They had little choice. If Lockhart was the man who had hired Skene to imprison and kill Broderick, he must be brought to justice. He must be made to pay.
Now, Rannoch distracted his glare away from Lockhart with another thump on John’s back. “Best ye focus on the caber toss, Huxley. Campbell hasnae been defeated since he was a wee laddie.”
Two hours later, Campbell still hadn’t been defeated. But it wasn’t over yet. John’s first two tosses had been surprisingly good. Campbell’s were better, of course. The man was a bloody monster made of pure muscle and bone. He hefted the two-hundred-pound log as though it were a twig.
Now, he threw the thing end-over-end in his third toss. It landed perhaps a degree shy of twelve o’clock. All of the man’s tosses had been similarly excellent.
John’s shoulder muscles ached. The heat was stifling. And the midges were relentless. He glanced to where he’d seen Annie earlier. She was there, cornflower blue eyes dancing like flowers in a midsummer field. He shaded his eyes to see her better.
She mouthed something. He thought it was I love ye, but it could easily have been I’m winning. Likelier it was the first one. Annie wasn’t nearly as competitive as he was.
Finally, it was time for his third toss. He approached the caber that Campbell held propped and ready for him.
“Good luck to ye, Huxley,” said Campbell in that deep, quiet rumble. “Win or lose, ye’ll make a fine addition to the MacPherson tug-o-war team.”
John chuckled, acknowledging his brother-in-law’s compliment with a clap to that monstrous shoulder before accepting control of the caber. A breeze rolled through the glen, cooling his sweat and clearing his mind. He settled the caber against his shoulder, feeling it slide into the old, familiar spot along his bone. The MacDonnell officiating the event—one of Dougal’s cousins—signaled he could begin and stepped back to give him room.
John breathed. Slid his hands down the wood to the bottom. Then gripped and lifted. At first, he thought he had it. But the weight shifted as he adjusted his laced fingers. He took a second to regain his grip.
Another breeze, cool and easy.
He calmed, remembering everything Annie had taught him. Steady. Steady. He started forward into his run. Faster. There. He planted his feet. Heaved skyward with a massive thrust of his arms and a barbaric roar.
The caber flipped in a perfect, vertical arc. The larger end planted. The tapered end toppled forward.
It landed with a whump.
John blinked. A breeze blew hard, playing with the pleats of his kilt. Campbell and the event judge wandered to where the caber lay, their hands on their hips as they examined its position. The event judge gave him a signal, and Campbell shook his head.
John couldn’t believe it either.
Twelve o’clock. A perfect toss.
A grin took him. Then a burst of pure triumph. Bloody hell. He’d done it.
The only warning he had was a glimpse of scarlet from the corner of his eye. The next thing he knew, his wife was in his arms, clinging to his neck like a monkey, shouting, “Ye did it, John Huxley!” She kissed him madly. Clutched him tightly. Didn’t seem to care a whit that she was making a spectacle of them both or that his sweat would stain her silk. Laughing, he heaved her higher against him and spun her around as she planted kisses all over his face.
“I did it, Annie,” he said.
“Aye, English.” Her eyes went liquid with tenderness. “I kenned ye would.” She kissed him like the fiery hoyden he loved. “I kenned it all along.”
TlU
Later that evening, as a band of MacDonnells fiddled away on the terrace, Annie entered Laird Glenscannadoo’s ballroom on her husband’s arm. The room was not particularly large, but it was a lovely, ornate space with cream walls, white plaster ornaments on the ceiling, three chandeliers, and gold draperies. Two sets of glass doors stood open. The local rabble danced outside while inside, swarms of landlords and a smattering of Lowland aristocrats sniffed and tittered in polite tones.
Annie cleared her throat twice, trying to dislodge the lump there. It didn’t work.
“Love, you must stop fussing with your gown.”
She glanced down to where her fingers were smoothing compulsively. The rich plum silk layered with an overskirt of spangled pink tulle needed no adjustment, but her nerves were zinging like a Highlander’s fiddle string. She adjusted her light tartan shawl and dug her fingers into John’s arm.
“You are stunning,” he soothed. “Everything is set. I’m here with you. Always.”
She nodded and drew a shuddering breath.
As they moved into the crowd, she gave polite smiles and nods to those who glanced her way. Which seemed to be everyone. And everyone seemed to be suffering from having a lemon shoved up their—
“Have I mentioned how magnificent your breasts look in that gown?”
She dug her elbow into her husband’s side until she heard an ooph. “Have I mentioned how little ye’ll see of ‘em if ye dinnae stop sayin’ such things to me right now?”
“You’re too stiff. Relax,” he whispered, calmly retrieving glasses of whisky from a nearby tray. “Have a drink.”
She accepted gladly, tossing back the dram in a single swallow. “Fetch me another, English. I’m thirsty.”
He chuckled and handed her his own glass before guiding her toward Angus. “Your father looks rather dashing in his finery, don’t you think?”
“’Tis unnatural. Angus doesnae wear finery.”
Except that this evening, he did. Thick iron hair gleamed half-silver in the candlelight. He wore his best kilt, a handsome black coat, a blue waistcoat, and the sporran she’d only seen him wear twice—once to his wedding to her mother, and once to a funeral for a friend.
Angus glowered as they approached. “Huxley, ye’ll have yer hands full with Glenscannadoo. Wee tartan peacock’s already sotted and rantin’ all manner of nonsense.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “The dancin’ again.”
“Aye.”
John frowned. “What about the dancing?”
“He claims lasses shouldnae be permitted to enter the dancin’ competition at the Games,” Annie answered. “He’s been tryin’ to make it lads only for five years. Says that’s traditional.” She snorted. “He wouldnae ken Highland tradition if it leapt from his brandy glass and stabbed him with the wee butter knife he calls a dirk.”
Her husband chuckled, rich and low. The sound warmed her, and she gave him a smile. Handsome, bonnie, delicious Englishman. He’d worn his good kilt this evening, along with all the accessories—even the dirk he’d used against Skene. How could a bit of tartan, leather, steel, and silver make her want him even more? She hadn’t thought it possible, but there it was. He bent his head to kiss her, and the knot in her stomach unraveled.
Angus cleared his throat. “Lockhart is here. I’ll gather the lads.” He slipped out the glass doors into the garden.
Just like that, the knot returned.