Another kick. Another moment to catch her breath. “Wha … Fin. What the devil are ye …? Nah. That’s pure rubbish. The only laird I know is Gilbert MacDonnell. He already has a wife. A bit puny for birthin’, aye, but they’re wed, right enough. Besides, his title is naught but ceremonial. No land to speak of. He’ll be lucky to have a lad to muck out the stables after his debts are paid.”
“Annie.”
“I cannae marry a short, daft laird who isnae a laird at all but a wee tartan peacock.”
“A lord, not a laird. Not … MacDonnell.”
“Lords marry ladies, Fin. The silk-wearin’ sort. Not madwomen from the arse crease of Scotland.”
“Must marry a lord. Must bear a son. Destiny.”
Her breath left her chest in rapid pants. “A son. Are ye … are ye sayin’ …” She swallowed, her mind reeling. “Ye were meant to be laird, aye? Ye were killed before ye’d completed yer destiny. Is that what ye mean?”
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against her shoulder. “Wish I could be with ye, Annie.”
Even within the dream, she felt her heart pounding. “Ah, God, Fin. Ye wish to be reborn to—to me?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t correct her.
“Finlay.” She drew back to look into his sweet eyes. Heavens, he was pale. “Ye need me to marry a lord so ye can be reborn and take yer rightful place. Is that what ye’re sayin’, laddie?”
It had to be. Why else would he make such a bizarre demand? Why else would he speak about destiny?
He closed his eyes again. “Cannae wait long, Annie. Will sleep now. Gather strength.”
“No. Please—”
“I leave because I must.”
She sensed him fading, and her heart howled its desperation as she tried to gather him close. Her hands moved through air.
“Marry a lord, Annie.” His voice had faded to a whisper, yet it thrummed with odd power. “Destiny waiting.”
Her Fin had fought to stay with her, and the effort to remain tethered these many years had worn him out. Now, it was her turn to fight for him.
And she was a quivering coward. In her past battles, she’d known how to fight because her best weapons had been the ones used against her. When the battles went badly, she’d had the MacPhersons at her back and Fin by her side.
This was something else altogether.
In the dream, she couldn’t hold him any longer, for he’d faded into light and mist. She felt only a bit of coolness against her cheek. And inside her hand, where he’d always offered her comfort, she felt his absence.
But this time, he left her a gift. A reminder.
When she awakened to darkness, her face wet and her chest aching, she opened her palm. And saw a wooden thistle.
Chapter Five
TlU
Standing on a scaffold three stories high while raising a pane of glass from the ground with a rope and pulley, John couldn’t afford distractions. Yet that was precisely what the bright flash of scarlet approaching along the castle road constituted—a dangerous distraction.
He lost focus long enough for his grip to slacken. The rope burned his palm. The glass he’d been hoisting swung into the scaffolding’s lower brace with a crack.
Damn Annie Tulloch and Angus MacPherson and every Scot ever born.
John lowered the now-useless glass to the ground, glanced at the tower window he’d intended to repair for the fourth time. Then, he cursed. Aloud. For long minutes.
“Is that you foulin’ the air with yer vulgar tongue, English?”
“This is my castle. Who else would it be?” he grated, leaning a hand against said castle and eyeing the web of cracks in the last pane of glass he’d installed.
“Och, I can fair see up yer skirts from here.” Indeed, her chuckle now floated up to him from the base of the ladder.
He hadn’t bothered to look down, as he feared what he might do if he glimpsed her smirk again. “We agreed you shouldn’t come here alone, Miss Tulloch.”
“Nah. You agreed. I let ye think ye were right. Sometimes a man needs a wee victory amidst all the losin’.”
“What do you want?”
“Now, there’s a ripe question. Come down and let’s discuss it.”
“No.”
“Someplace warm would be grand. ’Tis colder than Grisel MacDonnell in ten feet of snow. I’m breathin’ frost and pissin’ icicles out here.”
“Then, turn round and head back to—”
“Yer kitchen is a disgrace to kitchens—”
“—MacPherson land where you belong. I’ve no time to deal with you today.”
“—but the hearth is goodly sized. That’s where I’ll be when ye come down and stop yer fussin’.”
“No one invited you. Go home, Miss Tulloch.”
“I’ve a proposition for ye, English,” she said, her voice traveling toward the entrance. “And some bread, if ye find that more temptin’.”
He closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Gathered his control.
In the end, he wasn’t certain which promise made him follow her—the bread or the “proposition.” He wanted it to be the former. It should be the former. She made the best bread he’d eaten since he’d left France.
But he suspected it wasn’t the bread that drew him.
Upon entering the kitchen, his body reacted to the scarlet-haired tyrant with a hunger that had nothing at all to do with his stomach.
She bent forward, poking at the low fire. As usual, her plaid swaddled her from shoulders to knees. Today, she’d added a blue knitted scarf, lowering it off her hair. Fiery strands flew outward in a messy dither.
He frowned. The plaid was thick wool, so it would provide some warmth, but she should have a cloak. A hooded one lined in fur, preferably. And she should be wearing a gown with layers of fine wool and soft linen, along with stockings to insulate her legs and feet.
Furthermore, she shouldn’t be jaunting up to his castle in the middle of November without a chaperone.
She shouldn’t be taunting a man like him.
And she certainly shouldn’t be bending over in front of him. It gave a man indecent notions.
He shook his head and forced his gaze away from her hips. She had, indeed, brought bread, he noted. At least ten loaves overflowed the basket on the table.
“Och, ye’re quick, English. I reckoned ye’d sulk a wee bit longer. Hungry, eh?”
She’d turned and now grinned at him with a teasing blue glint.
His hands clenched before he forced himself to relax. The itch would go away when she did, he assured himself. The sooner he heard what she had to say, the sooner she’d leave.
“The bread is appreciated, Miss Tulloch,” he said. “However, I find your continued visits intrusive and vexing.”
“Do ye? Aye, I suppose ye would.” She searched his kitchen before snatching a knife he’d left on a shelf nearby. Then, she began slicing one of the loaves. “Look, English. You and I arenae so different.”