The lad from earlier ran in to clear his plate, but John lifted it above the boy’s head before rising and helping himself to another serving of venison, bread, and cider from the dishes at the center of the table. If the MacPhersons weren’t going to bother with manners, he saw little point in controlling his appetite.
“Yes,” he answered, after devouring his next three bites. “Rather an abundance of kin, as it happens.”
“Five sisters,” Angus interjected, his suspicious gaze ricocheting between Annie and John. “Married, are they?”
“Four are, at last report. The youngest hasn’t yet settled on a husband.”
“Nor ye on a wife,” Angus said. “Yer mother cannae be happy about that.”
“Everyone would be better pleased if I were free to leave Scotland. You and your fellow Scots. My family. Me.” He shot Angus a dry glare. “Perhaps I’d be at liberty to secure a wife were I not yoked to a property I’ve little desire to keep.”
It was both true and a lie. Everyone would be happier if he returned to England—except him. And on certain days, when his loch reflected blue instead of gray, he considered keeping Ewan Wylie’s wild, beautiful land. But a wife? He’d no more desire to marry now than when his father had recommended it ten years ago, or when his mother had demanded it five years ago.
Annie glanced at Angus before crossing her arms over her bosom. “Make him an offer, auld man. Even the Laird of Daftness gave ye a sportin’ chance to bargain for this place, foolish though his conditions were.”
Releasing a disgusted snort, Angus shoved back from the table. “Ye’ve gone soft, lass. Coddlin’ Huxley like yer favorite wee lamb.”
“He’s put up with yer rubbish long enough. And I’ve listened to the same argument too many times.” With a scrape of her chair, Annie stood, took a long drink of her cider, tipping the cup back until John saw her pale throat ripple. Then she slammed the cup down on the table. “Finish it.”
Angus went silent, staring at his daughter with a worried glower. “This isnae like ye—”
“I’m losin’ my patience.” She was also losing her color again, her mouth losing its quirk. “He paid me a kindness today. He deserves somethin’ in return.”
“He’s had a fine meal—”
“Make an offer. Or ye can bluidy well make your own gravy from now on.”
“Christ on the cross, lassie, dinnae say such foul—”
“Go on.” Her chin jutted a challenge as she met Angus’s ferocious glare with her own.
Angus slid his wrath in John’s direction. “Fine. Here’s a wager for yer bonnie lamb. I’ll agree to divide the commonty rights as Huxley last proposed.” Slowly, Angus grinned. It was not a pleasant sight. “Provided he meets the terms of the original deed. Two years’ residence.” He paused, appearing to savor the moment. “And he must win the event of my choosin’ at the Glenscannadoo Games, else forfeit the land to me.”
When Annie sighed and came around the table to pat John’s shoulder in sympathy, he knew he was in trouble. “Well, we tried. I reckon England’s winter will be kinder to yer frilly petticoats than Scotland’s. Ye can be thankful for that much.”
Slowly, John set his fork beside his plate. The china was chipped in two places. The fork was tarnished and bent.
His gut began burning. Hardening. The itch grew unbearable. “Perhaps I would be. But I do not intend to leave Scotland before winter.”
Hands on hips, she bent forward and caught his eye. “No? Ye watched the games last summer, aye?”
“Yes.”
“And ye saw the MacPhersons trounce every last man the way I stew onions for my gravy—’til they’re all soft and puny.”
He had, indeed. Angus’s sons had trouble finding competitors, as few men wished to suffer such humiliation. They dominated every event, from the foot race to the bagpiping.
But John Huxley had been issued a challenge. True, it had been a long time since he’d felt the adventuring fire. And perhaps this fire was momentary, a flash of irritated pride at MacPherson’s grin and Annie’s remark about petticoats. But it was there.
After a long, cold, dry spell, the fire was there.
“We have a wager, MacPherson,” he said, plucking up his knife to butter his bread. “May the best man win.”
Chapter Three
TlU
Yellow leaves crunched beneath Annie’s boots. Last night, it had iced rather than rained, making the cart path through the narrow glen a test of boots and balance. Blowing out a breath that fogged white in the cold, she climbed over a fallen log and glanced ahead toward the loch.
It sparkled blue amidst frost-dusted pines. Bare white birch danced in its reflection. This loch was smaller than Loch Carrich, though still long and deep, a watery gouge at the center of a curving valley filled with all manner of wonders.
Two of them crossed the path ten yards in front of her. A stag and a doe.
She halted. Waited. They were cautious, making their way down to the loch for a morning drink, likely. After a pause to blink in her direction, they continued on. Just then, a fawn left the brush where he’d been hiding and followed his mother.
“Would ye look at that, Fin?” she breathed. “A family.” Without thinking, she reached for Finlay’s hand. Her fingers curled in upon themselves. Empty.
God. Nearly a month without him, now. She swallowed and forced herself to continue on. To move.
Hurting helped no one, least of all Fin.
Today was about helping him find his way back to her. She slipped on a patch of ice. Slammed an elbow into a birch trunk. Shoved herself forward. Cursed everything and everyone who had been so bloody useless.
Mrs. MacBean. Angus. Herself most of all.
She’d gone over and over Mrs. MacBean’s books. Most of them were pure nonsense. She’d discovered a decent salve for her stepbrother Broderick’s shaving rash, but apart from that, useless.
Two days ago, she’d stormed out of Mrs. MacBean’s cottage when the old woman couldn’t remember whether the book she’d dug out of her flower bed addressed ghosts or faeries. Turned out it was a guide to Glaswegian breweries and public houses. Apparently, there was some fine beer to be had near the rope manufactory if one didn’t mind the stench.
Yesterday, Annie had stormed back into Mrs. MacBean’s cottage with five fresh loaves of bread and a demand: “Dinnae tell me what ye’ve read,” she’d snapped, dropping her basket on the table. “Tell me what ye ken.”
Mrs. MacBean’s good eye had looked her up and down. “About ghosties? Not as much as ye’d suppose.”
She snorted. “Nae doubt of that. Just tell me what ye ken. Apart from where to have a pint in Glasgow.”
“They’re slippery. Waitin’ til dark to appear. Never stayin’ long enough for conversation. Unsociable pranksters, the lot of ‘em.”
“Finlay isnae like that.”