“English?” she panted, uncertain what she was asking him to do. She raised her mouth to his jaw, seeking his kiss again.
And he resisted again.
Slowly, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected to see. Lust, obviously. Perhaps a measure of the same dizzying heat she felt.
But not this. This was calculation. He was assessing her. Watching her react to his touch the way a man training a horse watched the animal react to the bit.
Cold rushed in to replace heat—all except her face. That went hot with humiliation. She tried to yank away from him, but he held her fast, his hand gripping her thigh. “Leave go,” she gritted, shoving at his chest.
His head tilted. “I will. Because I am a gentleman. But now you understand how swiftly you can lose everything.” His eyes fell to her mouth. “A single moment of carelessness, and the only role you’ll play for a lord is his mistress.”
She shoved again, this time digging the heel of her hand into his shoulder. “Ye’ve made yer point. Now, leave go.”
“Have I?” he muttered. “I wonder.”
His arms slid away, and she immediately backed up several paces.
The look in his eyes was foreign. Always before, he’d seemed weary or frustrated or flat. Now, his expression glowed darkly, focused and watchful. It confused her. Made her retreat another step before she stopped herself.
“Next time, bring a chaperone,” he said, calmly straightening his lapels. “A woman would be best.”
How could he be so cool while she still felt like her bones had melted? “I dinnae ken any women who will—”
“Find one.”
She glowered. “It’s nae so easy as that.”
“I never claimed this would be easy, Miss Tulloch.”
“Aye.” Needing to look away from him, she glanced around the room. He’d finished the paneling, but the fireplace still wanted repair. “Impossible things never are.”
Silence was her answer.
She swallowed and risked another glance in his direction. A lock of brown hair had fallen over his brow. It was the only thing about him that hadn’t been perfectly contained.
Raising her chin, she challenged, “Just wait until ye must learn to throw a weight over the bar without brainin’ yerself, English. Then, ye’ll see what impossible really means.”
The faintest quirk—nearly a smile—curled one corner of his mouth. “I await your expert instruction, Miss Tulloch.” Then, he bent at the waist and gave her a mocking bow. “With great anticipation.”
Chapter Eight
TlU
A week later, Annie led her new chaperone along the road to Glendasheen Castle. The old woman’s nonsense had come in a steady stream the entire journey from MacPherson House.
“Ye’d be pleased, lass. I planted another rowan outside yer brother’s house. He’ll have a fine hedge when he returns from prison. Good protection, that.”
Annie tugged Bill the Donkey along the shore of the loch and released an impatient breath. “Broderick needs protection now, Mrs. MacBean. After he returns will be a mite late.”
The old woman frowned. Then dug about inside the leather pouch she often carried. “Mayhap I could curse the man who put him there.”
Patting Bill’s neck as they rounded a stand of birch, Annie swallowed her worry and focused on the lapping water. “If we kenned who that was, a curse wouldnae be necessary. The MacPhersons would see to the matter.”
“Och, a curse works just as well as killin’. I’ll need four looking glasses—”
“Dinnae bother, auld woman. I told ye—”
“—and ashes from an ancient yew tree.”
“—we dinnae ken who’s behind Broderick’s troubles.”
“Oh, and a new whisky cask struck by lightnin’. No need to remove the whisky. I’ll drain it myself.”
Despite her aggravation, Annie snorted. “I’ve little doubt of that.”
“Lightnin’ adds a fine smoky flavor.”
Annie spoke to Bill, who seemed the more lucid of the two creatures behind her. “Do ye suppose a curse is stronger if ye shove a thistle up yer arse?”
Bill’s long ears twitched. Mrs. MacBean appeared not to have heard. Instead, she dug inside her leather pouch then held up a worn scrap of tartan. “Which clan did ye say yer man is from?”
“I told ye, he’s nae my man.”
“Aye, aye. But ye aim to marry him. I’ll make ye a charm he cannae resist.”
“I dinnae aim to marry him, ye daft auld crone.” Even if his kiss did turn a woman’s bones to hot gravy. Where had he learned to do such things?
“No, of course not. Now, which clan was it? The Brodies?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I already told ye, his name is John Huxley. He hasnae a clan. And he’s nae my man. He’s teachin’ me to be a lady.”
“Ye were a lady in yer mother’s womb, lass.”
“Well, I’m female, right enough.” She shot a wry glance down at her bosoms. “But I must marry a lord. Remember? This is about Finlay.”
“Oh. Aye, now I recall. Are ye certain the laddie kens what he’s about? I’ve never heard of a ghost bein’ reborn, let alone demandin’ a title.”
No, Annie wasn’t certain of anything. She’d worked herself into exhaustion these past weeks hoping for another visit from Finlay, but all she had left of him was the thistle charm. Now, she felt for it in her pocket, the sole sign that her dream hadn’t been merely wishful thinking. “I must believe he spoke true, Mrs. MacBean.” She swallowed, letting the sound of lapping waves soothe her. “’Tis all the hope I have.”
The old woman fell silent for a time. Then, Annie felt a pat upon her shoulder. Mrs. MacBean leaned down from atop Bill’s back, her good eye shining with sympathy. “I’ll make ye a grand charm. Dinnae fash. This Huxley fellow willnae be able to tell up from down, he’ll be so smitten.” Another pat, and she returned to digging in her pouch. She withdrew another scrap of tartan. “So, the Huxleys are a Lowland clan, then?”
Annie sighed. “He’s English. And a far sight more proper than ye usually find in Glenscannadoo.” She eyed the woman’s wiry shrub of hair and ragged clothing. “While ye’re actin’ as my chaperone, best keep talk of curses and charms to yerself.”
The old woman nodded sagely. “Right ye are. Englishmen arenae like Scotsmen.”
No, they weren’t. A Scot wouldn’t dismiss curses and ghosts as pure rubbish. A Scot wouldn’t suppose the only eyes capable of seeing were his.
And another thing—if a Scot fancied a lass, he wouldn’t kiss her as some sort of lesson then act as though she’d scuffed his boots. Only Englishmen did that. Pompous, superior, infuriating Englishmen.
The castle came into view. “Just promise ye’ll pretend to be sane,” Annie said. “We dinnae want to frighten him too badly.”