Page 44 of Laird of Twilight
She laughed, part sob and part giggle. Struan laughed sheepishly as egg dripped on his coat, his boots, and the floor. The terriers trotted over to lick at the floor and his shoes.
“I managed to save these.” He produced two eggs from the other pocket. “Miss MacArthur, would you share a small breakfast?”
She sighed, surrendering. “We can agree on being hungry, at least.”
Truly, she did not want to leave Struan House and its laird yet. If ever. The pull was strong, even if she denied it. Each moment with him added more facets to it.
Now, seeing his crooked half-grin, his damp brown hair and sky-blue eyes, the wide shoulders and lean build, she remembered how very good those arms, those lips felt. She melted, yearning to run to him. Yet she stayed where she stood.
He leaned on his walking stick in the hallway, a casual movement, though she knew he needed the support. He was empirical and factual, yet he was passionate and willing to learn about things he did not understand. He was careful in his personal appearance and with details, yet his study was in disarray. Even now he stood with rain dripping from his fine coat, egg smeared on his hands, one terrier licking his boot, the other pawing at him in adoration. He laughed, and her heart turned in delight.
“Do you know how to cook eggs, Lord Struan?”
“Actually, no, but I am willing to try. You need to rest your foot.”
An apology of sorts, and more. She nodded, felt a stirring of hope despite her fears. Yet if Struan knew the whole truth about her and her grandfather, he would regret his proposal, thinking them lunatic and a family to avoid.
She had to refuse his marriage offer, even though her heart softened toward it.
Yet she wanted his company so much just now, a little food too. Then, as soon as weather and roads allowed, she would leave. She followed him into the kitchen, dogs trotting beside them.
Chapter 11
Surveying the daunting pile of papers and books on his untidy desk, James sighed, then resumed reading his grandmother’s manuscript. The distraction of Elspeth, to put it mildly, had brought respite from the work, but the task remained. Soon he needed to finish the manuscript and produce a bride with fairy blood—or one claiming to have it—for the solicitor’s approval.
Elspeth MacArthur would meet or exceed any standard in a wife, fanciful or not, if only he could convince her to marry him. Yet she remained stubborn. Soon he would drive her home, and make certain to meet her grandfather and do his best to court her. If she continued to refuse him, he and his siblings could lose everything.
A terrible reason to marry someone, he knew, especially when he was becoming fond of the lass. He drew a breath at the thought. But Lady Struan’s will had left him and his siblings little choice in the matter of their marriages and actions, at least until the terms were satisfied and funds dispersed. He felt miserly and deceptive and did not like it. Somehow, someday, he would explain it to Elspeth.
Shaking his head in silent frustration, he turned another page in the manuscript. He had nearly finished reading and had made inroads with research and notes. Fairy lore puzzled him, to be sure, but the interviews Lady Struan had conducted, mostly to do with fairies and the supernatural, were quite entertaining.
Certainly, he would rather study ancient rock formations than fairies. Each day he was slipping behind on his own research. Science, vying with fancy here at Struan House, was losing.
Despite Elspeth’s claim about fairies in the garden that night, he had noticed nothing beyond the fierce weather. Her insistence about the fairies somewhat concerned him, but he was realizing how deeply embedded local traditions were in this glen. Elspeth had learned these tales, and this way of thinking, in childhood.
Rain pattered against the windows. Chair creaking, he reached to set the well-thumbed handwritten manuscript aside. The work was challenging, but nothing was as crucial just now as coaxing Elspeth MacArthur to marry him.
Time was a factor. Before he journeyed to Struan House, he had decided to offer the estate for sale, the most practical solution to the multitude of problems facing him and his siblings. The house was his, outside of the mad conditions of marriage and fairy whatnot that tied up the funds. Accordingly, he had written to the advocate, Mr. Browne, asking him to begin searching for a buyer.
A reply, however unexpected, had come within a week. James took the letter from a desk drawer and read it again.The Right Hon. The Viscount Struan,it began. My Lord, Rec’d your inquiry and yr request is understood. Of course this is within yr private right. I can recommend two parties, a Scottish lord and an English gentleman. Both might be interested and could generously satisfy any requirements of the sale. Pls advise, Yrs, Geo. Browne, Esq.
If the place sold, James could divide funds among his siblings, rescuing their finances as well as his own, saving all their dreams. His own dream was a modest one; he just wanted the freedom to pursue his geological research, which incurred expenses enough, particularly on a professor’s income. But lately, another dream was growing—finding a bride. Or, having found one, convincing her.
That possibility would change the need to sell. Giving up Struan House would be more difficult than anticipated, for he was entranced by the place, increasingly fond of its eccentricities, its hominess, its atmosphere, and its remoteness too. And the last two days had shifted his thinking and his circumstances dramatically.
Putting the letter away, he returned to reading. Soon, though, he heard the click of dog paws on the wooden floor in the library and the swish of skirts. Glancing through the adjoining library doorway, he saw Elspeth there, perusing the bookshelves, while Osgar plopped down at her feet. Rising, James went to the door.
She turned. “I did not mean to disturb your work. I hoped to read a little until the rain finally stops.” She held up a book. “May I? I found an interesting volume on fairy stories.” Her soft tone was a bit formal.
“You are welcome to read anything here, and borrow away any you like.”
“Thank you. But it may not be prudent to borrow. The rain is lessening,” she added, glancing toward a window overlooking the lawn.
“Will you not come back even to return a book?” he asked quietly. She did not reply, moving away. He noticed that she grasped a chair for support as she went past. “You should be off your feet,” he remarked, and stepped forward.
“I am fine, Lord Struan. I can manage.” She held up a hand.
Were they on such formal terms now? He wanted to help her. Wanted to take her into his arms, more. He was not done with this matter of compromise and marriage, although she seemed to be. As she crossed the long room, the space seemed so far, as if he had lost her already. He did not want to let go of the dream.
