Page 9 of Laird of Twilight
“Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James then said. She let go of his arm and stepped forward to make a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, the nine requisite feathers bobbing. On some ladies here, they looked ridiculous. On this girl, simply swan-like. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek. James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.
“Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”
“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head. When she backed away, blue satin train swirling around her, she seemed to glide prettily.
James turned to introduce the others. Finally, he was able to gather them together, leading Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward a man waiting in the receiving line further down. Sir Walter Scott was easy to spot in the crowd, a tall man with graying blond hair, a nimble smile, and sparkling blue eyes.
“Struan, excellent to see you here,” he said, extending a hand.
“And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin and my sister, Fiona MacCarran. And Miss Charlotte Sinclair. May I present Miss Lucie Graham, and Miss Elspeth MacArthur, who hails from Kilcrennan.”
“Oh, sir, I am pleased to meet you,” Elspeth MacArthur said, sounding delighted. “I so admire your poetry and your work in the ballads. I particularly favorThe Lady of the Lake,since I live not far from Loch Katrine. You make it seem very romantical.” She blushed.
“My dear, I am honored to have the good opinion of a Highland lady.” Scott took her gloved hand in his. Then James saw Miss MacArthur turn pale and gasp.
“Oh! The Waverley novels,” she blurted. “They are all yours, Sir Walter—”
“I do not claim to be the author of those books, Miss MacArthur, despite the rumors. Rather, I am a poet.”
“But the books are all yours too. Soon the world will know and be glad of it. Your next story about…Nigel…and aye, Quentin,” she said, “will be some of your best work—oh! I beg your pardon!” She tried to pull her gloved hand away, but Sir Walter held her fingers tightly and leaned toward her.
“How did you know about the new books?” he murmured.
“Sir, truly, I did not mean to offend.” She looked distressed.
Concerned, mildly bewildered, James pressed his fingers on the girl’s elbow, uncertain what was happening, but sensing she needed the bastion of physical support. Her arm fairly trembled under his hand. Beside him, Lady Rankin gasped, while Charlotte flapped her fan and looked shocked.
“What is going on there?” the king boomed, looking their way.
“Your Majesty, just the excitement of friends,” Sir Walter answered with a friendly smile. He leaned toward Elspeth MacArthur. “My dear,” he whispered fervently, “you have the Highland Sight!”
“Sir, I—” The girl looked flustered as her gaze caught James. “May we go?”
“If you like, Miss MacArthur. Good day, Sir Walter.”
“Farewell, sir,” the girl told Scott, then let go of James’s arm and took up her skirts to hasten away.
“Were I you, Struan,” Scott murmured, “I’d pursue that lass. She’s a rare one. Remember your grandmother’s will.”
“I have not forgotten it, sir.” He would indeed pursue her—to find out what the devil was going on.
Handing his great-aunt into William’s care, he moved ahead to follow the girl through the press of people. She was fleeing into a corridor beyond, but he followed the silver gown, the bobbing white feathers, that jet gloss of hair. Closing in on her, he took her arm firmly and turned toward an anteroom just off the corridor.
“Come with me,” he said sternly, marching beside her, his cane tapping as they walked. The smaller room was quieter, less populated than the other areas. Tall ferns, potted rhododendrons, and large vases of fragrant roses were arranged around the room. The air was thick with a mingled, natural perfume.
James tugged the girl behind some rhododendrons and roses and glared down at her. “What was that all about?” he demanded.
She stared up at him. “What?”
Glowering, waiting for her to relent or apologize for embarrassing his esteemed friend, he felt surprisingly disappointed. She was lovely, delectable really, yet was not the innocent she seemed. She had done a scheming thing back there. Her beautiful eyes distracted him, but he refused to look away. “Miss MacArthur, Sir Walter keeps his identity as a novelist secret. What is your game here?”
“It is no game. The knowledge just came to me. I did not mean to offend.”
“Sir Walter is convinced that you have the Sight. It is a poor joke to play on a gentleman who is so devoted to Highland lore.”
“But I do have the Sight.”
“All this may amuse you, but I will not tolerate a mockery of my friends.”
