Page 33 of Laird of Twilight
“A wee slip of a thing like you? Not at all.”
“I am not frightened of you, or of being alone with you. Nor am I afraid of what might happen…to us. Or to my heart.”
He glanced at her. She did frighten him a little. She was too honest, too damned enticing. She invaded his solitude and stirred up too much. “This situation alarms me, Miss MacArthur, on your behalf. Disgrace is not the best solution to your marriage dilemma.”
“It could be,” she answered.
He set the books down. A decanter of whisky sat on a nearby shelf, and he lifted it to swirl its contents. “Mrs. MacKimmie keeps bottles filled in every room. We can indulge when—under duress.” He could use a good swallow of whisky to fortify him against that fetching little wraith in his grandmother’s nightgown.
Better to keep his wits about him. He set the decanter back.
“Struan House has a good supply,” she said. “It is the laird’s house, after all. The smugglers are always generous so long as we look the other way. My grandfather never wants for free whisky. If you are pouring some, I will have a taste. It is a night for a few drams.”
Very well. He poured a little into a glass and brought it to her. She swallowed, handed it back, liquid gleaming. “And you, sir?”
He sipped, set it down. “Enough. If I am foxed, you might compromise me.”
“I have abandoned the idea. You’re too unwilling.”
“Oh, I am willing. Just too much the gentleman.” The silence pulsed in the air between them.
The wolfhound stood then, whining, and padded toward the door. A distant, eerie shriek drifted overhead. Elspeth stood, grabbing James’s arm, and they turned toward the door together. A cracking glow of lightning split the shadows, and thunder sounded.
“The banshee.” Her fingers tightened on his arm.
“Just an old rusted weathervane, I’m sure.” He was not convinced. “I’ll have Mr. MacKimmie fix it.”
“The banshee is warning us that something is about to happen.”
“Being alone together in these blasted circumstances is enough for me.”
“It warns us that the fairy ilk are riding on Struan grounds.”
James was framing his next denial when a cacophony of thunder and other noises shook the very walls. “What the devil,” he muttered, moving toward the door, Elspeth holding his arm. “It sounds as if the horses have gone loose from their stalls. I’ll check. Wait here,” he said. “Osgar, stay.”
“I am coming with you,” Elspeth said. Wasting no time on argument, James hurried toward the back corridor, then down the steps past the kitchen. The girl and the wolfhound followed him.
“Wait here, Elspeth.” He did not even notice that he used her name. He snatched a coat from a hook and stepped out into a whipping gust.
“Struan!” she called behind him. “James! Please wait!”
He looked back. “I will be fine, lass.”
“Whatever happens,” she called, “do not look back!”
He waved and walked into the storm.
* * *
Eilidh.Gasping, Elspeth stepped out into the elements. The Fey were riding that night, and Struan—James, for it sounded more real to her, and he liked what was real and reliable—James had gone out unsuspecting. She knew he would find the horses safe, the stable closed. The sounds had not come from there. He might be in danger—she had to find him, urge him to return to the house. Whoever encountered the fairy cavalcade on Struan lands might vanish, never to be seen again.
Eilidh...come with us.The voices blended with the wind, and the beat of horse hooves seemed part of the thunder. She knew how serious the risks were—Donal MacArthur had fallen to their mystical lure years before, and paid the price of it every seven years. Now she, too, felt the strange pull of their presence. But if she could find James and stay with him, he was so solid and unbelieving that surely even their power would diminish before that strength, and they would both be safe.
She had never feared them before, not like this. Tonight she felt truly wary. Struan had no idea of the dangers involved if he stayed outside. Seeing his cane as she limped over the lawn, she grabbed it up to help her walk, then rushed onward, her nightgown and clutched plaid whipping back, her braid soon damp and stray.
Then the wolfhound was beside her, bumping against her. She took his collar, reassured by his presence. Crossing the soggy grass, limping in bare feet, she felt the pain diminish. The lure of the Fey could make a person feel good, feel healed, even euphoric. Their magic infused the very air.If they were real,she told herself.If.
Something moved ahead, shapes and shadows in the mist that took on a strange blue glow. She heard footfalls and bells. Moments later she saw a line of horses, light and dark, moving through the night mist just beyond a line of trees. She hurried forward and stopped, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid to be heard or seen.
