Page 18 of Laird of Twilight
For a moment, she wondered if theDaoine Síthhad something to do with this weather. Tradition said the Fey had such power, and they would want to prevent anyone from finding the entrance to their land. Uneasy now, caught between belief and logic, Elspeth stood by the rock wall high on the hill and glanced around.
Originally, a cluster of rock had crested the slope, but the work of creating the grotto had changed the hill’s profile. Elspeth tried to remember where Donal had stood when he had visited this place years ago, disappearing into the fairy world, or so he later said. Where had she seen him set the stone as if it were a key?
Pulling up her plaid shawl against the slanting rain gave her a little protection, but she could do little about her gown, Spencer jacket, and leather boots, all soaked by now. She had to hurry, for she could not risk being discovered by someone in the great house. How could she explain that she had trespassed to search for a stone that she intended to steal away? Even though it belonged to her family and might be a key to the fairy world—it sounded pure madness. The late Lady Struan had been keenly interested in local lore and would have eagerly supported the search. But that kind lady was gone now. Others would not be so accepting.
More than once, Lady Struan had invited Donal and Elspeth to Struan House to talk about fairy legends. Donal had told her many of his stories, warning Lady Struan that certain tales could not be written down for fear of angering the fairies. The lady had been fascinated, promising to protect Donal’s stories if she could use some of what he said in her book.
Even the fairies had enough sense to stay out of such rain, Elspeth told herself, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. Shivering, she gathered her shawl closer, the long arisaid favored by Highland women, which covered her head to knee and protected her from the elements. But even that good wool was becoming soggy.
She made her way along carefully, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed, and she jumped a little. Hurry, she told herself, for it would be dark soon.
A dog barked, and a man called out. Startled, Elspeth whirled to peer through sheeting rain, stepping forward. Her heel hit a sluice of muddy water, her feet went out from under her, and then she was sliding downward, unable to stop herself on a cascade of muck. Bumping along, she landed with a lurch at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled and muddied, legs sprawled. Sitting up, she pushed the plaid off of her face and shoved her hair back.
Black boots stood an inch deep in mud just in front of her. Looking up, she saw brown trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves, a brown jacket, a damp neckcloth—
Lord Struan stared down at her.
* * *
No fairy, nor eldritch hag sprawling at his feet, James saw—just a wet, bedraggled girl in a filthy dress and plaid shawl. Her face was obscured by dripping hair, but he immediately noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from her neat ankles and calves in muddy stockings and shoes, to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts encased in sopping fabric. She looked young, pretty—and miserable.
“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “Let me help you.”
With a gasp, the girl shoved her skirts down over her legs and pushed back the plaid. James saw a heart-shaped face haloed by curling tendrils of black hair, and eyes looking up at him, gray-green, silver as rain.
“Why, Miss MacArthur,” he said nonchalantly. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”
“Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”
“Apologies. I plead the shock of the moment.” He offered his hand again. She refused it and managed to stand, wincing.
“I’m fine, sir,” she said, waving away his extended hand.
He doubted that, seeing how she favored one foot and hopped about. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?” Water ran from the brim of his hat. He was drenched and so was she, with the rain continuing to pound. He waited politely.
“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said. Thunder rumbled. “Are you just arrived? I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.” She wiped the back of her hand across her muddy face and sniffed.
James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”
“How nice. I must go. Please excuse my intrusion.” Turning, she stepped to the side, gasped, and flailed her arms as her footing faltered. James took her elbow.
“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk out in a thunderstorm. Into the house we go.” He turned with her.
He led her down another incline and along the stone pathway through the wet, raggedy garden, and quickly realized that the girl was having difficulty walking. The rain lashed nearly sideways now, and he set an arm about her shoulders to protect her as she hunched forward, drawing up the soggy plaid against the downpour.
Lightning cracked brightly overhead, and the wind whirled about them. James felt an eerie sense, as if there were real danger in the air even beyond the storm.
“Hurry,” he said, and snatched her up in his arms, taking the garden path in quick strides. He had dropped his cane, but his leg did not seem to hinder him for some reason. Rushing along a garden pathway lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies, he headed for the kitchen door, Elspeth MacArthur clinging to his neck.
Thunder pounded again, and for a moment James felt caught up in the nightmare of Quatre Bras, where he and his Highland Watch regiment had defended ground against an onrush of Frenchcuirassiers—the booming thunder reminded him of that day. He hurried, breathing hard as he reached the door, managed the handle with the girl in his arms, and nearly hurtled inside.
In the dim corridor, the wolfhound and two terriers waited, shuffling out of the way as James carried the girl inside. He kicked the door shut and set off with her down the hall, past the kitchen and up a short flight of steps to the main hallway, then along that to the parlor. The dogs trotted close and curious on his heels.
The MacArthur girl was a sopping wet bundle, but still no burden. She fit in his arms like sin itself. Her curves eased against him, warming them both. Her face was close to his, breath soft upon his cheek, one arm resting around his shoulders, a hand on his chest.
His breath came back quickly, thanks to his fit nature, but his heart slammed nonetheless as he tried not to focus on the girl fitted so warm and wet against him. And no doubt ruining his shirt, he tried to tell himself. He must think of the need to get the girl dried off. Think of the ache in his left leg from a wound incurred seven years ago. Think of the cane he had dropped in the garden when he had lifted her up. Blast it all, he had lost his hat, too, and likely ruined a good coat in the rain.
Mundane but helpful thoughts kept his mind off the delicious creature leaning against him, gazing up at him as if he was some sort of hero. He almost laughed. Dull was what he wanted to be, what he went out of his way to establish these days. This mad rain-soaked adventure was out of character.
