The Taming of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #2) - Elisa Braden Page 0,1
to explain her goal of living independently to her brother. Was he a spirited woman who refused to be tamed and stuffed into an ill-fitting mold? No. He was a Huxley. Huxleys married. Huxleys bred. Huxleys did their duty.
Kate intended to be the exception, but to do so without becoming a burden to her family, she must establish an independent source of income. Finishing her manuscript was the answer, which was why she’d stayed on in Scotland.
Weeks ago, upon hearing news of John’s long-awaited nuptials, Mama and Papa had immediately arranged for a Huxley family visitation. Eager to see the place she’d dreamt about for the past two years, Kate had traveled with them from Nottinghamshire to a land of green, wooded glens and glistening lochs. One glimpse, and she’d been enchanted.
While the rest of the family had returned home ten days ago, Kate had elected to stay with John and Annie through winter. She had a keen interest in learning more about Scotland’s land, people, and history. One could not write a proper Scottish story without steeping oneself in Scottish culture.
Besides, Kate’s four sisters, their husbands, and their children all had made the journey as well, and they’d planned to travel as a group with Mama and Papa on the return trip to England. Kate adored her family, but six days’ travel in an enclosed carriage was dreadful enough without constant talk about the vagaries of infant teeth on one’s nerves and nursing bosoms. She could only imagine what Annie had thought when they’d all arrived at Glendasheen Castle.
She needn’t have worried. Annie had handled the Huxley Invasion splendidly. Annie was accustomed to managing a large family; hers included a stepfather and four stepbrothers.
Just then, Annie entered the room, abducting John’s rapt gaze. To be fair, her hair did flash brilliant scarlet in the warm autumn light, so it caught Kate’s attention, too. Several curls had escaped their pins, and Annie fussed with them as she crossed the room.
“Katie-lass. Ye always look so fresh and bonnie. Tell me how ye keep yer pins in place, and I’ll let ye do another dramatic readin’ after dinner.”
“Of course—if you also agree to help me with Chapter Seven.”
“Which scene is that, now?”
“The one in which Fiona Farquharson-McPhee rescues her father from a marauding gang of sheep farmers.”
“Right. The sheep farmers.” Annie cast a furtive look in John’s direction and coughed. “Well, I do my best readin’ when my hair isnae in my eyes.”
Kate chuckled, set her notebook aside, and wiggled her fingers toward Annie’s hair. “Here. Let me help.” She went to work, tucking and repositioning the fiery coils. She and her sister-in-law were similarly petite, so Kate stood on her toes to get a better view of the top. “How did you manage to dislodge so many pins?”
Annie quirked a smile at John. “Care to explain, English?”
He cleared his throat. “No.”
“I was havin’ a wee nap.” Annie’s hand slid over her abdomen. “The bairn makes me … weary from time to time.”
Kate glanced at John, whose cheeks were ruddy with the telltale Huxley Flush. “Right,” she murmured. “Well, unlike my sisters, I’ve little advice to offer on that score.” All her sisters had borne children. Many, many children.
Kate sometimes wondered what Annie would do when she grew too big to knead dough or carve venison any longer, or when she birthed the first of her inevitably large brood and spent all her time fretting over the babe’s every sneeze. Motherhood had a way of taking over one’s life.
So did falling in love.
As the youngest of five Huxley daughters, Kate had a unique perch from which to observe the phenomenon. One by one, her sisters had fallen madly in love and promptly descended into a state of foolish preoccupation. Longing glances, fluttery lashes, florid Huxley Flushes. It was all a bit bizarre, really. Worse, they’d lost interest in discussing much of anything apart from their men and, eventually, their children.
Even John—carefree, world-traveling, marriage-forswearing John—had fallen prey to the affliction.
To Kate, love was indistinguishable from a consuming parasite of the mind.
“Is it dreadful, then?” Annie asked, turning concerned eyes over her shoulder.
Kate tucked the final red curl into place. “There. Lovely.”
Bright blue eyes warmed and sparkled. Annie gave her an affectionate pat. “My thanks, Katie-lass. Now then, ye must choose a happier scene for yer dramatic reading than the one from last night.”
Kate frowned. “That was the Scottish play.” Both Annie and John appeared unimpressed. “It is Shakespeare.”