Fine breeches, indeed.
Fin’s hand squeezed hers. She glanced down to see him mouth, “Must go.”
“In a wee moment, laddie.” Nudging her hat higher upon her head, she squinted across the rain-spattered square to get a better look. The man was passably tall—at least ten inches taller than the laird. Of course, the laird was even shorter than Annie, so that was no great measure. The Englishman would top the well-dressed stranger by several inches. Still, she admired the lean elegance of his shoulders, the fine cut of his coat. The firmness of his seat.
Nearby, two MacDonnell women exited the dressmaker’s shop. “Ye see there, Flora? Didnae I tell ye the laird had guests from Edinburgh?”
“Edinburgh!”
“Lowlanders. Titled ones.”
Annie sidled to her left, tugging Finlay toward home. Only when she angled past the post did she spy the third figure in the trio. A woman—no, a lady—huddled close to the golden-haired man. Her gaze was patient boredom. Her neck resembled a swan’s. Her gown was silk.
Silk. In the pissing rain of Glenscannadoo.
And not just any silk, but quite the finest blue satin Annie had ever seen. It glistened like the loch on a summer afternoon. The golden-haired man held an umbrella above her head, his shoulders canted in a posture that suggested she was delicate. Important.
Annie’s stomach panged oddly. He seemed to care for her, whoever she was. Whoever he was, for that matter. Annie still didn’t know.
“Didnae ye say he’s a sir of some sort or other?” muttered Flora MacDonnell to her sister.
“A Lord of Parliament. The Lord … now what was it? Scott? Seton?” Flora’s sister clicked her tongue. “Och, all those Lowland names sound alike.”
“Lockhart,” grumbled Flora’s husband as he exited the shop behind them. “The Lord Lockhart. Are you two done bletherin’, or am I to stand here whilst you inspect the man’s teeth?”
Curious, Annie wandered beyond the eave, circling to get a better look at the golden-haired man. The Lord Lockhart. She’d never met a lord before. Even the Laird of Glenscannadoo hadn’t more than a feudal baron’s courtesy title. Certainly, he was no peer.
Rain pattered her hat’s brim, dripping and obscuring her view. She should get Finlay home. This was no time for ogling strangers. Her laddie’s grip was loosening. She tightened her fist.
Flora and her sister edged away from Annie as she passed. Idly, she wondered if Lord Lockhart’s face was as handsome as his backside. Perhaps he was married. Perhaps his wife was the lady beside him, shivering in the Scottish rain.
None of it mattered, of course. He’d never look twice at Mad Annie Tulloch, nor would she want such a thing.
Certainly not.
But newcomers to Glenscannadoo were rare. The last one had been John Huxley, and he was English. These two were Scottish … of a sort.
Crossing the square toward the road home, she drifted closer to the golden pair. Ignoring Flora’s whispers about madwomen who wore trews instead of skirts, she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Lord Lockhart’s profile.
Aye, he was handsome. Lean nose, leaf-green eyes, and a curved mouth. His lips were a bit full for her liking—similar to overripe fruit. But all in all, a braw face, splendid backside, and, now that she was close enough to hear it, a pleasing voice, despite the Lowland accent.
Wind came up, burrowing beneath her plaid until even her bones went cold.
Bloody disagreeable Scottish weather.
Moments later, something knocked into her from behind, sending her stumbling.
Her hat flew. Her boots tangled with mud. Something yanked her plaid, tearing loose her makeshift pocket.
“Ronnie!” she heard Cleghorn shout. “Come back here, ye wee dafty!”
Awkwardly, she caught herself then reached behind her to brace the boy who gripped her waist with all his might. The noises he made resembled words, but they were malformed. One, however, she recognized.
“In-ee,” Ronnie whimpered. “In-ee.”
Only then did she realize what was missing.
The wee, cold hand that always held hers … was gone.
Frantic, she twisted, dragging Ronnie around in circles while she looked for another laddie—her laddie.
“Finlay.” The word was nothing but air. All she saw was mud and cobbles and emptiness. She was choking. Staggering.
Because she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t feel him.
Cleghorn stomped out into the rain to retrieve his son, who wept and clung to her.
“In-ee! In-ee gunn.”
Cleghorn lifted his son into his arms, hauling him back to the shop while admonishing him for running off. Ronnie gazed at her over his father’s shoulder. Tears streaked his freckled cheeks. “In-ee gunn.”
Light and sound swirled while rain drenched her hair and slid icy fingers along her nape.
In-ee gunn.
Finlay gone.
Oh, dear God. Finlay was gone. She felt it. His absence. Their connection simply … missing.
She swayed. Wiped a rivulet from her forehead. Another snaked down to the corner of her eye, blurring her vision.
Finlay gone.
Her laddie. Her friend. Gone.
A handsome face appeared in her vision. Golden-haired. Green-eyed. Full-lipped. He frowned at her over the shoulder of a woman.
The lady held Annie’s hat. “… yours, miss?”
Annie took it. Nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“… should depart soon,” said the man briskly, giving Annie the same look Annie might give a rat in her larder.
“… appears a bit dazed.” The lady took the umbrella from him. Extended it forward to cover Annie’s head, too. She had the same leafy eyes and golden hair as the man behind her. Yet different, somehow. She wore kindness like silk—as though she’d been born to it. “May we offer assistance? My brother and I have a coach. Perhaps we could give you a ride home on our way to Edinburgh?”
Grief thickened her throat. No sound could escape past the burning ache.
Finlay gone.
After more than a year, it had finally happened. He was gone.
And no one knew. Because no one else saw him, apart from a simple lad and an old, daft woman.
“… not have time for this … think we should leave her be, sister,” said the handsome man, drawing the golden woman away. Lockhart. He was a lord.
Annie couldn’t bring herself to curtsy.
A coach rumbled into the square. The two golden-haired Lowlanders murmured with Gilbert MacDonnell before climbing inside.
Rain fell. Wind blew. The square emptied of all but her.
Another shadow merged with hers, taller by a foot and doubly wide. Long, masculine fingers plucked her hat from her limp hand and set it upon her head. Broad shoulders stooped to retrieve her thread from the mud.
“Here, now, Miss Tulloch,” the shadow said in crisp, English tones. “Don’t forget this. I’ve heard it’s the last of the lot.”
Something in his voice made her seek out his eyes. Hazel—brown and green and gold, all at once. Too beautiful for a man, made more so by dense, dark lashes.