Miss Lockhart’s eyes went round again.
Annie patted the gloved hand that still clasped hers. “Then, when he begins to ken ye’re serious, remind him who ensures the rats in the larder arenae a bother.”
“M-Miss Tulloch, I couldn’t threaten—”
“Oh, ’tis no threat. Ye must mean every word, ye ken?” Annie held the other woman’s green gaze, thinking how young she seemed. How very young and, despite her lofty position as a lord’s sister, easily damaged. “It only works if ye mean it.”
“I think you frighten me, Miss Tulloch.”
Annie chuckled. “I’ve been told I have that effect.”
Miss Lockhart withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze. “I must return. He’ll be anxious by now. I shouldn’t like to worry him.”
Suddenly, Annie wished she could help the young woman more. But there wasn’t any way. Until she married, Sabella Lockhart would be entirely controlled by her brother. Annie examined the young woman’s slender, graceful neck and narrow nose. She noted how pale the lass’s lips were, how pinched and delicate she seemed.
Blast. Annie had too many troubles of her own to go about solving someone else’s.
Miss Lockhart took a shuddering breath and cast another fretful look at the inn’s door.
Annie’s heart twisted. “If ye’re ever in need, take the mail coach to Glenscannadoo and ask for me.” The offer leapt from her lips before good sense could lock the gates. “I’ve a spare bed or two. And I serve fine venison with onion gravy.”
The lass inclined her head and gave Annie a trembling smile. “You are far too kind.”
“Nah. I wouldnae mind the company.” She shook her own skirts and sniffed. “And yer advice on how to keep mud from stainin’ my new silk hems. It’s a fair bother, I tell ye.”
Miss Lockhart flashed a pretty grin then thanked her and reluctantly returned inside.
Annie pitied the lass. When he’d twisted her arm, a hint of satisfaction had been visible on Lockhart’s face. She knew that look. She’d seen it on Grisel MacDonnell too many times. Fortunately, Grisel had no real power over Annie the way Lockhart did over his sister. If Annie’s brothers had been similarly cruel … but they weren’t. They were good men. The best, really. Especially Broderick.
Needing a moment alone, Annie lingered in the narrow, shadowy close between the inn and a hat shop. She patted the thistle inside her reticule, shut her eyes for a moment, and remembered her brother as he’d been the last time she’d seen him.
Broderick’s grin always made her lighter. The day he’d left for Edinburgh, he’d teased her about her hair.
“Perhaps I’ll bring home some proper scissors for ye, Annie.” He’d wrapped a long, muscular arm around her shoulders and fluffed the strands along her forehead. “I’ve sheared sheep with better precision.”
“I’ll care about my hair when ye trim that overgrown shrubbery on yer face.”
Laughing in his deep, infectious way, Broderick had rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “The midges dinnae seem to mind.”
She’d swatted his fingers away and grasped his chin playfully. “Ye’ve too fine a face to cover it.”
His answer had been to kiss her cheek and draw her in for a tight squeeze. Broderick had always been affectionate. His eyes, dark as a Scottish storm, danced and creased at the corners when he laughed. His hands, while massively strong, cradled rather than crushed.
That was simply Broderick.
He teased rather than blustered. He calmed rather than roared. And in her lowest moments, he sang until her heart sang in tandem.
How easy he was to love. How agonizing to think of him …
Broken.
Her throat tightened. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. Held her breath. Daylight swirled as she leaned against the stone wall and reminded herself that he was still alive.
He’d be different, yes. Damaged. But so long as he was alive, there was hope.
She dug inside her reticule for a kerchief to wipe her stupid tears. When she looked up, she saw a figure at the opposite end of the close.
Drifting deeper into the dark, narrow space, she wandered toward him, thinking she must be imagining things. Perhaps she needed him so badly, she’d begun having visions. Oh, God. Was she going mad?
No. He was there, at the other end of the close where daylight streamed down onto lean, strong shoulders and a bonnie, masculine face. Beneath his hat was hair of sun-streaked brown. By his side was a man with a cane.
And gathered around him were two men in wigs and another two men dressed in even finer garb. One had blond hair and the other dark hair with gray wings at his temples. Both were her Englishman’s height, give or take an inch or two. Both were handsome in the patrician way of aristocracy.
Who were they? And why was John Huxley in Edinburgh, near Parliament Square, talking to two men who looked like Lord Commissioners of the Justiciary and two more men who looked like they should be wearing crowns?
Her pace quickened. What the devil was Huxley up to? Why hadn’t Robert left Scotland already? Did this have something to do with Broderick?
Was this part of the bargain he’d made with—
Her toe caught on a rough plank hidden inside a rubbish pile. “Bluidy hell,” she cursed, hopping on the opposite foot while waves of agony pulsed from her abused toes.
Masculine voices halted. She braced her hand on the stone wall and glanced up.
Oh, God. He’d spotted her. Hazel eyes flashed with recognition beneath his hat’s brim. He said something to Robert and started forward at a stalking pace.
She stumbled back, trying to avoid the pile and regain her footing. “For the love of … blast.”
“Annie? What are you doing there?”
“Avoiding the damnable solicitors. And breakin’ my foot.” She frowned up at him as he bore down upon her. “Did I ever tell ye why I prefer tall boots to worthless slippers?” She gestured to said slippers. “Well, now ye ken.”
His perfect lips quirked. “Very sensible.”
“What business have ye here, of all places, English?” Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis a mighty odd coincidence.”
He glanced over his shoulder before herding her backward and tucking them both into a doorway. The sudden change of position—and his sudden nearness—sent her head spinning. She grasped his arms as he effortlessly hauled her up a step and deeper into the crevice.
Heavens, he was strong. And bonnie. And warm.
Crowding close, he braced her against cold stone. Then, he lowered his head until those splendid, glowing eyes leveled with hers. “I missed you,” he whispered.
Ah, God. He’d just echoed the wailing cry of her heart. Breathless and hot, she rested a fluttering hand upon his chest. If she weren’t wearing a bonnet, she’d lay her cheek against him and beg him to hold her. Instead, she could only sigh, “English.”
“Your carriage dress looks even better than I imagined.”
“Ye cannae even see me in this darkness.”