Page 18 of A Rogue in Twilight
Best hurry,Elspethreminded herself. She had seen the MacKimmies and others leaving by coach so the house might be empty; since they had left, then Lord Struan was likely not there either. Now was the time. She would look for the stone and slip away quickly, for the storm had not held off as she had hoped.
Soon everyone at Struan would leave to avoid the days of the fairy riding. She could come back then, but today she was nearby and so it had seemed a good time to look for her grandfather’s blue stone. In good weather, someone might come outside.
She had told Mrs. Graham she intended to stay with Margaret Lamont if the weather turned poorly. Elspeth enjoyed any chance to visit Margaret and her husband and children, and she liked lending a hand in the process of combing, dyeing, spinning, and twisting the new wools. But she had decided to stop at Struan House first. Now, in this awful rain, she regretted the detour.
Well, she was here now and may as well search. According to legend and to Donal too, a fairy portal existed somewhere on this hill. She was curious to know if Donal’s tales were true, but the rain and mud, not to mention lightning, had interfered.
She stopped, suddenly wondering if theDaoine Síthhad influenced the weather to protect the entrance to their realm. Some said they had such power, and they might sense her intention. Feeling uneasy, she hesitated by the rock wall high on the hill.
Huge rocks had once crested the hill, but men had broken some of it away to create the grotto. The slope was changed now. Where had Donal stood when he had come here years ago, the day she had followed him? He had set the stone in a niche and seemed to disappear into the fairy world—or had he only stepped aside in the mist that day?
Drawing her plaid shawl higher against the rain, she was aware that her green woolen gown and her leather boots were already soaked from the slanting downpour. She had to hurry. If she was discovered, she could hardly explain that she had come here to find a magical crystal stone that was a key to the fairy realm. That would sound like pure madness. The late Lady Struan would have been eager to know more, for she had beenkeenly interested in local lore and very knowledgeable. But she was gone now, and others would not be so curious or accepting.
Lady Struan had often invited Donal to Struan House for tea to talk about fairy legends, as he knew so many tales. Sometimes Elspeth had been included in their meetings, and she recalled her grandfather cautioning Lady Struan to keep some of his stories to herself, as adding them to her books might anger the fairy ilk. The lady had graciously promised, and Donal shared more as their friendship grew. But Elspeth did not know how much Donal had shared about his experiences.
The rain increased as she climbed the slope, and she slipped a bit, pressing her hand in the mud. Even the fairies would have enough sense to stay out of such a rain, she told herself. Shivering, she gathered her shawl closer. Her arisaid, the Highland plaid often worn by women, woven in paler colors than a clan tartan, gave her some protection from the elements. But even that wool, closely woven and protected by natural oils, would soon soak through.
The sky was darkening already and she had to reach Margaret’s before evening. Climbing carefully, the earth mucky under her boots, she jumped as thunder boomed overhead. Then a dog barked and a man called out somewhere in the garden below.
Elspeth whirled. Peering through sheeting rain, she took a step, and her heel hit a sluice of muddy water. As her feet went out from under her, she slid downward, unable to stop on a slide of muck. Bumping and rolling, grasping for a hold, she landed with a lurch at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled and muddied, legs sprawled. Sitting up, she pushed the plaid off of her face and shoved her hair back, her bonnet slipping back.
Black boots stood an inch deep in mud just in front of her. Looking up, she saw brown trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves, a brown jacket, a damp neckcloth—
Lord Struan stared down at her.
Neither fairy noreldritch hag sprawled at his feet, James saw, but a wet, bedraggled girl in a muddy dress and plaid shawl. Her face was obscured by dripping dark hair, but he noticed she was young, slim, and well-shaped from neat ankles and calves to her slender, curvy frame wrapped in sopping fabric. She looked young, pretty—and rather miserable.
“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “Let me help you.”
The girl gasped and shoved her skirts to cover her legs, then pushed back the plaid and looked up. Her heart-shaped face was haloed by wet tendrils of nearly black hair, and two large eyes looked up at him, silvery-green in the low light.
“Why, Miss MacArthur,” he said nonchalantly. “How nice to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”
“Lord Struan! You need not swear,” she added, struggling to rise.
“Apologies. I plead the shock of the moment.” He offered his hand again. She ignored it and stood, wincing. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine.” She waved away his extended hand.
He doubted that, for she hopped about, favoring one foot. “Well, what can I do for you?” Water ran from the brim of his hat. He was drenched and so was she, and the rain continued to pound as they stood there. Thunder rumbled overhead.
“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said. “Have you just arrived? I hope you are enjoying your visit.” She wiped a hand across her face, leaving a muddy trail.
James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying it now.”
“Oh dear, I must go. Please excuse my intrusion.” Turning, she stepped to the side, gasped, and flailed her arms as one foot faltered. James grabbed her elbow before she could topple.
“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not going to let you walk out in a thunderstorm, and you seem to be hobbled. Into the house we go.” He turned with her.
She did not protest as he guided her down another incline to the stone pathway. Leading her through the wet, raggedy garden, he realized she was sincerely limping. Heavy rain lashed nearly sideways as he set an arm about her shoulders to support her.
Lightning cracked overhead and the wind whirled through the garden. James felt an eerie sense of danger in the air, even beyond the storm.
“Best hurry.” He picked her up in his arms then, taking the path in long strides. He hardly noticed that his weaker leg did not hinder him as he rushed along a path lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies toward the kitchen door. The girl clung to his neck riding in his arms.
Thunder pounded again, and for an instant his mind flashed on the nightmare sounds on the field of Quatre Bras, where he and a Highland Watch regiment had defended ground against an onrush of Frenchcuirassiers—the booming thunder was too similar. Hurrying to the door, he wrenched at the handle and hurtled inside with the girl.
In the dim corridor, the wolfhound and terriers waited, shuffling out of the way with a woof and a few terse barks. James kicked the door shut and rushed down the hall, carrying the girl past the kitchen and up the short flight of steps that opened to the main hallway. He turned toward the parlor, the dogs trotting close and curious on his heels.
