She was afraid to ask.
Angus answered anyway. “The Marquess of Wallingham. Their families have been friendly since before he was born.”
Wallingham. Another near-mythical name whose influence stretched across Britain. Her stomach burned and gave a sick lurch. She slid her empty glass onto the table. “Da?” she breathed. “I dinnae think I can do this.”
He patted her hand. “Ye’ll be fine.”
No, she wouldn’t. John’s deception had cut her to pieces precisely because she’d never thought a wound would come at his hands. Could she forgive him? Perhaps. Trust him not to hurt her again? Uncertain.
But the entire bloody question was now moot, for his family would never accept her. A brash, trews-wearing, vulgar hoyden from the arse crease of Scotland? His mother would swoon—and rightly so.
He’d even warned her that her goal of becoming a lady was nigh impossible. In the dress shop, he’d explained what real ladies were like, illustrating how different Annie was from that description. She’d reassured herself at the time by imagining some lowly, minor lord, perhaps a kindly widower in need of good meals and an orderly household. She’d told herself such a marriage would be a half-step up from being a housekeeper, and surely she could manage politeness and gown-wearing for a few months while she searched for a lord desperate enough to wed her.
What a fool she’d been. Failure had awaited her. Miserable, humiliating failure. Even if she’d found some desperate, obscure lord willing to take her on, she couldn’t have gone through with it.
She’d already lost her heart to a bonnie Englishman. Marrying another man? No. Not even to have Finlay with her again. Which left her only one choice—marrying John.
Except that John Huxley’s sister was the Duchess of Blackmore. His father was Lord Berne. The rest of his kin—all titled. And one day, his wife would become a countess.
A countess.
The very thought made the room shift around her.
Her hand slid over her belly as it twisted. “I cannae be his wife,” she whispered, the realization crushing her.
“Eh? Why in blazes not?”
“Look at me, Da. Do I seem like a countess to you?”
His jaw hardened. “Ye seem like my daughter. And Huxley is damned fortunate to have captured yer fancy.”
Shaking her head, she whispered, “Dinnae ken about that.”
Angus plucked up one of her hands and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Feel these bones, lass?”
Her eyes welled until his beloved face swirled. She nodded.
“Ye’re a part of me as much as they are. Have been since I first spotted yer wee, red head outside the kirk doors.” He knuckled a curl from her cheek. “We’re like Highland thistles, you and I. Tough and stubborn. A mite hostile when we must be. Our nature doesnae suit everybody. But we grow where we’ve landed. We hold our ground. And we dinnae shrink from a fight, even when we’re trampled. Ye ken?”
She dashed away the tears that had spilled. Sniffed, then nodded.
“Good lass. Now, here’s what’s about to happen.” His voice grew stern as the craggy rocks of the glen. “Ye’ll go to Huxley and tell him ye’re ready to marry him.”
“No, I cannae—”
“Ye ken how bairns come to be, aye?”
She swallowed. Her hand tightened over her belly. “Of course, I—”
“And ye took yer chances anyway.”
She felt her cheeks go fiery. “Da.”
“So, ye’ll marry Huxley. Punish him as long as ye please. Once he’s yer husband, that will be easy to do.” Heavy brows lowered over dark, forbidding eyes. “But ye will marry him first. Ye’ll live in Glendasheen Castle. Ye’ll birth his bairns and bring them here to see their grandfather. And ye’ll cook yer venison and gravy for me. An auld man needs his comforts.”
A smile trembled on her lips. “I suppose all this will happen just because ye say so.”
His chin tilted to a familiar, obstinate angle. “I’m yer father, lass.”
“Aye, Da.” She squeezed his wrist, feeling the weighty Highland bones. “That ye are.”
TlU
John exited Gilbert MacDonnell’s small manor house with a better understanding of Annie’s disdain for the man. Glenscannadoo’s laird was tiny, daft, and puffed up like a peacock. He’d invited John to take tea with his sallow, drunken wife in an ornately furnished drawing room that smelled of wax and heavy perfume. After extolling the value of an Oxford education for men in positions of leadership, Laird Glenscannadoo had fed him mediocre shortbread and bragged of his family’s heroism in sustaining the traditions of his clan.
The wife had nodded off in the midst of their conversation. Only then had Glenscannadoo taken John to his tiny-yet-ornate library, where a stag’s head was mounted on the wall. Even that had been small. And, John had noticed, the antlers had a faint seam near the animal’s skull, as though a larger set had been added. Compensation for shortcomings, no doubt.
Everything about the man irritated John, from his wheedling, nasal pomposity to his ornamental gold dirk. He wouldn’t be there at all, and certainly would not have used his title to gain access. But Gilbert MacDonnell had the one thing John needed—a record of the MacDonnell ancestors.
“Finlay MacDonnell? No, I cannot say I recall such a name,” he’d replied to John’s query. “But you are certainly welcome to glance through our clan history.” He’d pointed to the large, gold-lettered book perched on a marble stand between two bookcases. “We keep excellent records.”
Proud as the man was of his heritage—or at least its trappings—John didn’t doubt it. However, after a lengthy search through page after page of MacDonnells, he found no trace of the name he was seeking.
“Is it possible some names have been left out?” John had asked. “The branch that perished in the castle, perhaps?”
Glenscannadoo had stiffened, seeming offended, then flipped to a page about a third of the way into the book. “Here. The branch that falsely attempted to claim the lairdship. Even those who did not survive past infancy are noted.” He’d pointed to the names, none of which were Finlay. “The fire spared no one, I’m afraid.” He’d sipped his brandy and sniffed. “Tragic.”
Now, John waited in the short drive outside Glenscannadoo Manor for one of the laird’s stable lads to bring his horse. Preoccupied with thoughts of Annie, he failed to notice the donkey ambling down the lane until it turned into the drive and headed directly for him.
When he raised his head, his heart nearly stopped. Scarlet curls gleamed in the patchy sunlight. They peeked out from beneath a straw bonnet with a blue silk ribbon that matched her gown.
The same gown she’d worn the day he’d proposed to her.
His body’s surging reaction was predictable, but seeing her so unexpectedly intensified it tenfold. Then he noticed her bosom. The motion of the donkey was not quite a walk, not quite a trot. And it made everything … bounce.