Page 52 of Laird of Twilight
She nodded. The burn had overflowed to create a swampy area to either side, and the crossing rocks were mostly submerged under swift, brownish water.
“How deep do you think it is over there? Are there sizeable rocks?” He pointed downstream.
“Not very rocky, and not very deep usually, but far more than that now.”
“I think the gig can make it across. If the horse will not falter, we will do all right. Hold on.” He set the horse forward before Elspeth could protest.
Under his skilled and certain hands, the horse plodded on carefully, pulling the rattling gig steadily across the boggy ground. Elspeth clung to the seat, grabbing James’s sleeve occasionally for fear of bouncing out.
Then they were fording the burn, the horse moving through the flow, the gig following. Elspeth gasped at the swirl and rush of the current but tried to be calm.
“We will be fine,” James assured her. Within moments, the water swirled to the hubs, then nearly the tops, of the wheels, splashing over James’s boots and soaking Elspeth’s hem.
“Turn back,” she said, clutching the seat.
“Do not fret, lass.” He slapped the reins gently to encourage the horse as it stepped through the surge. Water sluiced over the floorboards. Elspeth shrieked.
Halfway across, the horse paused, pulled, paused. The wheels seemed stuck, the gig shuddering in the current. Water slopped higher, wetting Elspeth’s shoes and skirts, sloshing over Struan’s boots. The horse pulled again, whinnied, stopped.
“Stay here,” Struan said, and stepped down into water that surged around his legs. The tail of his frock coat floated behind him as he surged ahead and took the horse’s bridle. He spoke quietly, patting the mare’s nose, then moved forward, the horse following. Within moments, the gig lurched free.
Elspeth drew her legs up to the seat as muddy water washed over the floorboards. The horse gave a hesitant whicker but plowed steadily onward in response to the man, whose calm and caution emanated a sense of safety. Elspeth breathed out slowly as the vehicle, horse, and man moved ahead.
Holding the bridle, James guided the horse carefully, only once slipping in the swirling water, soaked to his chest, his hat tipping off as he rose up. Elspeth leaned down and snatched up the hat as it swirled past.
Finally the gig surged out of the water, wheels and body dripping, to roll onto the bank with a lurch. James sloshed back and climbed inside.
“Well done,” Elspeth said. “Your hat, sir.”
“Thank you.” He placed it on his wet hair, water running from its brim. Elspeth laughed, wringing out her skirts.
“Kilcrennan is that way,” she said, and pointed northward.
“There is something to be said for funding new roads and bridges here,” said Struan, as the dripping gig rolled along the rutted, muddy road.
“As laird of Struan, you do not have to wait for the Crown to fix the roads if you have the funds for your own estate. They are very slow about such things in the remote Highlands.”
“I imagine so.” He was quiet the rest of the way to Kilcrennan. Chilled and damp, Elspeth wondered what to tell her grandfather when the time came.
Chapter 13
James shrugged into a borrowed tartan waistcoat of dark green and black, lined in satin and very neatly made. He picked up a neckcloth and wrapped it around the high collar of his fresh linen shirt. The borrowed things included leather boots, along with trousers and a frock coat of dark gray superfine. They fit well, a bit too wide for him, but long enough for his height. Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, had provided them, showing him to a guest room where he could wash, change, and rest. The clothing, she had explained, belonged to Mr. MacArthur himself.
“He would not mind lending these to you. Lord Struan, we are so grateful to you for taking care of Miss Elspeth in her injured state and seeing her safe home. I will lay out a hearty tea in half an hour if you would come downstairs, sir.”
Safe home.James savored the phrase. If Mrs. Graham knew that Elspeth had spent two days alone with him, the woman made no fuss over it.
Knotting the cravat, he went to the window to look over the courtyard of the modest estate. Only two thousand acres, Elspeth had explained when they had arrived. Kilcrennan itself was a fine house, old but respectably kept, an ancient stone tower keep converted to a manor house. Its walls were a bit tilted, its interior a bit shabby and spaces cramped, its age and its charm evident. A few outbuildings included weaving cottages, as the housekeeper had explained earlier. In the distance, blue mountains were visible through the mist beneath a sky that promised clearing soon.
Glancing down, he saw Elspeth walking out of the entrance two floors below his bedchamber window. She had changed to a gray gown and a plaid woven of pale colors around her shoulders. As she hurried away from the house, he wondered where she was headed, with tea being laid soon. He hoped to see her before he left.
Just the sight of her tugged at his heart, and he felt an inexpressible yearning. He realized how much he wanted to marry her—a sudden revelation, more powerful than his earlier insistence. He wanted that fey and fascinating girl in his life. The sense went far beyond obligation or the dictates of his grandmother’s will. He was falling in love, he realized. Somehow, that was simply unexpected.
He was glad for the distraction when a gig and horse rolled into the yard. This must be Donal MacArthur, he thought, as the vehicle drew to a halt.
The man who stepped down was older, yet looked fit in a dark suit and red plaid waistcoat. When he removed his hat, his thick hair and beard shone like copper and silver. He flung his arms wide as Elspeth appeared, flinging herself into his arms, enveloped in a deep hug. From his window, James heard her laugh, heard her grandfather’s booming reply.
“Home, wee girl! I worried you might vanish on the moor in the rains!”
