The bell rang again just as Finlay showed Ronnie a favorite trick: making a piece of rope appear in the boy’s hand. As usual, Ronnie collapsed into giggles.
A man entered, pausing to glance about the shop. Bearded. Tall. Dressed like an Englishman.
Because he was an Englishman—the only one in Glenscannadoo.
Long strides carried him past the first row of shelves. He removed his hat—an Englishman’s hat, once fine and black, now gray and tattered—and raked a hand through sun-streaked brown hair. Mist decorated his shoulders, which were at once lean and powerful beneath his black coat. He plucked up a bolt of linen, a tin of buttons, and a pair of shears.
His motions were efficient. Decisive. The Englishman often moved with purpose, she’d noticed, as though he didn’t bother expending effort until he’d locked upon whatever he desired. Then, he pursued his quarry as though nothing else existed.
Amusement quirked her lips as he laid his purchases on the counter. “Ye’d do better buyin’ oiled canvas, English,” she advised. “That roof of yours cannae shelter ye from a bird’s wayward shite, never mind the rain.” She flicked the fine linen with her finger and looked him up and down. “Petticoats’ll flatter yer bonnie figure, no doubt. But they’re bluidy useless against a Highland winter.”
His mouth twisted, not precisely a smile.
But, then, she and he weren’t precisely friendly.
Hazel eyes flickered over her. “Miss Tulloch.”
“Mr. Huxley.”
“How is your father? Feeling more amiable, perhaps?”
She chuckled. “Stepfather. And ye know better than most Angus isnae amiable, even when the sky is shinin’ rather than pissin’.”
“Pity.” His attention wandered toward Cleghorn, who’d emerged through the curtain and gone to remove a piece of rope from Ronnie’s mouth. “He should take my last offer.”
The lines around John Huxley’s eyes suggested he’d once been a laugher—or at least a grinner—but she rarely saw it. For any Englishman, being trapped in the nether creases of the Scottish Highlands might do that, she supposed. He’d also spent the past year battling over property rights with the stubbornest Scotsman ever to don tartan. That would put anyone in a foul temper. Still, this was the same flat, cynical look Huxley had worn since arriving in the glen summer before last.
He’d come to claim land left to him by a friend. The property, which abutted MacPherson land, shared commonty rights to the loch in the neighboring glen. Thick woodlands, abundant deer, clear streams, and access to the loch for swimming and fishing made Huxley’s land an ideal hunting property. Annie imagined the Englishman could demand a fortune from some fancy English lord, were Angus agreeable to settling matters. But he wasn’t.
As things stood, Huxley couldn’t legally sell until the dispute over the commonty was settled, and Angus would only settle upon terms if Huxley agreed to sell the property to him. Huxley had promised his dead friend that he wouldn’t sell the land to Angus MacPherson.
A year later, the stalemate hadn’t yet broken.
Occasionally, John Huxley would pay Angus a visit, handing Annie his hat with that same calm, weary expression. The two men would argue a bit before Angus told him where he could stow his offer. Then, Huxley would leave. Each time she saw him, his beard was a little thicker, his hat a little grayer.
But his expression never changed. She sometimes wondered what had made him so bone-weary—apart from Scotland’s inhospitable weather.
Now, she tilted her head and rested a hip against the counter. “Ye’re stubborn as he is. Why not sell to Angus, eh? Ye could return to London, or wherever it is ye come from. Have a proper roof. Have a proper hat.” She scanned his face, noting the beard could use some trimming. Having seen the man bare-faced, she wondered if he’d grown it to disguise his preposterously handsome features. His eyes remained visible, of course, so it was a wasted effort.
That hazel gaze returned to examine her. “I shan’t be selling to Angus MacPherson.” Although he said it without heat, she heard the weight of the surrounding mountains in his words.
“Why?”
“I vowed I would not.”
She scoffed. “Ye promised an auld, jealous fool that ye’d spite the man who ‘stole’ his bride. Lot of male nonsense, if ye’re askin’ me.”
“I don’t believe I was.”
Sighing, she conceded the point. “Fair enough, English.” She patted the bolt of linen. “Dinnae forget the thread.” She plucked the ivory skein from her makeshift pocket then held it up in feigned surprise. “Och, no. Appears I’ve nabbed the last of it.” She clicked her tongue. “A pure shame. Yer petticoats willnae be so fine, after all.”
His lips twitched briefly inside his beard. “You might be surprised, Miss Tulloch. I’ve a way with petticoats.” He glanced down at her trews. “I see you’re still developing similar talents.”
Other lasses might be insulted, but Annie merely brushed the haphazard folds of her plaid and laughed. Had she been wearing it over skirts, the blanket-sized length of wool would be a proper arasaid, as other Highland women wore. But she hadn’t the patience for muddy hems and flammable layers. Too much work to be done. “Ah, ye amuse me, English. I must say, ye do.”
He huffed—nearly a chuckle—and donned his hat. “Give my regards to MacPherson.”
Cleghorn came to take Huxley’s coins, and Annie took her leave, waving Fin over to take her hand. Outside, beneath the shop’s eave, she paused. Huxley exited behind her and strode across the square to his cart. Her eyes followed him then caught on the two men standing near the MacDonnell statue. One was garbed in bright tartan, the other in refined riding clothes.
“Lord,” came a whisper from her side.
Her heart thudded.
Finlay hadn’t spoken in weeks. Was this a sign he’d begun healing?
Her eyes flew down, only to find the effort of a single word had cost him half his color. Worry sank its claws around her throat.
“Aye, Fin,” she managed past the ache. “’Tis the Laird of Glenscannadoo, for all that means. Can a man be a laird when he hasnae but five or six acres?”
Finlay peered at the popinjay gesturing grandly at his father’s statue.
Gilbert MacDonnell had rounder cheeks than one usually saw in a man above twenty. Wispy brows disappeared into his skin. His nose was short, a perfect match for his stature. And his speech hinted at a lisp. She’d say he wore a clan chief’s costume if clan chiefs strutted about like wee tartan peacocks. Most had more sense.
“No laird.”
Three words in one day! “Not a real one, that’s for certain,” she murmured, trying not to draw undue attention. “He’s dressed like that ridiculous statue.” The cap, the kilt, the sporran. Even the brogues and stockings. The only difference was the tartan. Scarlet didn’t translate into stone.
By contrast, the popinjay’s golden-haired companion wore a sensible hunting coat and fine-fitted riding breeches. She admired the gentleman’s backside for a moment before wondering who he might be.