Page 43 of Laird of Twilight
“What is it?” he asked.
She whirled on him in the small kitchen passageway. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard, but I do not understand Gaelic.”
“Mr. Buchanan spoke a Gaelic blessing—one that is used for an engaged couple!”
“Engaged?” He frowned. “They must have assumed so.”
“Or else he was telling me indirectly what I should do, or be disgraced!”
“Indeed? Well, if we announced our engagement, there would be no scandal. Is there much scandal in the Highlands, come to think of it?”
“Sometimes. But I do not want to be engaged,” she added.
“We spent the night alone here, and now we’ve been seen together. An engagement should be announced. It can be broken later, if you are so adamant against it.”
“You are trying very hard to convince me.” She frowned, suspicious. “Why?”
“Because I think it is the best solution. You said these fellows might spread gossip. It will get about, to your detriment.” He bent to pet the terriers.
“Highlanders do not fret over scandal the way Southrons do. Some whispering might occur, but few in this glen would judge me unfairly. Even girls who have babies out of wedlock are not severely judged or sent away. We accept that such things happen.”
“Aye,” Struan said wryly. “They do. So that is why you are eager for compromise, knowing the consequences here are low? You should have explained.”
She felt a blush rise in her face and throat. “My cousin’s first child was such a one, and she but sixteen. Her family treated her kindly, and a few years later, Margaret married a different man. And a good husband he is to her. As for my wee transgression,” she said, “my grandfather would try to understand. And I would not be expected to marry the tailor. I could stay at Kilcrennan in peace to do my work.”
He nodded, frowning. “What work is that?”
“Weaving.” She lifted a corner of the plaid draped around her shoulders. “This is some of my work. I help Grandda with his tartan making. It is no occupation for a lady in the south, I suppose, but it is good and honored work here.”
“Ladies often have some kind of work they enjoy, though weaving would be unusual, I suppose. My grandmother did as she pleased, chasing fairy legends and writing stories. If she had set her mind on weaving, the walls of this place would be draped in plaid, I assure you. She never let convention deter her from what she most wanted to do. Even after she died,” he murmured.
“She also spent a good part of the year in Edinburgh. I will not abandon this place to go south for parties and such. A husband is not expected to give up his work, but a wife—“
“I would not ask that of you. Where is the argument, Elspeth? Marry me and solve this for both of—” He paused. “You can spend as much time here as you like.”
Elspeth busied herself ruffling Osgar’s silky ears. Then she looked up. “Away from my husband? I could not live like that, either.”
Struan frowned, and Elspeth again felt a sense that his persistence stemmed from more than gentlemanly conscience. “We can easily keep two homes,” he said.
Nellie, the white terrier, trotted toward her, and Elspeth bent to rub her snowy head. “Why are you so determined to see this done? Many men in this situation would be glad to be free of any obligation.”
He shrugged. “You require a husband. And I require a wife.”
She felt that like a blow. “I do notrequireit. And,” she said, standing, “I would never marry a man who values obligation above a wife.”
“I never said that.” He watched her evenly.
“There is no engagement,” she decided, hurt and angry. Snatching her skirts, she swept past him, walking unevenly, and went toward the steps to the main hallway. Her heart beat hard. Some raw feeling urged her to turn back to ask what this was truly all about. She hurried onward.
Every instinct, womanly and Celtic, told her she cared for this man, and she thought he cared about her. Were those instincts wrong? He suggested marriage, but dispassionately, despite what burned between them last night—and still.
“Damnation,” he said behind her.
Elspeth whirled, shaking, hoping.
“I forgot the eggs.” He took his hand from his pocket, eggshells in his palm, clear and golden slime coating his fingers.
