Page 29 of A Rogue in Twilight
“You want to know why I prefer to be disgraced,” she clarified.
He folded his arms. “That would be good.”
“I would rather be a ruined spinster who never marries—than marry as my grandfather chooses.”
“That,” he said, “is medieval. Straight out of a fairy tale.”
“Well, then, that is perfect.” She shrugged.
“I imagine your grandfather just wants to ensure your future.” He wondered if the old fellow had sent the girl here to snare a wealthy, titled husband.
“He is determined that I must marry a Lowlander.” She wrinkled her nose.
“What in thunder is wrong with a Lowland man?” he asked, offended.
“Nothing, except that I want to stay in the Highlands. Grandda wants me to leave the Highlands. But I do not want tomarry the tailor he has chosen for me, a man who just wants to take over my grandfather’s weaving business once he is gone. If a little disgrace will discourage him, I am content.” She lifted her chin. It was a lovely chin, above a slim and elegant throat.
“Content to never marry, never be happy?”
She looked down. “I do want to be happy. But I would rather live lonely in the Highlands than unhappy in the Lowlands. But Grandda says I must leave here.”
“Why would he want that?”
“I—cannot explain why, but I will not do it. I suppose you think this is all play-acting. I suppose you scoff and suspect me of some plan to snare a rich man.”
“I am of two minds on that, Miss MacArthur.”
She met his gaze, and there was pure clarity in her eyes. “I have another request.”
“What?” Would entrapment be next?
She pulled at her damp dress. “May I borrow something for the night?”
“Of course.” Relieved, still bewildered, he went to a tall wardrobe, opened its doors, and rummaged inside, finding shelves and drawers of folded garments. “There must be something here.”
She limped to join him just as James drew out a pale, translucent, lacy chemise. He felt himself going red-faced. “Er, look for what you want,” he said.
Elspeth pulled out a folded white garment on a shelf, lifting its lace-trimmed sleeve and high-necked bodice. She held it up under her chin. “This is a nightrail. Whose is it? Oh dear, did this wardrobe belong to your grandmother?”
James regarded the white, billowy thing, which all but swallowed the girl. His grandmother had been a tall woman. “Perhaps.”
“I could not wear this.”
Elspeth in his grandmother’s nightrail—perfect. That would make the girl less appealing, he thought. “Take it. I insist.”
She pressed it to her, the globes of her breasts outlined beneath his grandmother’s clothing. An excellent deterrent. “Thank you!”
“Good night, Miss MacArthur. Oh—one reminder.” He stood with a hand on the open door. “You do realize I am a Lowland man?”
“I do. But if we married, you—would not mind if I stayed in the Highlands.” In shadows and firelight, her eyes were wide and silvery, innocent yet wanton. It was wrong to be alone with her, and he would never take advantage of that. Yet even in his grandmother’s nightgown, this girl was all he desired.
“You do not want to marry. You just want a wee bit of scandal.”
“I could change my mind,” she said softly.
“Good night,” he muttered, and backed out, rushing down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. Only the terriers followed. The wolfhound stayed with her.
Fairy hounds knew their kind, James remembered.
