“That’s pure shite.”
He scraped a hand over his jaw. “Bloody hell, woman.”
“Ye could have kept yer piece of Glendasheen without ever settin’ foot upon Scottish soil. With Angus’s nonsense, ye’re better off keepin’ the land than sellin’ it, anyhow.” She snorted. “Not like ye need the funds. Payin’ dressmaker bills for lasses ye’re not even tuppin’ tells me that much.”
“I had to settle matters with your father—”
“Nah. Ye had to hide somewhere. Glenscannadoo may not be the most hospitable place, but it’s a long, miserable ride from Nottinghamshire. No obligatory visits to fash about. No schemin’ ladies conspirin’ to birth yer bairns and spend yer money.”
Stony and scowling, he refused to look at her.
Aye, she had him. Bonnie as he was, her Englishman had probably been pursued since the day he’d donned trousers. And, given his descriptions of his childhood, she’d guess his family had been both wealthy and well connected. Phaetons weren’t much use in farm fields and quarries, after all.
“So, who was the sly vixen that tried to steal yer purse and claim yer manly bits for trophies, eh? A London lass? A Nottinghamshire neighbor?”
His glare didn’t budge from the road. While they’d been talking, darkness had begun to fall. It cast strange shadows over his eyes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was crisp. Quiet. Precise. “You’re a fine one to ask such questions, Miss Tulloch, given you seek to marry a title.” His eyes shifted to her. They were colder than a Highland winter. “Any lord will do, hmm?”
“I notice ye didnae answer my question.”
“Why should I? You’ve avoided mine since our bargain was struck.”
She frowned. He had a point. “It’s not so much that I want to marry a lord. It’s that I must.”
“Why?” The word was low. Seething.
“To save a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Ye dinnae ken him.”
His jaw flickered.
“It’s complicated,” she insisted, fingering the edge of her blanket.
“Then explain.” He gestured to the empty, darkening road and the half-treed hills around them. “We have time.”
She sighed. “Ye willnae believe me. And ye’ll think me mad. Everyone else does.”
“Explain anyway.” He used his commanding tone—the one that both frustrated and weirdly excited her.
She examined his hands, the way he held the reins loosely, never letting his tension affect the horses. His posture was straight and yet comfortable, his movements controlled. Despite her provocations, he hadn’t bellowed threats or lobbed insults. He was a gentleman in the truest sense. More than that, he loved his family, eccentricities and all. Perhaps he would understand. Or, at least, listen.
“Very well, English,” she said softly. “His name is Finlay.”
As the last of the daylight weakened into gloam, she told John Huxley everything about her laddie. How he’d been with her since she was wee. How he’d comforted her when spiteful Grisel had convinced all the other girls to spit upon her as they passed, claiming it was the only way to protect themselves from her madness. How he’d blessed her plaid and promised it would keep her safe—which it had. How his wee little face had started turning gray, and his wee little voice had thinned, and how she’d panicked at the thought of losing him.
How she’d mourned him every day since he’d gone away.
Then, she explained about his visit. About his plea that she marry a lord so that, as her son, he could claim his rightful destiny.
And all the while, John Huxley listened. Silent. Calm. Unreadable.
“There ye have it, English,” she finished. Her hands strangled the edge of the blanket. “Now ye ken why they call me Mad Annie. And why I must marry a lord.”
A tiny frown formed between his brows. He nodded. But he didn’t speak.
She twisted the blanket harder.
Silence thickened as he guided the horses around a bend. “Wanting to marry a title is hardly unique,” he said finally. “There’s no need to invent outlandish stories to justify your aim.”
This time, she was the one who fell silent. Her stomach burned. Her jaw locked tight.
Of course the Englishman didn’t believe her. Why should she expect him to be different? Even the Scots she’d known since childhood—who had all grown up believing tales about ghostly glens and cursed castles—thought she was mad.
This wasn’t how ghosties behaved, they’d said. Mad Annie had simply invented a “friend” because she hadn’t any real ones. That was why she talked to herself and dressed in such a peculiar fashion.
Nobody considered that she might be telling the truth. They were too eager to toss her in the rubbish pile.
After a while, Huxley ventured, “Dougal mentioned the trouble with your brother.”
She watched the moon slip behind a cloud.
“Calton Hill Bridewell is an unpleasant place,” he continued. “Broderick has been imprisoned there for, what, two months? I understand his trial has been deliberately delayed in hopes of charging him with murder rather than assault.”
The wind picked up. She adjusted her blanket a bit higher and tucked her plaid a bit tighter around her neck.
“Someone powerful must be working against him,” he murmured. “Assault might earn him transportation. Murder will mean hanging.”
One of the horses snuffled. She thought it might be Jacqueline. She wondered if the horse had been named for Huxley’s modest French mistress. The animal did have an unusually broad backside.
“If you are seeking a connection with sufficient influence to help your brother, marrying a lord is a rather permanent way to go about it.”
She snorted. Shook her head. The Englishman was desperate to fit her into a frame he understood. Well, she didn’t fit. And he could stow his suppositions up his—
“Miss Tulloch.”
She rubbed her arms and blew into her hands. Full dark brought on a deeper cold. They had at least another five miles before reaching Glenscannadoo. She busied herself lighting the lantern.
“Annie.”
Hearing her name on those perfect lips twisted her up tighter than rope. She steeled herself to remember who he was. Remember what he thought of her. “Aye, English?”
“Perhaps there’s another way. Perhaps I—”
“This isnae about Broderick.”
“It’s understandable you’d want to help him. If a member of my family were imprisoned for shooting—”
“Broderick didnae shoot anybody.” She secured the lantern and kept her gaze upon Jacqueline’s backside. Looking at Huxley’s perfect features only made her weak. “The craven bastards who conspired against him have no bluidy idea of the hell they’ve brought down upon themselves.” Absently, she rubbed her ribs, wishing Finlay were with her now. Every time she thought about Broderick, her chest ached. “The MacPhersons protect their own.”