“What are ye haulin’ back to that decrepit auld pile of stone ye live in, English?” She glanced back at the cart’s towering load, covered in canvas. “More than a bit of linen for yer drawers, I reckon.”
“Materials for repairs.”
A snort. “Repairing Glendasheen Castle will take more than this lot. Ye’ll need a bluidy miracle.”
He frowned. “I’d make swifter progress if your fellow Scots would agree to work for me.”
“Better chance of Christ himself ridin’ his unicorn down here for a dram and a biscuit.”
“Hmm. I could use a good carpenter.”
Another snort. “Amusin’, English.” She removed her hat and shook the rain from the wide brim before plopping it back into place. “’Tis cursed, ye ken.”
“So I’m told.”
“Angus didnae lie about that. Somethin’ bad happened there. The castle willnae let ye get too far in yer improvements before knockin’ ye back on yer arse.”
“Thus far, the castle’s proven more amenable than the MacPhersons. Perhaps it prefers the hands of an Englishman.”
“An Englishman’s hands are soft as a bairn’s wee backside, right enough.”
He slanted her a glance. “Examined a great many English hands, have you?”
“Nah. Just yours.”
This time, he couldn’t stifle the itch. He handed her the reins, ignoring her startled frown, then removed his gloves. Holding out his palms for her inspection, he tilted his head to catch her cornflower gaze. “Obviously not, Miss Tulloch.”
She eyed the calluses on his palms and fingertips before raising a brow. “Well, now, a man with only himself for company will test his grip a wee bit more than average. Careful ye dinnae go blind, English.”
Bloody hell. Mad or not, she never missed an opportunity to insult him in the vulgarest of terms. He tugged his gloves back on and snatched the reins from her. “Careful you don’t invite more than you intend.”
“Invite?”
“Hmm. You’re fortunate I’m a gentleman.”
“Is that what ye are? I have wondered a time or two.”
“Another man might mistake your insults for deliberate provocation.”
She snorted. “No mistake, English. When that muscle in yer jaw flickers, I feel a wee little glow inside.”
“Why the devil would that be?”
Brilliant blue eyes wandered his face. “Dinnae ken.” She shrugged. “My brothers say I’m contrary.”
“How perceptive. Do they also say the loch is a mite chilly for swimming in winter?”
“No. But, then, they’re nae so dainty as you.”
The itch intensified and began to burn. Despite her admission that she provoked him intentionally, he found himself clenching his jaw.
She nudged his elbow with hers. “Dinnae be sore. Ye’re a fine diversion. That’s all.”
“Diversion from what?” He glanced down at her, but she’d turned away, staring into the passing underbrush. Though her hat hid her expression, he could still see her lips. Ordinarily, they were quirked into an amused half-grin. Now, they were downturned. Trembling at the corners. He watched her swallow. Saw her shoulders curl inward, her hands cradling her right side.
It might be the cold. It might be madness.
But it looked like sadness.
He didn’t know what was wrong with her. And even if he did, she wasn’t any of his business.
No, his business was to renovate his castle, sell his land, and get the bloody hell out of Scotland. The only use he had for Mad Annie Tulloch was as a tool for softening Angus MacPherson’s black heart.
As the cart rolled through a drift of yellow leaves and past a rail fence, they came within sight of MacPherson House. The old stone farmhouse was large for a cottage, small for a manor, and surprisingly welcoming. He pulled Jacqueline to a halt a few feet from the front door.
Annie remained still, her breathing shallow.
Frowning, John climbed down from the cart and rounded to her side. From this angle, he could see her face. The cold, hard pressure in his chest that he’d wanted to blame on the weather intensified.
Normally creamy-white, her skin now hued closer to gray. Her stare was vacant. She wore fingerless gloves, and he watched her form claws against her ribs, pressing and pressing.
“Miss Tulloch,” he prompted quietly. “You are home, now.”
She blinked. Looked at him. Her eyes were dull and mournful. They began to gloss with tears.
He held out his hand. “Come. Let me help you down.”
She tightened her jaw. Raised her chin. Blinked until the gloss disappeared. “I will get him back,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Doesnae matter. I shall do it. I willnae stop until I find a way.”
He nodded as though she made perfect sense. Interrupting a woman’s mad ramblings with rationality was a fatal error. As the only brother to five sisters, he’d learned that lesson early and learned it well. “Right, then. Let’s get you inside, shall we?”
She grasped his hand tightly and leaned forward until the brim of her hat dripped on his chin. Her other hand landed on his shoulder. Her face was inches away, her breath mingling with his.
He was relieved to see the spark return to those blue eyes, but she was too close. What was she doing?
“Ye’ll come inside with me, English. I’ll not be sendin’ ye up to yer rubbish castle without some sustenance.”
Frowning, he tried to keep a proper distance between them, but she wasn’t having it. She circled his neck with one arm, tucked their clasped hands together at her waist, and climbed down from the cart by sliding her body awkwardly against his.
Bloody hell.
His heart kicked at the feel of her. What the devil was she hiding beneath all that wool? Soft, cushiony, voluptuously curved. Automatically, his free arm circled her waist, small compared with what lay above it.
Their brims bumped. Her thigh slid between his. He lowered her to the ground with a plunk, disconcerted by his body’s reaction.
Clearly, he’d been too long without a woman.
He released her quickly, but she hung on, steadying herself against him.
Finally, she patted his shoulder. Then his jaw. “Thank ye, English. Ye’ve some ways to go before a lass could call ye graceful, but yer help is appreciated.”
“Has a man ever assisted you down from a cart before?”
“Aye, of course. My brothers haul me down when they’re quick enough. Otherwise, they complain I didnae wait for them.”
“Haul you down.”
“Aye.” She frowned up at him. “Like a bag of tatties.”
“They haul you down like a bag of potatoes.”
“Am I speakin’ Gaelic, of a sudden? Aye. Have done since I was a wee lassie.” She eyed his shoulders and patted his upper arm again. “Och, I didnae mean to bruise yer tender feelings, English. We cannae all be as strong and braw as a MacPherson. Ye did fine.” Turning on her heel, she crossed to the massive oak door and shoved it open, waving him forward. “Come inside, now,” she ordered, removing her hat and brushing the rain from her plaid.