Page 40 of Laird of Twilight
“Very well. I would stay in the Highlands, but you are a Lowland man. And I think you cannot wait to be gone from here and back in the south again.”
“I never said that.” Not in her hearing, at any rate. “You would have a comfortable life in the city with me.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I am sure you would accommodate whatever I wanted. I know that. Now let us be done with this tonight, Struan. It is late.”
The more she denied him, the more appealing the prospect grew. She was interesting. Intriguing. Fascinating. “Tell me this first.” He leaned to the door, speaking low. “Are you perhaps waiting for someone else? Is there a man who lives in this glen who has your heart instead?”
“I wish he did live in this glen,” she whispered. “He is a fine man. We loved sweetly, once, with the fairy magic upon us, and he won my heart. But not all of it,” she added. “Not yet.”
James went still, heart thumping. Passion, excitement, a lightning strike of hope went through him. “And this fine man, is he the one for you?”
“So he likes to think. Away with you now, James MacCarran, Lord Struan.”
Moments later, he knew she was gone from the door. He lingered, head bowed. He felt touched deep, could not define it. Stepping back, he went down the shadowy corridor.
He felt different somehow. He was not quite the man who had arrived at Struan House originally, no longer just a scientist with a cool head and shielded heart. But he was not yet sure how he was changed.
* * *
Elspeth smoothed her skirts and straightened her green jacket, her garments dry now, having hung by the hearth fire while she slept. Most of the dried mud had brushed away, though the stains might never disappear even with a thorough cleaning. She hurried, aware that time was slipping away. She must be home soon. Outside, rain still pattered the window glass.
But she wanted to stay. Struan’s marriage proposal still echoed in her mind. The intimacy of his voice was a caress, and his words, his meaning, had thrilled her. She felt she must refuse, but regretted it more than Struan could ever know.
Glancing into a little mirror on the chest of drawers, she combed her fingers through her tousled hair and plaited it in a single braid, tied it with a ribbon tugged from her bonnet. Like her gown, her favorite straw hat had gone limp, the ribbons ruined, but she set it on her head anyway. Then she grabbed her plaid arisaid and tossed it over her shoulders. Her garments could be restored, but she herself had changed—not ruined, but altered. And she would never be the same.
She glanced out the window at the dreary, sodden landscape. With her ankle swollen and sore, it was impossible to walk home. She would have to ask the viscount to drive her. He had not returned to her door last night, though she had lain awake, wondering and thinking. Just as well he stayed away, she thought. She teetered on the verge of agreeing to marry him, even knowing it was just obligation. Still, she tried to convince herself that she need not marry him, or anyone.
What she wanted most was to remain at Kilcrennan and in the Highlands, and if that meant not marrying, she would accept it. The difficulty, she realized, was that she was falling in love with a Lowlander. Last night had not been the beginning. It has started on the August afternoon she had first met Struan in Edinburgh.
If she ever did fall in love, according to her grandfather, that would end the fairy magic binding her and binding him as well. So it might seem a solution.
But that very magic made Donal MacArthur happy. And she could not take that away from him in his twilight years.
After last night, she began to understand the power of the fairy sort. Perhaps it was real—she felt the chill of that possibility. Grandda had tried to warn her, always claiming that he had lost a son to the Fey and succumbed to the thrall of the queen himself. His bargain, so he said, brought him into the fairy world every seven years, and gave him a gift for the weaving—but over and over, he had warned Elspeth not to risk challenging the fairy ilk.
But Kilcrennan and her grandfather were all she knew and loved best. She could not bear to bring harm to them. Marriage to Lord Struan, even love, seemed a selfish choice if it could take away the happiness of others.
Sighing, she knew it was time to talk about this with him—at least some of it. She left the bedchamber and went to the stairs. Her ankle still ached but seemed improved as she descended cautiously.
* * *
Struan was nowhere to be found. She had peered into the library, study, and parlor, even the kitchen, encountering the dogs in the corridor by the garden door. Beyond the window, the rain continued, and through the mist she saw the green lawn where she and Struan had tumbled to the grass with wild and tender kisses, while the fairy court rode past.
Inhaling sharply at the memory, she entered the kitchen and noticed a tray on the long pine table. A silver pot, a china cup and saucer, a plate with a bit of toast, and a folded piece of creamy paper sat on the tray. Steam swirled up from the silver spout, fragrant with cocoa.
She touched the note. His handwriting was strong and slightly spiked, with a hint of roundness, like a secret tenderness. She traced a finger over her name—Elspeth,he had written. Nothing more. The tray contents told the rest. He had prepared this for her and then had gone out, she guessed, in a hurry.
Pouring out the chocolate, she sipped it and nibbled on the buttered toast. Osgar came forward to nudge at her hand, and she relented, giving him a scrap of toast. He urged her toward the door, and she followed.
As he scratched at the back door, the terriers trotted into the room as well. Elspeth tied her bonnet securely and opened the door, pulling her arisaid up, too, against the wet. Letting Osgar out, she kept the other dogs back, for they would need chasing eventually, and she knew they had been out already, their coats damp.
Limply slightly, she lifted her skirt hem out of the mud, and Osgar pushed against her to offer support. She patted his shoulder. “Good dog. My loyal friend.”
She would dearly miss the dog. And his master. Sighing, she looked around.
The gardens were windblown and deserted. Just as she turned to go back inside, she saw James—Struan, for she should not continue to think of him more intimately—walking toward the house from the direction of the stables and outbuildings. He wore a greatcoat and hat, one hand engaged with his cane, the other shoved in a pocket, coattails billowing in the wind.
“Good morning, Miss MacArthur,” he said as politely as if they had met in a park or a village green. “Chilly and wet today.”
