Page 24 of Laird of Twilight
He had wanted a dull and ordinary life. Nonetheless, risk had found him again.
Tea,he reminded himself. Blessedly simple. He headed for the kitchen.
Chapter 6
Ruination and compromise?Elspeth covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. And she spoke of visions, death, and battle too? Either the whisky had loosened her tongue, or the Sight, or both. Struan would think her a madwoman or a hussy—or both.
Fairy gifts, her grandfather said, came with a price. Her gift of Sight asked a good deal for the privilege. Too often she impulsively blurted out whatever came to mind—she had done that Sir Walter Scott himself, and now Lord Struan. No wonder the latter thought her fortune hunter. She should leave, and soon. But when would she find another chance to search the grounds for her grandfather’s stone?
By now, Donal MacArthur had probably promised her hand to MacDowell in Edinburgh in his determination to marry her off. She might well be standing with the tailor before a parson soon; her twenty-first birthday was three weeks away.
If a few hours alone with Lord Struan could compromise her reputation, she could escape marriage to the tailor. If Struan offered, she did not have to accept. She could be just as determined as her grandfather. And she wanted to find the missing crystal—and find a way to remain at Kilcrennan, even as a spinster, for life.
She stood, hopping on her good foot to spare her ankle. The rain continued, the darkness increased. Sitting by the fire scarcely warmed her, for her things were still that damp. Draping her muddied plaid to dry by the fire, she drew the woolen lap robe about her shoulders and limped out into the dark hallway. Seeing a glow from the back staircase, she went toward it, supporting herself with a hand on the wall.
A faint, unsettling moan echoed distantly in the house—the banshee of Struan House. Once, she had come here with Grandda for tea with Lady Struan, and heard the eerie cry then, mentioning it to Lady Straun, who had been delighted that the girl had heard it. Now, chills ran down her spine as she hurried along.
Lord Struan had carried her this way earlier, bravely and kindly, and she had not been appreciative, causing only trouble. Limping down a few steps and into a slate-floored hallway, she headed toward what must be the kitchen, where light glowed through an open door.
The large gray wolfhound emerged from the shadows, shoving his head under her hand, pressing close as if offering his tall shoulder to help support her. He led her to the doorway as if it was his own intention. She peered inside, seeing a long worktable. Struan stood there, arranging bread and cheese on a plate.
She entered with the dog. The scrubbed pine table held a bowl of apples, a blue-and-white porcelain teapot, delicate teacups and saucers. In the huge kitchen hearth, a steaming iron teakettle hung from a hook. A second hook held a wide-mouthed kettle, contents bubbling.
“Soup,” Elspeth said, sniffing the seasoned air. “It smells delicious.”
Struan turned. “Miss MacArthur. The housekeeper left soup for my supper. We can share if you are hungry. It’s late enough for a hearty tea.”
“Thank you, I would love a high tea. No need to take it upstairs,” she added as he reached for a tray. “We could eat in here. There is no one about to say against it.”
He nodded. She went to stand beside him, helping to arrange things on the tray. He set the teapot there while she handed him teacups and saucers, and found spoons and a little bowl of sugar already grated from the cone.
Slicing thick brown bread while Struan went to the hearth to ladle soup into bowls, Elspeth felt the earlier tension dissipate in favor of cooperation. Struan carried the tray to a smaller table beneath a wide window, and pulled up two wooden chairs. He held one out for her and she sat, drawing the plaid over her shoulders again. Setting a bowl of soup before her and another for himself, he sat across from her.
“You’re shivering,” he observed.
“My things are still damp,” she replied. And she had just one boot on, the other foot wrapped in his neckcloth. Her toes were cold. She noticed that Struan was in his shirtsleeves, with a brocaded gray waistcoat but no cravat. She could see the long line of his strong neck, the dusting of dark hair from chin to throat. Stifling a sigh—truly he was a handsome lad for a lass to sigh over, but she would have to ignore that. He did not want compromise, and after all that was for the best. Reaching out to pour the tea into the two cups, she watched as he stirred a bit of sugar into the steaming liquid in his cup.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have offered you dry clothing, but I am not familiar with what might be stored in the house. We could have a look if you like.”
She shook her head. “My things will dry.” She sipped tea, and noticed that he was not eating, that he waited courteously for her to begin. She took a little bread, buttered it, and tried the soup. It was excellent, savory, thickened after sitting in the kettle, but only to its benefit.
As they ate, rain pattered the windows beside the table and gusts rattled the panes. Elspeth glanced at the dark sky. “Will anyone return to the house tonight?”
“I doubt it. The roads will be muddy and unsafe in the dark. Likely they will arrive early tomorrow. Here, you girls. Good lassies.” He set his nearly empty bowl on the floor, and the two terriers, who had been waiting patiently, rushed for it, nosing at each other. Elspeth set hers on the floor too, and the wolfhound came over to lick it politely.
Struan sat back. “I know you would prefer to go home, but it is unthinkable to walk, and it might be dangerous to ride out by cart or horse in the night, for the sake of the horses more than ourselves. This sort of rain brings flooding unexpectedly. Miss MacArthur, I fear you may have to stay the night.”
“I know.” Her heart gave a little fillip. She reached for the teapot and poured a bit more tea into both cups. They sipped in silence. Then he set his cup down.
“I must ask—why were you in the garden?”
Hot tea, swallowed too quickly, made her cough. “I was looking for something my grandfather lost there a while ago. He knew Lady Struan. We were invited here sometimes,” she explained. “He is Mr. Donal MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
“I know the name. What did he lose?”
“A stone, one very special to him. It was lost when the grotto was finished.”
He sat forward. “A valuable stone?”
