Annie raised a wry brow. “Did ye, now? I recall a slightly different prediction comin’ from yer direction, Alexander MacPherson.”
“Nah,” he said. “When the occasion calls for pure aggravation, ye cannae do better than Annie Tulloch MacPherson Huxley.”
Rannoch laughed then kissed her cheek, lifted her, and spun her around before setting her back on her feet. “Aye, if ye need someone to prick a man’s pride or cook a meal straight from heaven, Annie is yer lass.”
She swatted each of her brothers for their laughter, then laughed, herself. “Well, I did enjoy the bit about his hands, I must admit. Unnecessary, perhaps. But fun.”
Angus wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I’m proud of ye, lass.”
She hugged his waist and closed her eyes for a moment. “Thank ye, Da.”
Before long, the MacPhersons joined the party out on the terrace. John tugged her outside, too, though she only really wanted to go home so she could show her Englishman how much she adored him.
He drew her past the lively fiddlers and milling dancers. He drew her around the outside of the manor house, through deep shadows and shafts of moonlight.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” she demanded breathlessly.
“You’ll see.” He grinned over his shoulder and led her down the drive then onto the lane. Soon, they stood near the loch beneath a tall pine. He gathered her in front of him and pointed at a branch twenty feet up. “Look, love.”
She squinted. It was hard to see in the dark. But something fluttered. Something white. She lost her breath. Another flutter, and a white feather drifted down, whirling and twirling on a soft breeze. It landed in her open palm.
“Ah, God, English. How did ye ken?” She glanced back at her husband, who gazed at her with the most astonishing glow. “How did ye ken he’d be here?”
He kissed her softly. Sweetly. “The same way I know that Highland rain makes the best whisky and Highland lasses make the best wives.”
She turned in his arms and cupped his jaw, then drew him down to whisper against his lips, “And there could be no better Highland husband than a bonnie Englishman.”
Epilogue
TlU
September 14, 1826
Annie wiped sticky hands on her apron and ordered her kitchen maid to stop crying. “They’re onions, for God’s sake. Use yer handkerchief and keep choppin’!”
So much gravy. So many guests. She was dizzy and a wee bit nauseated, but at least she had enough bread left from yesterday. They hadn’t eaten all twenty-four loaves yet. For that, she was thankful.
A lad skidded into the kitchen. “Mrs. MacDonnell said to tell ye we’re out of bread,” he announced.
Annie groaned. “Fetch me the flour.” She shooed him toward the larder. “And find his lordship. Huxley, I mean. My husband.” There were many “lordships” in the castle at present. And many Huxleys. So many, she’d had trouble remembering all the wee ones’ names.
They’d all arrived at Glendasheen Castle the previous day. John’s parents, Meredith and Stanton. His five sisters. Their husbands. Their children. So very many children.
Annie paused. “Will somebody open a bluidy window! It’s stiflin’ in here!”
The hearth was blazing, her new range hard at work stewing venison. Another wave of nausea started when the scent of onions drifted past her nose. She leaned against the table, closed her eyes, and waited for it to pass.
“May I be of help?”
Her eyes popped open. She spun. It was Maureen, a bonnie, soft-featured woman with sweet, golden-brown eyes and hair similar to John’s.
Oh, God. Annie glanced down at her stained apron and dough-sticky hands. “L-lady Dunston.” What was she doing in here?
Maureen waved a hand and moved deeper into the kitchen, glancing around with obvious curiosity. “Now, now. Maureen, if you please.” She grinned, her cheeks displaying the most charming dimples. “Too many titles round here. Makes one dizzy.”
Annie blinked as Maureen plucked another apron from the hook near the sideboard and tied it over her lovely yellow gown. “Er, Lady D—Maureen. Is there somethin’ I can do for ye?”
“Hmm. No. I’ll just make myself at home, shall I?” She plucked a bowl down from the sideboard and wandered toward the larder. “Oh! What a lovely arrangement of shelves.” She wandered inside. “And you have cinnamon! Splendid.”
Struggling to understand what was happening, Annie started toward the larder.
“Now, this is a proper kitchen.”
Annie froze. Meredith Huxley bustled through the doorway. Annie’s plump, round-faced, kindly mother-in-law cast a twinkling glance at the half-dozen maids working on dinner. “Such a delight to see a well-run household, dear.”
“I—my lady, I—”
“Meredith,” she insisted. “Or Mama, when you’re comfortable.”
The kitchen door opened again, and three more brown-haired Huxley sisters entered—sprightly, lovely Kate; wry, motherly Annabelle; and blunt, hat-loving Eugenia. They all surrounded Annie’s table, chatting and arguing about feathers, flowers, Shakespearean plays, meals designed to either please or displease a husband, and whether tartan ribbon was sufficiently Scottish for a hat worn in the Highlands.
Maureen joined them and suggested she’d like to try haggis while she was visiting. All the other ladies groaned.
“Do you have any notion of what they put in there, Maureen?” asked Eugenia. “All the parts they should be tossing in the rubbish pile, that’s what.”
Maureen sniffed and raised her chin. “I’ve heard it’s quite good, actually.”
Annie cleared her throat and felt the weight of five sets of Huxley brown eyes settle upon her. “Haggis can be good, aye. When ’tis done well.”
The fifth Huxley sister entered, peeking past the door through round spectacles. A warm smile wreathed her face, producing the dimples Annie had begun to associate with all Huxley females.
“My, this does appear to be the spot for tea and gossip,” Jane said. The Duchess of Blackmore was not at all how Annie had pictured her. Despite John’s many assurances to the contrary, Annie had imagined Jane as slender and swanlike with the remote sort of haughtiness bred into ladies who became duchesses.
She’d never been more wrong about anything. Jane was even shorter than Annie, plump and a wee bit plain with a fringe of dark, straight hair that brushed the silver rims of her spectacles. And she was shy. All yesterday, Annie had fretted that the duchess had taken a dislike to her. Then, John had gently explained, “Jane is shy. She’s improved a bit over the years since her marriage, but it takes her a moment or two to feel comfortable with new people. Wait until tomorrow,” he’d said. “She’ll be boring you senseless about her favorite novel. I think I could recite the bloody thing from memory.”
Now, the duchess came to stand beside Annie and covered her hand, squeezing. “Have you decided which chamber to turn into your nursery?”