“’Tis likely Skene has a backer. We dinnae ken who, but he’s almost certainly titled.”
“I concluded the same.”
“Broderick is in danger.” A wince around the man’s eyes spoke of anguish carefully disguised. “Skene’s gang runs a portion of the Bridewell. We must find a way to free him. Soon.”
John glanced at his cart then at the windows of MacPherson House. Then, he eyed the man before him and sighed. “Miss Tulloch’s title hunt may succeed, but it’s unlikely to bear fruit before summer.” He hesitated before making his offer. God, he was an idiot. “When you’ve run out of options for freeing your brother, come see me. I have connections which may be of use.”
Campbell nodded.
John climbed onto his cart and took up the reins. Then, he paused. “MacPherson.”
“Aye?”
He hesitated. Bloody hell, he shouldn’t be doing this.
She wasn’t his. Only an idiot would intervene where no one wanted him.
An idiot. That’s what he was.
“The first dressmaker your sister visited today was here in Glenscannadoo. The women in the shop made things extremely unpleasant for her. I gather this was far from the first time such abuse has occurred.”
Campbell didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes mirrored John’s fury. Good. She should have told her family long ago.
John named the women involved before continuing, “I plan to speak to the man who owns the shop’s building. Such poor business practices shouldn’t be tolerated in a fine place like this, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Aye,” came the low growl. “I do.”
For the first time since arriving at MacPherson House, John felt satisfaction curving the corners of his mouth. “Splendid.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Do give my best to your brothers.”
“And my sister?” Campbell’s question was weighted with meaning.
His smile faded. His chest tightened.
She wasn’t his.
The truth was she never would be. So, he snapped the reins, drove into the dark, and let silence be his answer.
Chapter Eleven
TlU
When a man hired a cook, he hoped—no, expected—to recognize the dishes on his table as food. John had been many places and eaten many unusual things. But the bowl of grayish, mealy soup before him was a mystery.
He set his youngest sister’s letter on his desk and peered at the tray his new cook had laid before him. Proudly, no less.
“What is it?” he inquired.
Marjorie MacDonnell, Dougal’s mother, grinned until her angular cheeks rounded. She used her apron to wipe her hands. “Skink, sir. Cooked as ye’d find it round Moray.”
Just how badly did these Scots hate him? Enough for poison?
He eyed the steaming bowl of whatever, which smelled like old fish and cold ashes. His stomach winced. “My thanks, Mrs. MacDonnell.” He slid the tray to the other side of his desk.
“Ye dinnae favor finnan haddie?”
If he knew what that was, perhaps he could say one way or the other. But the evening had grown late, and he was tired. “I haven’t much appetite, I’m afraid.”
She frowned like the mother she was. Then, she laid a roughened hand upon his forehead. “Nae fever,” she diagnosed, clicking her tongue. “Yer appetite’s been poorly for nigh on two months now. Man yer age should be eatin’ twice what ye do.” She patted his shoulder. “I ken what ye need.”
He doubted it.
“Somethin’ a bit sweeter, eh? My shortbread would tempt a dead man to rise for breakfast.”
Given that her regular bread was dry crust all the way through, he suspected the only thing that would prompt a man to rise was being pummeled by the weighty loaves.
The woman tapped her chin. “A wee bit late to start on it tonight. We’ll plan for tomorrow instead.” She patted his shoulder again before moving to the study door. “Had ye hired me ere Hogmanay, I’d have made ye my clootie dumplin’. Now, there’s a rare treat.”
Clootie dumpling did sound closer to what he was craving than gray skink, but he didn’t think Mrs. MacDonnell had any solutions to offer him.
Only one woman did. And God, he missed her more than he should. Crusts of hard, dark bread mocked him from the tray near his elbow.
Annie’s bread was a thing of splendor.
He wished it was all he missed. He wished he’d kissed her properly when he’d had the chance.
Running a hand over his face, he shoved up from his chair and wandered to the hearth. Before he could stop them, thoughts of her invaded his mind like mist over the loch.
How was she faring? He wanted to know. Was she practicing her glide? Had she managed to curb her vulgarities? Did she still go silent now and then, thinking of Broderick’s suffering?
He had no way of knowing. They’d both kept their distance. The few times he’d glimpsed her crossing the village square or riding beside her brothers in the MacPherson wagon, she’d appeared the same. Thinner, perhaps. Whiter. That banner-bright hair was more neatly trimmed around her cheeks, he’d noticed.
Winter had been hard. Twice, snow had come in great loads, lingered a week or two then melted and refrozen. The glen’s third blizzard presently gusted outside, a final blast before spring.
John was accustomed to being alone. He’d often been so during long weeks at sea or crossing mountain ranges from one country to the next. He’d never minded, really. Never pined for companionship. Rather, the lands themselves had fed him—an orange sun sinking behind umbrella-shaped trees, a dolphin leaping from impossibly blue water, a heated rainstorm scented with plumeria.
He missed that feeling—the wonder of a sight no one else had seen. The real problem, of course, was that he’d stopped feeling it long before he’d come to Scotland. Long before he’d stopped seeking it.
By the end of his life, Ewan Wylie had begged him to go home before he got himself killed. Now, John wanted to laugh. Because being dead sounded better than this bloody emptiness.
He rubbed his returning beard. It made his face itch, but he couldn’t be bothered to shave. She’d liked him better without it, he recalled.
The thought made him smile. Lately, she was the only thought that did.
The last day they’d spent together, admiration had lit her up every time she’d looked at him. He pictured her now, standing inside an Inverness dressmaker’s shop, licking those pert lips and maddening him with her arguments.
Well, I dinnae ken if I can be bland, English. But decorative. Perhaps that I can do.
Indeed, she was anything but bland. He missed her. Craved her the way some men craved strong drink or poppy smoke.
At night, the craving had transformed into dreams so erotic, he’d become desperate to have them end—and equally desperate to have them return. In the past, finding a willing woman to manage his needs had been simple. Women liked him. Always had. A playful grin, a bit of flattery. Easy.