Angus’s black gaze shifted to Mrs. Baird, narrowed and glittering.
“Och, I’m a pure dafty,” Annie said, hoping to defuse the sudden tension. “Da, this is my dressmaker, Mrs. Baird. Mrs. Baird, this cantankerous giant is my stepfather, Angus MacPherson.”
Neither one spoke a word. Annie glanced between them, dismayed by the nervousness on Mrs. Baird’s face and the black fury on Angus’s.
“She’s here to finish my gowns,” Annie prompted, hoping one of them would say something. “She traveled all the way from Inverness.”
Angus waved a finger at Annie’s skirt. “This shite is yer work, then?”
Annie glowered. That was rude, even for him.
A suddenly pale Mrs. Baird laced her fingers tightly at her waist. “Th—this gown is my work, aye.”
“Ye turned my lass into a bluidy tart.”
“Da!” Annie protested. Why was he aiming his wrath at a kindly dressmaker?
Mrs. Baird seemed terrified yet continued to hold Angus’s gaze. “Yer lass is a fine young woman,” she replied quietly. “I should think ye’d be glad to see her looking so lovely.”
Oddly, this seemed to anger him more. “My daughter was always bonnie,” he growled. “She doesnae need yer obscene frocks revealin’—”
“That’s more than enough, auld man!” Annie charged forward and braced a hand on the center of Angus’s chest. “Mrs. Baird, I beg yer forgiveness for this great beastie that plainly hasnae been trained to do aught but soil the furniture.”
“Now, listen here, lass—”
She held up a finger to silence him then spoke to the dressmaker. “I’ll join ye upstairs in a wee bit. Just let me have a moment with Angus.”
A long pause came from behind her while Angus fumed. “If ye’re certain, Miss Tulloch.”
“I am. Dinnae fash. I’ve dealt with this beastie many times. He’s more smoke than teeth.”
As Mrs. Baird moved up the staircase, Annie glared at her father, who watched the dressmaker’s retreat with something approaching hatred. “What on earth is the matter with ye?” she demanded.
He blew out a long breath and shrugged out of his coat.
Annie moved to help him. He nodded his thanks.
“Too much is changin’, lass. I dinnae like it. First that bluidy Englishman interrupts my work to bargain with me—”
She crossed her arms. “Aye. And what made ye change yer mind about him, eh?”
He scoffed. “Lad made an offer.”
“What sort of offer?”
“Nothin’ ye need fash yerself about. Train him all ye like. He’ll never win against yer brothers anyway.”
Annie eyed her surly, beloved father for signs of senility. Dark eyes flashed; a hard jaw remained stubborn; thick brows drew down low. No, he was weary and frustrated but sound. “Somethin’ happened.” Her stomach panged oddly. “What is it, Da?”
His gaze shifted away then came back.
When she saw anguish in eyes that never despaired, her chest collapsed beneath a crushing weight. She reached for his hands. Immediately, his big paws clasped and held her. He always did that. Always lent her his strength.
“Please,” she whispered. “Tell me.”
“Rannoch sent word. Broderick is …” He swallowed hard. “He is near death, lass. We’ve tried to protect him. Paid guards inside the prison. Every time we do, those men are dismissed and new ones hired. Skene’s men have done great damage. ’Tis a miracle he’s lasted this long.”
Annie’s head spun. Over the past three months, the case against Broderick had gone from bad to worse. The MacPhersons had assigned physicians to keep the exciseman alive. At one point, the man had even regained consciousness long enough to give a statement to the MacPherson solicitors. He’d declared Broderick could not have been the one to shoot him because the shot had come from the opposite end of the warehouse. They’d all hoped this would be enough to exonerate Broderick, and her brothers had traveled to Edinburgh to press for his release.
But before they’d arrived, someone had persuaded the exciseman to recant his original statement, claiming it was the product of MacPherson pressure. Then, inexplicably, he’d signed a second statement charging that Broderick had, indeed, attempted to murder him.
None of it had made sense until the exciseman, despite being on the mend, had mysteriously died. That was when Alexander had discovered a large cache of coins beneath the bed of the exciseman’s widow.
Someone wanted Broderick to suffer. Someone wanted Broderick to die. And, whoever “someone” was, he was very close to getting his wish.
The reality of losing her brother sent her heart into a panic. “No. No, no, no. We must go there, Da. We must get him out—”
“Aye. We will. There’s a new plan. If it works, he’ll be released within a fortnight. Be ready to journey to Edinburgh. Pack everything he’ll need. Bandages. Clothing. Food. Prepare yerself, too. He’s not … not the man he was.” At her fretful reaction, he drew her into his arms and held her tight against his massive chest. Kissing her head, he whispered, “We will bring him home, Annie. And when we do, he’ll need us more than ever.”
She breathed her father’s scent: wool and peat and wild Highland air. She clutched her father’s waistcoat and felt seven years old again. Missing her mother. Wondering about her place. Aching and aching and aching for a life she would never have again. Her throat closed painfully.
“Bad enough ye aim to leave for some soddin’ lord.” His voice was graveled. Tight. Fierce. “I cannae lose two of my bairns, lass. I cannae bear it.”
Holding her breath against a sob, Annie gathered her strength to give him what he’d always given her—reassurance. “Ye’ll never be rid of me, Da.” She held him tighter, prayed silently for Broderick, and made her vow. “Whatever else happens, I’ll always, always be yer daughter.”
Chapter Thirteen
TlU
Annie squelched the urge to snap at her new lady’s maid. For the love of God, what had she been thinking? Mad Annie Tulloch shouldn’t have a lady’s maid. She might as well tie pink ribbons to the horns of a hairy cow. Ridiculous. But Mrs. Baird had assured her she would need one, so Annie had employed the only female in the village more scorned—and, thus, more desperate—than she was.
Dougal MacDonnell’s freckle-faced, brown-haired wife might be a shy mouse who rarely raised her eyes above anyone’s navel, and yes, she was a former prostitute from Glasgow. But like the rest of Dougal’s family, she needed employment. Besides, her gowns were always plain but clean, and her hair was always neatly trimmed, so she knew more about such things than Annie.
Now, however, Annie stood before the three gowns laid out on her bed, reminding herself that she could not shout at Betty MacDonnell because Betty hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t spoken more than two words, in fact. Granted, those two words had been, “Aye, miss,” whispered to the floor. But shouting at her would be like kicking a kitten.