Page 5 of Laird of Twilight
“Grandmother’s big book of fairies,” Patrick drawled. “Certainly no topic for Professor MacCarran, author of thick tomes about geographic strata.”
“What else does it say?” Fiona, of course, knew he held something back.
“I am to, ah, marry a Highland bride of fairy descent,” James admitted. “Highland, I might manage that someday. Fairy? Impossible.”
“Good Lord, was Grandmother truly mad?” Patrick asked.
“Who is to judge if we meet these requirements? You, Sir Walter?” Fiona asked as the author nodded. “And if we do not succeed, who inherits the bulk of Grandmother’s accounts?”
Mr. Browne cleared his throat. “Nicholas MacCarran, Earl of Eldin.”
“Eldin,” Patrick growled, “that damnable, rotten, scheming scoundrel—sorry, Fiona,” he apologized.
“The lying rogue,” Fiona continued, “who stole Duncrieff Castle away from the family after our cousin who held the property died at Waterloo. Even now he holds the estate, while we—” She stopped, looked away. James knew she still felt keen heartbreak over their cousin’s death. Archibald MacCarran had been Fiona’s betrothed. His twin’s grief had amplified his own at losing Archie, James thought. As for their cousin Eldin—he drew a sharp breath.
“So if we do not comply, Eldin inherits all,” James said, low and flat.
“But for the lesser funds apportioned to each of you, yes,” Mr. Browne said.
“Why would Grandmother do this?” Fiona asked.
“To force us to meet her conditions,” James replied.
“Lady Struan was working on a new book about Highland fairy lore,” Sir Walter said. “She hoped her research would reveal a way to restore the legendary fairy luck of the MacCarrans, which tradition said was lost in past generations.”
“We have never been a particularly fortunate sort, I grant that,” Patrick said. “Well, I suppose I could marry some lass and call her part fairy, and be done with it.”
“Lady Struan wanted all of you to approach this with honest effort,” Sir Walter pointed out. “Or it all goes to Lord Eldin. She knew that would be an incentive.”
James blew out a breath. Write a damned fairy book and find a fairy bride? He had a scholarly book to finish, and he was not interested in a wife yet. But like his siblings, he wanted to protect the funds from Lord Eldin, the only man he had ever truly despised.
He should have shot the blackguard when he had the chance.
“I must go,” he said abruptly, straightening away from the door frame. “A meeting at the university. And it seems I must request a sabbatical in order to do what our grandmother requested.” He snatched up his cane, turned, and limped out into the corridor.
Chapter 2
Edinburgh, Scotland, August 1822
Lifting the embroidered, flounced satin of her silver-blue court dress in one gloved hand, Elspeth MacArthur moved along with a surge of overdressed, perfumed women. The very long train required of a lady’s dress on this particular occasion was cumbersome indeed, she thought as she tugged on it again. The booklet containing hints and advice for those attending the functions surrounding King George’s visit to Scotland had specified a dress train at least four yards in length.
Easy enough for a man to declare that was necessary, as they did not have to fuss with them, she thought sourly, reaching down to twitch the wayward tail out of the way. Draping part of the slippery satin over her wrist, she glanced around searching for her cousin.
She had lost sight of Lucie Graham in a veritable sea of silk, lace, jewels, feathers, and Highland tartan. The feathers in her own hair—nine feathers, another specification for ladies at the event—were attached to a band with pearled pins, and in danger of coming loose from her dark curls. She lifted a hand to that softness as she glanced around.
The press of the crowd was unbearably warm and close. Perhaps she should flee entirely, Elspeth thought, like Lady Graham, Lucie’s mother, who not long ago had pleaded faintness, so that Lucie’s brother, Sir John, had escorted her out. Following them, Lucie had been swallowed in the crowd filling the room. Over two thousand ladies and gentlemen were crammed into a few rooms and corridors in Holyroodhouse while they awaited a chance to be presented to King George the Fourth, lately arrived in Scotland.
With Lady Graham taken ill, Elspeth wondered how she and Lucie could meet the king now. Only those who had met King George previously had the right to introduce ladies to him at today’s reception for Scottish ladies.
For a moment, she wished she could vanish like one of her supposed fairy ancestors and flee this crowd. Her grandfather had always claimed that fairy blood ran in her veins, and had bestowed wonderful abilities on her. Elspeth doubted his story. To be sure, she had more than a touch of Second Sight, but it usually proved inconvenient rather than magical. Besides, The Sight was common enough in the Highlands, fairies or none in the family.
Her intuition should have warned her that today would be very hot and the waiting would be interminable. And the reason for attending—greeting the king—might be impossible for Elspeth and Lucie now. Still, the crowd was something to behold, and she was glad that chance had brought her here.
Her grandfather’s business meeting had kept him away, so she had come with her Edinburgh cousins. Grandfather would have relished the event and would have dressed spectacularly in tartan of his own make, being a Highland laird as well as a weaver. He would also have spun entertaining tales of his early smuggling adventures and what he claimed were encounters with fairies—and likely would have soundly embarrassed their Edinburgh cousins with his exuberance. Donal MacArthur, Elspeth knew, was like strong whisky: best in small quantities.
Instead, he had insisted that Elspeth attend with her cousins. “What other chance will you have to meet Fat Geordie?” he had boomed, using the name so many Highlanders favored for the king. With such blunt ways about him, best her grandfather stayed away altogether from aristocrats, royals, and politicians.
But she had little hope of being introduced to the king now, she thought as she edged through clusters of women gusseted up like colorful, plumed, chattering birds, all waiting for a turn, a mere moment, to greet the king. The men were dressed in high fashion too. Many Scotsmen accompanying ladies today wore full Highland dress, belted plaids and tartan vests, coats, stockings, replete with sporrans and even traditional weapons. Other men were dressed formally in more austere black and white, while others had adhered to the dress suggested in Scott’s booklet for Scotsmen: blue frock coat and white vest and breeches to reflect the colors of Scotland’s St. Andrew’s cross. Not a flattering costume, Elspeth thought, glancing around to see several men clad that way.
