Page 11 of Laird of Twilight
“He is spectacularly handsome in that Highland kit,” Lucie said.
“It suits some of us! I think I recognize him,” Sir Philip said, looking over their shoulders. “He is one of the Whisky Lairds—you know, the ones who were brought to the Edinburgh dungeon, and caused such a commotion last spring.”
“I read about them! Oh my,” Lucie said, watching the pair.
James angled to look. The fellow made a striking figure indeed in his Highland finery, and the blond young lady with him was very pretty. Hector Graham’s daughter? He had heard something about her, but he would not engage in gossip. Instead, he turned away to continue his conversation with Fiona, who was now looking at the Highland gentleman too.
The man put other Scotsmen here to shame, he thought, easily besting those in black and white, and even those decked out in lengths of tartan, furs, weaponry, and three eagle feathers in their bonnets signifying a clan chief. James wished the man well, and smiled to himself, content in sober black.
“There was some story recently about the legal charges,” Philip was saying.
“Look! He just kissed Cousin Ellison—dear me!” Lucie laughed with surprised delight. “I must say hello, and hope for an introduction.”
“I will go with you,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “Everyone is having such fun in that room, aren’t they? Come, Lucie. I believe Sir Philip is right. That Highland chieftain is rather notorious, in the most interesting way, I can tell you—” Charlotte continued to murmur as she took Lucie’s arm, sweeping her away, the others in their wake.
That left James and Miss MacArthur standing together, very much alone behind the screen of rhododendrons and roses. He cleared his throat.
“A notorious Highlander.” Miss MacArthur laughed softly. “There are a very many of those here, I would guess.”
“I read an account of the man and his friends inThe Edinburgh Observer,” James said. “Whisky smugglers down from the Highlands. There were unusual circumstances of some sort.”
“Most Highlanders here drink smuggled whisky, or brew it, or smuggle it themselves—at the least, they are wishing they had a dram right now,” she said. As James chuckled, she looked at him, eyes twinkling like stars. “Though I will say he did kiss my cousin very nicely. Perhaps the only man here giving a lass a real kiss.”
“True, the others are hardly bestowing proper kisses,” he said curtly. Cleared his throat again. Was he blushing? His cheeks felt hot. His cravat felt tight. Damnation. “I do not understand the fuss over the king’s kisses.”
“The kisses were disappointing, I assure you. Now they are just enjoying their wee game.” She glanced up, smiled. “Though I am no judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”
“What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He felt unaccountably irritated.
“The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have several looms at Kilcrennan, large and small, and he helps set them up. But I agree, those were not proper kisses, I suppose. Look, even more of them are at it now.” She laughed again. “Lord Struan, perhaps you should go join them and give someone a proper kiss yourself. Miss Sinclair might expect it.” Her eyes, silvery beautiful, crinkled with amusement.
“Perhaps. Miss MacArthur,” he said, as an urge welled in him. She was here, and not being kissed, and he very much wanted to kiss her. Before he could think further, he tilted her chin with a crooked finger. She did not protest, watching him with those remarkable eyes. Her lips parted slightly. “This is what one would call a proper kiss.” He bent, touching his lips to hers.
Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. The simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, felt her quivering hand on his forearm.
“Oh,” she gasped, “oh—” And tilted her face upward for more.
“Aye,” he breathed, leaning down. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silk and satin. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat.
He felt as if he stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed. Felt himself falling.
Drawing a breath, he pulled her closer, and she sighed against his mouth, pressed her body against his, the movement wildly enticing. She groaned softly as he slid his hand up from her waist until his fingertips skimmed the soft skin of her shoulder. She caught her breath, and his body surged—
He dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”
She clutched his sleeve, let go, stepped away. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh! Good day, Lord Struan, thank you for”—she did not look at him—“your kindness today. Truly, I must go.”
“Miss MacArthur,” he murmured politely. He craved after that kiss, wanted to pursue her, seek more, his body pulsing—and he guessed by her sweet and hungry response, she was not adverse. But he should not have done it, let alone allow it to become a real kiss. He inclined his head. “My apologies.”
She was already sweeping away, silvery blue, a froth of a gown and that satiny blue train like the curl of a wave. Then she glanced back, her silver eyes haunting.
He would not forget those beautiful eyes or their provocative owner. Too soon, she vanished into a glittering sea of people.
Chapter 3
James heard the shriek as he stepped over the threshold. Unexpected, unnerving, it came from somewhere overhead in the foyer. As if in answer, a dog howled distantly in the large, drafty old house. Setting down his leather satchel, James straightened and looked up. Was the cry just a creaking door or old floorboards, or hinges needing repair?
“Halloo!” he called out. “Halloo the house!”
