She’d removed her gloves, he noticed. Her hands were bare around the knife. Small yet strong. Her knuckles were almost … pretty.
“Ye’ve made a poor bargain with Angus. If ye hope to win, ye’ll need help.”
“Are you offering?”
“I’m comin’ to that.”
“Get there quickly, Miss Tulloch. I’ve tolerated a great deal, but my patience is at its limit.”
Cornflower eyes lifted to his. The knife paused. “As I said. Nae so different.” With swift efficiency, she retrieved a pan, a plate, and a jar of butter before continuing, “Now, Angus said ye must win one event, so that’s in yer favor. But which one? The hammer? The stone put? The caber? Nah. The one he chooses.” She clicked her tongue. “Bad bargain, English. He’ll make it nigh impossible to guess, which means ye must be skilled enough in all of them to defeat a MacPherson.” She buttered the slices and placed them in the pan then held the pan over the fire until he heard sizzling. “Impossible. Ye’ve nothin’ but heaps of impossible waitin’ for ye, followed by cartloads of defeat. Humiliation, too. Dinnae forget that.” She flipped the bread with a flick of her wrist then shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Unless ye have a secret weapon.”
“You,” he said dryly. “Why am I not surprised?”
“My generosity is a bit overwhelmin’, I ken.”
“I won’t marry you, Miss Tulloch.”
She’d turned away from the hearth while they were talking, so he had the pleasure of watching her jaw drop. As she was in the midst of sliding the bread from pan to plate, one slice skidded onto the table. She didn’t notice, too busy glaring at him. “I dinnae recall askin’.”
He leaned forward and snagged the plate of toasted bread. “Then, what do you want from me?”
“Ye claim to be a gentleman, aye?”
“A fact we’ve established.” He bit into her bread and nearly groaned. Buttery. Warm. A hint of crunch over a cloud of softness. It was worth every second of vexation.
“Have we, now?”
“You’re not in my bed, despite repeated attempts to land yourself there.” He took another bite. “I’d say that establishes my gentlemanly credentials rather well.”
Her frown suggested confusion. But she couldn’t be confused. Coming here was a provocation. Feeding him was flirtation. Talk of “propositions” and grinning with that secret, shared humor was outright seduction. Not to mention all the references to his “bonnie eyes” and his “tender bits.”
No, Annie Tulloch knew what she was about. It was as blatant as her hair.
“Better women have tried such tactics with me,” he continued. “Women who knew their craft as well as you seem to know breadmaking.” He saluted her with his toast. “Delicious, by the by.”
Blue eyes narrowed to a glint. The pan thudded onto the table.
“They failed.” He kept his voice hard. Better to be clear. “You will fail. Stop trying.”
“I want to marry ye—”
He smirked around a new mouthful. “I knew it.”
“—like I’d want a disease involvin’ pustules in unmentionable places.”
Swallowing nearly choked him.
“Given how many ‘better women’ have tossed their skirts to the skies for the honor of landin’ in yer bed, I’m guessin’ I cannae have one without the other.” She leaned forward, glaring across the table. “I’ll take neither. Guid luck to ye, Mr. Huxley.” With a nod, she bent to retrieve her gloves from the corner where she’d tossed them, giving him another spectacular view of her backside.
Then, she raised her scarf over her hair and left his kitchen.
Left him. Alone.
She’d called him Mr. Huxley. He’d grown accustomed to “English.” On her lips, those two syllables lilted with amusement. The sound was almost … affectionate.
Inexplicably, he wanted to hear it again.
Glancing down at his toast, then at the basket of bread she’d made for him, then at the pan she’d used to cook for him, he discovered his appetite had vanished with her.
Bloody hell.
“Miss Tulloch!” he called, abandoning his plate. No answer. He started after her, lengthening his strides to cover more ground at a faster pace. She was small. Surely she couldn’t have gone far.
Outside, wind sent a cold, stinging blast through his heaviest coat. “Miss Tulloch!” He scanned the lawn before loping toward the castle road. Beyond the second clump of birch, he saw her tugging her scarf around her cheeks as she charged away from him.
He sprinted to catch up with her. “Stop,” he panted. “Stop, woman. Good God, you move fast when you’re angry.”
“Ye wanted me gone. No point dawdlin’ about it.”
“I don’t want you gone.”
“It’s what ye said.”
He clasped her elbow, pulling her to a halt. “You mentioned a proposition.”
Her lips were tight, he noticed, tight and pale. She refused to look at him, instead gazing out across the loch. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Nonsense. You didn’t walk all this way in the frigid damp to abandon your purpose.”
She snorted. “My proposition requires that ye be a gentleman with some knowledge of proper manners. ’Twas my mistake.”
Rarely had John been accused of poor manners, but the uncomfortable prickle of heat rising from his neck suggested Annie’s charge had merit. He had been rude. A natural reaction to her hoydenish ways, perhaps. Still, he didn’t like the paleness of her lips, the bruised quality to her glare.
“Perhaps I was … too plain in my speech,” he conceded.
“Perhaps ye were an arse.”
He found his lips twitching. “Perhaps I was.”
She sighed then glanced down to where he still held her elbow. For some reason, he’d been absently stroking her with his thumb.
“My bones are pure ice, John Huxley. Invite me to warm myself by yer hearth, and I’ll consider forgivin’ ye.”
He released her, bent into a deep bow, and gestured toward the castle. “My dear Miss Tulloch, won’t you join me by the fire?”
Her chin rose along with the corners of her mouth. “Very well, English. If ye insist.”
By the time they arrived back in the kitchen, he’d begun to question the wisdom of his invitation. Whether Annie meant to tempt him or not, he found her bizarrely arousing. The way her lips pursed around simple words—aboot and luik and looosin’. Or the way she touched him as casually as she might stroke a pet. Or that amused chuckle after she’d lobbed an effective insult.
God, maybe he should go for a swim. The loch was frigid this time of year.
“… is why ye need me, English. The caber toss is more about aim than distance. I ken ye think ’tis merely the liftin’ ye must master, but that’s only the beginning.”