Page 32 of Laird of Twilight
“I am fine,” she said, standing with arms folded. He could see the high plump of her breasts through the fabric. The plaid over her shoulders hid little of that.
“Miss MacArthur, I cannot think if you stand there like that.”
She went to the window seat that was tucked beneath a tall window overlooking the back garden. All was darkness, whipping rain, winds. “The roads will flood, the bridge will wash out.”
He cocked a brow. “A prediction?”
“I know the glen. The stone of the old bridges can crumble in very bad storms and the roads may turn to mud. The local men make repairs, but it takes time.”
“New bridges should be built, and the roads resurfaced.”
“Aye. But no one can afford to do that here. Bridges and roads need money.”
Nodding, he wondered again if she believed that the laird of Struan had the generous pockets the glen needed. He scarcely had enough funds to keep his own house and grounds in order, let alone pay for bridges in the glen, or make a wife wealthy. And unless he finished his grandmother’s book and wed a fairy bride, he reminded himself sourly, he would have only a small inheritance.
Fairy bride.He watched her, unable to concentrate when she sat curled on the seat, the thin gown defining the delightful shape of her hips and legs, a blush of skin showing through the fine fabric. Standing, he began to put books away, carrying them to a wrought iron ladder, climbing up to slide the books onto high shelves. His gait made the process slow, but the activity was what he needed.
Had Elspeth MacArthur set this up deliberately, anticipating the weather, hearing the laird was alone? Had she hoped events would lead to marriage that would benefit her family and community? She had been frank about wanting to be ruined. Had she been honest about her grandfather’s plans to marry her off?
He looked down, saw her flipping through the pages of a book. She was lovely, a fey sort with that dark hair, pale features, and delicate frame. Anyone might believe she had fairy blood. Even Sir Walter Scott was intrigued.
If James married her, he could meet the will’s conditions.Preposterous. He and his siblings should dispute the will instead of chasing will-o’-the-wisps.
Still, he was glad to work with his grandmother’s manuscript. Lady Struan felt closer to him as he worked, and he was glad to honor that, and her book, regardless of the subject matter. What was nonsense to him did appeal to many others.
The wolfhound loped toward the girl. She patted his great, unkempt head. “Good lad, Osgar,” she said.
“That dog follows you everywhere now,” James said. “You need not be frightened in this house. He could scare off anything, earthly or unearthly.”
“Oh no, he’d probably let them in.”
“Them?”
“The Fey. They are out riding tonight.”
“Come now, Miss MacArthur. Not even a fairy would be out and about in such a downpour. Nor do dogs open doors. Let us put pretense aside.”
“I would never fool you.” She looked up, her face a pretty oval.
“A nice promise,” he answered, easing another book into place.
“You have closed off your heart from hurt, James MacCarran, Lord Struan,” she said. “You trust no one.”
His heart pounded. “Life is much smoother that way,” he said casually, shoving another book into place. “It eliminates complications and—”And love. He stopped.
“And love?” she asked, watching him from below.
He crammed in another book. “Silly notions and sentiment.”
“Why do you not believe in the Sight, or fairies, or even love?”
He climbed down and went back to the desk. “Because believing,” he said quietly, “requires accepting the fantastical. I am not a fool. Give me good solid rocks to categorize. Those are real.” He stamped his boot heel. “The earth beneath our feet. The air we breathe. What we touch and see. It is real. It makes up our world.”
“You are afraid to believe.” She sat up, the lamplight reflecting in her eyes. “Afraid that you cannot explain everything in your world. Afraid to trust something unseen and powerful.”
“I go to church on occasion. I was taught to trust in that.” He did not, particularly, not as intently as others. “No man trusts other forces easily. Certainly not me.” He picked up more books, headed for the steps.
“You are afraid of me a little, I think.”
