Page 82 of Laird of Twilight
“So they say.” James wanted to take her attention away from this subject. He had seen that curious glaze in her eyes before, the frankness that overcame her and encouraged her to speak freely, too honestly, of unbelievable matters. He would do his best to protect her from the others’ skepticism because he loved her.
He did love her. His heart seemed to expand, his spirit fill, with the warmth and grandness of the feeling. Taking her elbow, he turned her toward his study.
“Miss MacArthur is quite the expert in fairy lore,” he said over his shoulder, guiding Elspeth to the door. “And I am reminded that she visited today because she has kindly offered to advise me on local folklore. So if you will excuse us, we have some work to attend to.” He ushered Elspeth into the room, hearing Charlotte’s outraged gasp behind him.
He had not meant to be rude, but it had been necessary to remove Elspeth from further questioning. For propriety’s sake, he left the study door partly open. Then he drew her into the shadows behind it.
“Leave it open,” Elspeth said. “Charlotte might knock it down otherwise.”
“Let her,” James said abruptly. “Now tell me what you were going on about back there. The painting. The fairies.”
“Your aunt looked as if she would fall over in a faint when you dragged me away like that.”
“It seemed wise to remove you before you predicted something dire, or revealed all your fairy secrets, or invited the blasted fairies into the blasted room!” He said the last too loudly, and pushed the door nearly shut, leaving a gap.
“Which fairy secrets are those? Best open that more, or they will be after us.”
“Let them. Your grandfather’s peculiar weaving habits. Your father’s fate. The very fairies plotting to kidnap you, my lass.”
“So you do believe!” She looked pleased. Hopeful.
“Hardly. But I accept that what is unusual to others seems normal for you. Will that do?”
She tilted her head. “For now.” Her eyes were like aquamarine lit with silver. But he would not tell her that. It was too damn poetic. Too vulnerable. “What were you saying about your father and the painting?”
“I think I just discovered what happened to my father.” She touched his arm in her excitement, fingers strong and supple from the weaving. He admired her skill, admired the woman, wanted to take her into his arms and show her how very much.
Instead, he kept very still. “Tell me, then.”
“I think he was out in the hills, saw theSíthand sketched them, and went home to paint them. And they took him in forfeit. I must tell Grandda,” she added, turning.
“What in thunderation—preposterous. Wait,” he said, taking her arm. He did not want her to leave. He did not want to talk about fairies.
“Lord Struan, your language deteriorates when you are upset.”
“A casualty of the war, my vocabulary,” he said. “Go on.”
“When I looked at the painting, I saw here”—she tapped her forehead—“what happened to my father. I knew he made the painting and fell in love with one of the Fey, and they came one night and took him with them.”
He shook his head, huffed a laugh, surrendering. He nearly believed this, though it shook the foundations of reason. At the least, he had to give credence to her own belief and acceptance, because he respected her, and loved her.
And he was more lost than he had ever thought possible. Reaching out, he traced his fingers over her soft hair, cupped her chin. His body throbbed even at that simple touch. “I see. So you just knew, in your way. Go on.”
“And I saw, in my mind, your sister walking in the hills carrying a sketchbook. Does she have a habit of that?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I saw her being watched by fairies. She must take care to avoid a bad fate.”
“Fiona is far too pragmatic to see fairies, and if she ever did, they would have a devil of a time taking her away. You do not know her yet, but you will. She seems calm and biddable, but she would give the fairies such a fuss they would be glad to escape with their own lives. If they exist,” he added.
“What promise did you and Fiona make to your grandmother?”
“Just when,” he said, resigned, “did that revelation come to you?”
“When I was talking to Fiona.Didyou make a promise to Lady Struan?”
“The book. She requested that in her will.”
