Page 19 of A Rogue in Twilight
The MacArthur girl, though wet, fit in his arms like sin itself—the wayward thought came to him as he crossed the parlor threshold. Her curled body eased against him, her face rested close to his, her breath soft upon his cheek. An arm restedaround his shoulders, a hand on his chest. She felt as if she belonged.
His heart slammed, though he was not out of breath. He was too aware of the girl snuggled so warm and wet against him. No doubt she was ruining his shirt, he told himself sourly, though truly he did not care about that. He must think about getting the girl dry and safe, he told himself. Think about the ache in his left leg from the wound he’d received over seven years ago. He had dropped his cane in the garden when he had lifted her up. Blast it all, he had lost his hat, too, and likely ruined a good coat in the rain.
Mundane thoughts would keep his mind off the delicious creature in his arms who gazed at him as if he was a hero. Not that! Dull was what he had tried to become these past years. Boring, solitary, and untroubled. A mad rain-soaked adventure was out of character.
But before things returned to normal, he intended to find out why Miss MacArthur had been in his garden. Was she the so-called fairy that had scared off the housemaids and sent Mrs. MacKimmie, despite excuses, rushing away?
Chapter Five
He set herdown in the drawing room and urged her to sit in one of the damask-covered wing chairs angled beside the hearth, where a fire crackled in the grate against the damp chill. He grabbed a tinderbox and lit the candles in brass holders on the mantel.
“We must get you warmed up. You are soaked,” he said.
“So are you. Lord Struan, I appreciate your help, but I must leave.” She stood, shifting to favor one foot. “I am too wet and muddy to sit here—I may have ruined this chair already.”
“My concern is not the chair but the lass, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please. My housekeeper would have my head if I let you leave here in such weather, and injured.”
She sighed. “I could stay until the rain lets up. I know Mrs. MacKimmie, and she would care about the fabric. I will move over here.” She took off her damp plaid shawl and draped it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace. Brushing ineffectually at her skirt, a mud-stained gray-green wool embroidered in florals at the hem, she tried to right her sorry-looking bonnet, then finally loosened its wet ribbons and set it aside.
With her plaidie and hat removed, James noticed how the wet fabric clung to her graceful curves. He looked away. “I’ll fetch you a blanket,” he said, turning.
She sat, attempting to rub mud from her skirt. His own coat of superfine was fair drenched, but he could not properly go about in shirtsleeves with a girl in the room. A silly nod to politecompany, but he could endure the discomfort. Being here alone with her and carrying her in his arms earlier, was damaging enough. If the MacKimmies should return unexpectedly to find them in wet disarray, things would look worse than they were. He did not want the MacArthur girl to feel embarrassed.
Looking for a blanket, he opened drawers in a highboy to find table linens, candles, papers; another contained paper, ink, quills. He was not yet familiar with things beyond the study, the library, and his own rooms. Finally he opened a low chest under a window to find a red tartan lap robe. She thanked him and tucked it around her shoulders.
He pulled a tapestry foot stool toward her and she set her left foot on it. “Where are you injured?” he asked. “If I may inquire.”
“My ankle is a bit sore.” She drew her skirt hem up to reveal a creamy woolen stocking, then glanced up. “Turn away, sir, or your fine manners might be offended.”
“No matter. I have a little medical experience, if that helps. I studied a year of medicine in university before I took up another science. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
She nodded. James dropped to one knee, then unlaced and eased off her leather boot. He took her stockinged foot in his hand. Her pretty little ankle in its muddy stocking was swelling a bit.
“You wanted to be a doctor like your brother, the one I met in Edinburgh?”
“My brother William is well suited to it. I am better suited to natural philosophy. Geological science in particular.” He did not tell her the reason for changing his mind—a bloody field the day before Waterloo, when he had done his best to help in the futile aftermath despite his own injury. His third cousin, close as a brother, had died in his arms that day. Numb to his core, James had eventually returned to Scotland, stuffed his emotions away, and took up the study of rocks. Sometimes he still thoughtabout medicine and wished he had continued, for he cared about helping as William did—but rocks were safe. Rocks challenged the mind but did not demand much of the heart.
He cupped her heel, turned her foot. “May I?”
“Aye.” She drew her skirts higher, and modestly through the wool skirt, worked her stocking down and off.
He ran his fingertips along her bare foot and up her ankle, most of it delicately contoured, but for the turgid area where the shadow of a bruise had begun. He gestured to the other foot, and she complied, untying the laces and pulling it off. It looked fine to him, and nicely shaped.
He gently rotated the injured ankle. She winced but did not cry out. He nodded. “It looks like a bad sprain,” he said. “I do not think it is broken. But we will not know for certain unless a doctor looks at it.” Cradling her foot in his hands, he felt a thrill go through him—physical, aye, for she was delectable, but he felt something more rush through him, crown to foot. He felt protective, compassionate. His heart pounded.
Glancing up, he saw the girl incline her head, eyes closed. “Oh,” she whispered.
He set her foot on the cushioned stool. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.” She gathered the dry plaid closer, blushing furiously. “Just—something else. You have—a nice touch.”
He cleared his throat and stood. “You need something to warm you and help the pain.” A table held two glass decanters and a few glasses on a tray, and he lifted the decanter that held amber liquid, and poured a healthy dram into a glass. He brought it to her. “Whisky. I know ladies do not usually indulge in strong spirits, but this will help.”
“Whisky is perfectly fine for Highland ladies. Thank you.” She tipped the glass to her lips, swallowed, paused. Then she took more, without scarcely a cough or a tear in the eye. Pink sprang into her cheeks as she handed the glass to him. “Yourturn, sir. There is a Highland custom of passing the welcome dram, even between genders.”
“A welcome to Struan House, is it?” The sweet, mellow burn of it seared his throat. Seeing her smile, all dulcet and radiant, he wondered what to do next. He was quite alone with the young beauty who had appeared in his dreams recently.
He set down the glass and knelt to take up her injured ankle again. “This ought to be wrapped.”
