“On remote roads after dark, any fool would.” He frowned at her. “Why would you assume I’d do otherwise?”
Her long pause was unflattering.
“I’ve survived a lot of places more dangerous than ‘the arse crease of Scotland,’ you know.” He watched her expression, trying to discern whether she’d been rattled by the encounter with Skene. The stiff set of her shoulders indicated she had. Perhaps a distraction was in order. “In Africa, an unwary man makes a fine feast.”
“Feast? Ye mean … lions?” She stared at him, round-eyed, as though she’d never met him before.
“Mmm. Or leopards. Or rhinoceros.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “Bloody heavy when they sit on you.”
Her frown signaled the first hint of skepticism, though curiosity shone in those wide blue eyes.
“Oddly, predators weren’t the creatures I found most unsettling.”
“What, then?”
He leaned closer. “Giraffes.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Oh, no. Not unless you’re a treetop. Leaf-eaters, the lot of them.”
“Then, what’s unsettlin’?”
“Too gangly. Dreadfully long necks. It’s simply unnatural.”
She glanced around. Narrowed her gaze upon him. Then swatted his arm. “Cheeky Englishman. There’s no need to invent outlandish stories. I’m certain the giraffes trembled at the sight of yer wee pistols.”
He chuckled, glad to see his distraction had worked. Keeping his tone light, he remarked, “Skene seems a rather unpleasant fellow. I take it he and the MacPhersons share a mutual dislike.”
“Skene is a smuggler. A few years past, he offered to transport MacPherson whisky up to Inverness and down to Glasgow. Broderick declined. Skene hates him. Until now, he’s been naught more than a pest.”
“So, you suspect he’s behind Broderick’s arrest.”
“Aye.”
John frowned. “Has he a partner?”
She snorted. “Yer thought is the same as mine. That rat-faced bugger is certainly hateful enough to do this to Broderick. But is he smart enough?” She shook her head. “Not likely.”
“The courts are surprisingly difficult to manipulate. If it were easily done, I’d have settled my land dispute with Angus months ago.”
She didn’t reply.
“Annie,” he murmured. “Whoever is helping Skene must hold a good deal of sway with the justiciary.”
“I ken.” She sniffed and straightened her blanket.
“He’s either blackmailing someone or wielding significant coercion. The kind of coercion only a peer can manage.”
“Aye.”
“Do not put yourself between these men.”
“Broderick is my brother, English. I’ll do what I must.”
Like bloody hell she would. John would speak to her father. The MacPhersons should be warned. They should protect her from men like Skene. And the harpies in the village. And her own infernal recklessness.
Behind them, blankets and straw rustled as Mrs. MacBean stirred from her long doze. “Are we nearly there, Mr. Brodie?”
He’d given up on correcting her in favor of keeping their conversations brief. As it was, he’d never look at butter or root vegetables the same way again.
“Not long now, Mrs. MacBean. Fortunately, you slept through the more tedious parts of our journey.”
“Hmmph. That’s just what yer uncle used to say.”
“Dear God,” groaned Annie. “Not this again.”
The old woman patted his shoulder fondly. “Did I ever tell ye about the size of John Brodie’s caber, laddie? Now, that was a sight to behold.”
TlU
From the moment John delivered Annie to MacPherson House until the moment he walked out the door, he doubted he’d survive the night. On one hand, it was gratifying to know he wasn’t the only one Annie brought to the point of bellowing madness. On the other hand, while she casually dug her own grave, she also dug his.
Minutes after she led him into the small parlor, three towering MacPherson brothers flanked the door with their arms folded, glowering menacingly in John’s direction while Angus questioned Annie.
“I left ye a note, auld man. Is it my fault ye dinnae bother with readin’?”
“Yer note said ye’d gone to the dressmaker.” Angus’s rumbling voice reached a roar. “Ye didnae say in bluidy Inverness!”
“I didnae say it was here, either.”
“And ye went with him!”
“We had a chaperone.”
“She’s half blind!”
“She sees well enough to make yer liniment.” Annie shrugged. “Most days.”
Angus began to redden with rage.
Annie, of course, could not resist making it worse. “Ye’re just vexed because I’m helpin’ him win yer wager.”
“I’m vexed because now ye’ll have to marry the sodding—”
“Rubbish.”
“—Englishman, which means I’ll never be rid of him.”
John cleared his throat, preparing to object—or at least correct Angus’s assumptions.
Annie answered first. “I’ll not be marryin’ Huxley, ye crabbit auld man.”
Angus crowded his daughter until half of her stood in his shadow.
She merely raised a brow.
“Ye’ll marry him if I say ye will.”
Her chin rose. “That would be daft.”
“If he’s touched ye, lass—”
“He hasnae. For God’s sake, he’s nae courtin’ me. He’s teachin’ me.”
“To do what?” Angus roared.
“Land myself a lord!” Silence fell, thick with the tension between father and daughter. “I want to marry a lord.”
From Angus’s sudden stillness, John surmised it was the first she’d told him of her endeavor. Internally, John winced. Angus might be wealthy for a Highlander, but his origins were humble. He had little use for titles and less regard for their unearned power. Hearing that his daughter pursued a husband from the peerage must have felt like a rejection.
When he finally turned his furious black gaze upon John, the man’s eyes were nearly bulging. Yes, indeed. Rejection and rage. And, because Angus would sooner die than vent that rage at Annie, John became the sole, unfortunate target.
He attempted reason first. “Calm yourself, MacPherson. There’s no need for violence.” John retreated toward the windows, giving himself room while he braced for attack. Could a man prepare for four sets of MacPherson fists doing maximum damage? Probably not. “I was the one who insisted she obtain a chaperone.”
Breathing like a bull, Angus shot a questioning glance toward Annie, who nodded.
“Miss Tulloch seeks to marry a peer,” John continued. “I’ve some … connection to that world. She asked if I might serve as a tutor in matters of decorum.” Unbidden, his eyes returned to Annie, whose hair was damp from the misty night and whose plaid could use a proper washing. Her gaze narrowed as though anticipating harsh judgments of her appearance. If she knew what he really thought—what he really wanted—she wouldn’t be glaring. She’d be blushing.