Page 19 of Laird of Twilight
But before he bid her farewell, once she was dry and warm, he meant to find out why the lovely Miss MacArthur had been in his garden in the first place. Surely she was the so-called fairy that had scared off the housemaid.
Chapter 5
Up steps and along a hallway warmed by glowing brass lamps and Oriental carpets, James carried the girl quickly into the drawing room and set her down on an upholstered wing chair angled near a low fire crackling in the grate. The room was dim, so he grabbed a tinderbox and lit a few candles in brass holders.
“Best get you warmed up. You’re soaked,” he said.
“So are you. Sir, I appreciate this, but I must go.” She rose, shifting to favor one foot. “I should not sit down here or anywhere. I am wet and muddy—I may have already ruined your pretty chair.”
“My concern is not for the chair, but for you, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please. My housekeeper would have my head if I let a lady go out in such weather, and injured.”
She sighed. “I suppose I could stay until the rain lessens. Do you have something to cover the seat? Mrs. MacKimmie knows me, and is a forgiving soul, but I will not make a mess for her to clean if it can be avoided.” She took off her long, damp plaid shawl, and began to drape it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace.
Looking dismayed, she brushed ineffectually at her muddy skirt, a pale green muslin confection patterned in florals and hemmed in rows of flounces, worn with a little green jacket that surely lent no warmth. Her bonnet, green with ribbons and things on it, was wet and bedraggled too. James wondered that she went out in the rain in such frippery—but he did not always quite grasp decisions made by the female mind. She did have a long plaidie, and so had some pragmatism.
Noticing how the wet gown clung to her graceful curves, he merely looked away. “I’ll fetch you a blanket,” he said, turning to look for something.
She removed her little jacket and attempted to smooth her dress. His own coat of superfine was fair drenched, but he could not properly remain in shirtsleeves in a lady’s presence. He would endure the discomfort. The situation was already damaging enough. If Mrs. MacKimmie should return, or anyone else arrive unexpectedly to find them wet and in disarray, the situation would appear far worse than the actual truth. He did not care for his own sake but did not want the girl to suffer embarrassment.
Not seeing a blanket or shawl, he opened drawers in a highboy to find linens, candles, papers, and in another, writing materials, paper, ink, quills. He was not familiar with much of Struan House beyond the study and library and his own rooms. Finally, he opened a low chest to discover a dark blue tartan lap robe. He brought it to her, and she thanked him, tucking it around her, and sitting again.
He pulled a tapestry footstool toward her and she set her feet on it. “Where are you injured? If I may ask.”
“My ankle.” She drew her skirts up, then glanced up with a quick amused twinkle in her eye. “Turn away, sir, or your fine city manners might be offended.”
He huffed. “I have a little medical experience. I studied medicine at university before I took up another science. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
She nodded. James dropped to one knee, then carefully unlaced and eased off her leather boot. He took her stockinged foot in his hand to see swelling that was already expanding a pretty little ankle in a very muddy stocking.
“You wanted to be a doctor, like your brother, the one I met in Edinburgh?”
“William is well suited to that calling. I discovered that I am better suited to natural philosophy. Geological science in particular,” he added. He did not tell her the reason for changing his mind—a bloody field the day before Waterloo when he had done his best to help in the futile aftermath despite his own injury. His cousin—more like his brother—had died in his arms that day. Numb to his core, James returned to Scotland, stuffed his emotions away, abandoned medicine, and took up the study of rocks.
Now and then he still thought about his desire to study medicine and wished he had continued, seeing how William enjoyed its challenges and cared about his patients. But rocks were safe. Rocks did not demand more than one could safely give.
He peered up at her. “May I?” He cupped her heel, turned her foot.
“Go on.” She drew her skirts higher.
He ran his fingertips along her foot and up her ankle, delicately contoured but for the turgid area. He gestured to the other boot, and she bent to untie its laces. He drew that off to judge the difference in her ankles, which was unfortunately considerable. When he gently rotated the injured ankle, she winced but did not cry out sharply. He nodded.
“Possibly a bad sprain,” he said. “I do not think it is broken. But we will not know for certain until a doctor can see you.” As he cradled her foot in his hands, he felt a thrill go through him—physical, aye, for she was delectable. But he felt something more rush through him. Protective. Giving. His heart pounded.
Glancing up, he saw the girl incline her head, eyes closed. “Oh,” she whispered.
He sucked in a breath and set her foot on the cushioned stool. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.” She gathered the plaid closer around her, blushing.
James rose to his feet. “You need warmth and something for the pain.” He went to a table that held two decanters and a few glasses. Lifting one to sniff its amber contents, he nodded. “Whisky. A few sips will do, if you will.” He poured a healthy dose into a glass and brought it to her. “I know ladies do not usually indulge in strong spirits unless they are out on a hunt, for example, but this might help now.”
“Whisky is perfectly acceptable to Highland ladies at any time. Thank you,” she said, tipping the glass to her lips, swallowing, pausing. Then she took more, without a cough or a tear in the eye. Bright color stained her cheeks as she handed the glass to him. “Your turn, sir. There is a Highland custom of passing the welcome dram, even between genders.”
“A welcome to Struan House, is it?” He drank, the sweet, mellow burn searing his throat. Seeing her smile, dulcet and radiant, he hesitated. Realizing he was quite alone with the young beauty who had appeared in his dreams all too often recently, he cleared his throat and set down the glass.
Then he knelt to take up her injured ankle again. “This ought to be wrapped,” he said. She laughed. He raised a brow in question.
“Cinderella, about to get her slipper?” She was smiling, cheeks pink.
