Page 21 of A Rogue in Twilight
“You swear quite a bit. Highland gentlemen rarely curse. It is not Gaelic custom. Is it a Southron habit?”
“Pardon. It is a habit I developed among soldiers and by living a bachelor’s life. Which I do not intend to change,” he emphasized. “Do not play coy, pouting like a pretty child, swatting your eyelashes at me like that.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “What should I do, then?”
“That depends on what you want here.” He nearly barked that out.
“A gentle compromise. Just that.” Smile. Sunshine.
She was trying, in a clumsy and oddly innocent way, to manipulate and charm him. “Miss MacArthur, best say outright what you intended by coming to Struan House.”
“I came here to see your garden. That is all. But now I am here, and all this has happened... I would rather enjoy being compromised.”
His heart thundered. “Do you know what you are asking?”
“Gloriouslyrrruined,” she went on, in a broad Scots burr. “That would suit! If you do not mind, that is.” She took up the whisky glass as if to sip, then turned it upside down and smiled up at him again. “It is empty.”
He stared, suspicions churning. “Ruination,” he snapped, “would lead to marriage. Both would be a mistake.”
“But we are alone here. Regardless of what happens, I am already compromised.”
“So you plotted, and not very well at that, to trap the local laird into marriage? This will not work, I assure you.”
“I did not! It only occurred to me just now.” She sat up, frowning. “Perhaps I misspoke.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I only thought it could solve a problem for me, and perhaps for you too.”
“The only situation to solve is how to get you safely out of here and back home.”
She tilted her head, assessing him. “Something troubles you. I wonder if marriage might solve it.” She frowned slightly, sympathetically.
How the devil would she know what his grandmother’s will had specified? He stared down at her, thoughts racing. Her damnable suggestion had merit, he suddenly saw. He had come to Struan House to finish Lady Struan’s book, and attempt to find a woman of fairy descent to marry. Those were the stipulations. With those fey and graceful looks, ElspethMacArthur could fit that role. And Sir Walter Scott, who was to judge this profoundly irritating scheme, already liked the girl.
For an instant, he was tempted. Then he dismissed it out of hand. “This is ridiculous. Compromise has one companion—marriage.”
“I know.”
“So we avoid compromise.”
“Or we marry.”
“Do you truly understand what you are proposing?” he nearly shouted.
“I think so.” She frowned, seemed to think, then nodded. “Aye.”
Temptation struck again. Pass her off as one of fairy blood, marry her, finish the damned fairy book, and return to Edinburgh.Do not be absurd,he told himself.
He could not ruin a girl and marry her for his own ends. He lived on a level far above that. And yet such thoughts were dancing through his head. She was irresistibly alluring, a coy and darling beauty, forthright and seductive all at once. Something about her drew him in—luminous eyes, elusive dimples, the bow curve of her lips? Her graceful throat, the rise of full breasts beneath that sodden gown? He glanced away.
She sat calm and smiling. His heart and body pounded, wary and yet aroused. And he was already hatching schemes in tandem with her mad suggestion.
The idea was preposterous. But the conditions of his grandmother’s will were equally preposterous. The girl was eager and all too willing.
Had she devised a trap for him—or was he about to trap her?
“Miss MacArthur.” He cleared his throat. “Neither of us are thinking clearly. I must tend to your injury. I need some bandages—the kitchen—there will be something there.” He turned, ready to bolt.
