Page 8 of Laird of Twilight
“Quite well. Loch Katrine is not far from the glen where Kilcrennan sits.”
“Then you are not far from Struan House,” he replied.
“It is a few miles along the glen. My grandfather knew the late Lady Struan. I met her myself. We were very sorry to hear of her passing. She was a kind lady.”
“Thank you.” Struan inclined his head. “She was our grandmother.” He indicated his siblings in his answer; Fiona smiled, and Dr. MacCarran nodded.
“Struan holds the estate and title now,” Charlotte Sinclair said, and slipped her arm through his. “But he has had little time to visit there. Perhaps he will go up for an occasional hunting party. He is quite busy as a professor of natural philosophy at the university.”
“Ah.” Elspeth understood she was being warned away. Miss Sinclair practically glowered at her even as she smiled.
“Actually I have arranged to take an absence from my lectures,” Struan said.
“What sort of philosophy do you teach?” Lucie asked. “There is so muchofit.”
“Natural philosophy, Miss Graham. Geology, some call it now.”
“You will find rather a lot of rock in the Trossachs,” Elspeth said lightly.
He tipped his head. “Rather a lot of rock sounds intriguing, Miss MacArthur.”
“Miss MacArthur, forgive me,” Lady Rankin said. “I do not recall your debut.”
“A quiet debut, my lady,” Elspeth said. “Two years ago I attended two balls in Edinburgh in the company of my cousins. I remember a hunt ball at the Lord Provost’s home.”
“I remember that,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “I was there as well. My family is very good friends with the Lord Provost. I remember seeing Sir John Graham and Miss Lucie Graham. But I do not remember you.” She gave Elspeth a curious glance and smiled up at the viscount. “Struan was not there. He simply could not attend every ball to meet every new girl. Although he inherited a title and is in much demand at parties and outings, he turns down more invitations than he accepts.”
“I am not one for social functions,” Struan said flatly. “Ah, look. We are being waved forward to advance to the doors now.”
He extended an arm to Lady Rankin and then offered his other arm to Elspeth. She did not look toward Charlotte Sinclair, but simply smiled acceptance and tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, feeling solid muscle beneath cloth. Behind them, the others paired up to come forward too. Elspeth could feel a gaze like daggers along her back, and knew Charlotte was watching her.
They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. When invitations were shown, the guards opened the doors to send them through.
A large crowd preceded them into the vast room. At the far end, Elspeth caught a glimpse of the king. He was head and shoulders above most men there, a large man in height and breadth, resplendent in black and white with a vibrant red plaid sash. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the very plaid the king wore, a fairly new royal Stuart pattern presented to him that week, was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather—with the help of a little fairy craft, so Donal insisted.
Glancing up at Lord Struan, she wondered what he—or anyone here—would make of that. Struan seemed a very somber, pragmatic sort who would think fairies utter nonsense. Yet she felt a sudden, quite wayward urge to confide in him about the sash and her grandfather’s special talent. But it would be pure foolishness.
Lifting her head, she glided into the receiving room on Lord Struan’s arm as if she were a princess, and he, indeed, her prince, if only for the moment.
* * *
Noticing the girl’s fingers tightening on his arm, James glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Your hand is trembling. No need to be nervous.”
“I am a bit,” she admitted. “I hope my manners are adequate for this.”
“I am sure they are perfect.” He glanced down as she looked up. Her eyes were simply entrancing, an unusual gray-green, almost silver in this light. Her oval face was framed in silken black curls. He wanted to touch the gloss of her hair—what a foolish notion. She was a lovely creature with a natural allure, and now he found himself glancing at her as if there was real sustenance in such pure, innocent beauty. She had a fragile quality with a little touch of fire that made him feel protective and intrigued all at once.
“I am a Gael, born and bred,” she said. “I do not have the refined English of Edinburgh. Nor am I particularly accustomed to elegant gatherings.”
“So that is your accent,” he murmured. “Soft and graceful. I quite like it. If I may say, you are refreshing amid all these Englishy Scots. A diamond in their midst, and I assure you it will be appreciated.”
She blinked up at him. A diamond? He did not generally make such comments. In the next moment, a footman announced his party and they were led forward, heels tapping and skirts swishing across the parquet floor toward the king’s reception line. One by one, each person in the line greeted them, shook hands, took gloved fingers, moved them quickly along.
King George was tall and portly but impressive in black, with a white waistcoat and a military display of badges and epaulets. He even wore a touch of Scottishness in a red plaid sash, newly designated as the royal Stuart plaid. James doubted there was much authenticity to it, but such things pleased many these days. King George, after all, was king of Scots by lineage and right, though he had not visited before, and indeed showed little interest in Scottish affairs. He did have a strong predilection for Scottish whisky, or so James had heard.
Coming closer, he could see clear traces of excess in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion. The royal voice was robust, deep, and rather pleasant.
James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave each lady a kiss on the cheek, quick brushes that barely touched skin. “Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, and to each. “Enchanted. Charmed.” The ladies, as the occasion required, backed away, still facing the king while trying to manage their voluminous trains.
