Page 37 of Laird of Twilight
She turned her head away. “I have no magic.”
“You,” he said, “have far more magic than you know. Why did you not stay inside when I went out to the stables?”
“The Good Folk called to me to follow. They called you, too. The only way to stay safe when they appear is to hold tight to another, no matter what happens. And to not look at them. My plaid is green. Perhaps that protected us against the draw of the fairy folk.”
He stared. Good God, he thought, stunned. “Are you fevered?”
“Do you know the ballad ofTam Lin?‘Hold me fast, let me not go—'”
“‘I’ll be your bairn’s father,’” he finished. “Very nearly, and that is the matter you and I had best discuss.”
“I am not a hussy, intent on lashing you into marriage.”
“I never thought it. We are in extraordinary circumstances here.”
“Indeed. I wish you would remember it completely.” She tensed her shoulders, drew her brows together. And yet she looked purely an angel—more to the point, a fairy-like beauty, with a cloud of black hair and crystal-gray eyes.
He shook his head to clear it. “Miss MacArthur—Elspeth—enough. You wanted to be ruined. You very nearly are. If you want to be wed, we shall discuss it. If this is anything more than that—” He blew out a breath. “Well, you are Donal MacArthur’s granddaughter. I have been reading my grandmother’s pages, which contain an account of a strange encounter he claims to have had. So I understand if you believe rather strongly in fairies. But we have another, far more pressing, matter here.”
“She wrote about him?”
“Aye. He told her that he had been taken by the fairies, and returns to that realm every few years.”
“Every seven years. So you think my grandfather a daftie, and me now as well.” She stepped back. “Away with you, Struan! Believe what you like. I saw them tonight. And so did you, whether or not you admit it.”
“Not a daftie. Eccentric, perhaps. Superstitious, certainly.”
“I need to rest my foot,” she said abruptly. “I will go into the drawing room to get warm, and take some time to think.”
“We both need time to think. Very well. I will be in the study.” He turned.
“My grandfather,” she said then. James looked over his shoulder. “He says what he believes. He says that when he was a young man, he went with the fairies and was their hostage for seven years.”
“Seven years,” he repeated slowly.
“To be fair, it felt like a week to him. Seven days. His family wondered where he had gone. Not many believed his story. But for fifty years and more, he has never changed it.” She spun, limping down the hallway toward the drawing room.
James stared after her, dumbfounded. Osgar appeared beside him in the hallway, paused by him, and then padded after Elspeth. “Go on, fairy hound,” James said. “Follow your wee mistress. She is of that ilk, after all. Keep her safe, hey?”
He exhaled, ran a hand through his damp hair. Seven years with the fairies? Why claim such a thing? What would a man gain from it, if no one believed him?
And Elspeth—James did not know what to make of her. She was fairy-like, he would give her that. And mischievous. And furious with him, with good reason.
He huffed, headed for his study. Fairies. Impossible.
* * *
On her way to the drawing room, passing the darkened library, Elspeth paused. James’s study was at the far side of the library, through another door. She could see the light blooming there.
She walked into the dim, spacious, book-lined room, tempted to knock on the study door. But no, she thought. Best not to pursue this now. Nothing could be decided when they were both tired and uncertain about what had occurred outside. As for herself, she felt sure that she had seen the Seelie Court tonight. A lifetime of stories proven true. Her eyes, her senses, told her it had been real, though she could not justify it in the cool light of reality.
And she felt sure James had seen them too, and either did not remember or chose not to believe or admit it. There would be no convincing him.
Clutching the damp plaid around her, she walked toward the library fireplace, where a low fire still glowed with warmth. Holding out her hands, she glanced around. Rain sheeted anew against the high, dark windows, and the hearth shed a little light. The room soared with shelves containing what had to be thousands of books. At its center was a long table. Wing chairs in red brocade were scattered about the long room, along with various small tables and artworks as well.
The heat felt good. The fabric of her nightgown was drying quickly, and while she stood there, she outlasted the impulse to knock on the study door. Finally she turned to leave the room, glancing at a glass display case as she went.
She stopped short.
