. Something soft and cushiony brushed his ribs as she turned.
“Aye.” She patted his hand where he held her. “Dinnae fash. The fire is leadin’ me straight and true. Already my backside is tinglin’.” Her hoarse chuckle seized parts of his body it shouldn’t even interest.
The lust was both unwelcome and exasperating, much like Annie herself.
Abruptly, he drew back, only to hit his head on the bracing. “Blast,” he hissed.
“Och, ye’re a clumsy one, John Huxley.” She tugged him forward. “Let’s warm ourselves and trade tales for a wee bit, eh?”