Page 30 of A Rogue in Twilight
His innate reserve was usually enough to keep him aloof and controlled in any situation. Yet when this fey and fetching creature blithely wanted to be compromised, he had very nearly acted the fool and done it.
He crossed through connecting rooms into the study, brightened an oil lamp, and sank into the leather chair to take up the pages he had set down hours ago. Before she had come to Struan House. Before his life had changed. He waved the thought away.
Soon established at the desk again, he tried to keep his mind on his grandmother’s manuscript, but thoughts of a delectable girl in a quaint nightrail distracted him. Tapping his fingers on the pages, he looked through the window into the darknesswhere rain pattered forcefully against the glass, and winds whipped loudly.
He could not even take the girl home and put distance between them.
He was never wary of women, enjoying their character and strength, their differences, their softness. Nor did he care much about society’s opinions. But he would not satisfy blatantly ungentlemanly urges. He’d had a mistress several years ago, a companion of respect and affection, and he had dallied with love before and after that, though he had never discovered what love truly was. For the past year, he had neatly avoided Miss Sinclair’s affections and expectations, which had become tedious.
He thought of the others. His Belgian mistress had been the widow of an esteemed geologist, a man he had admired and respected. Meeting James, the young widow had allowed him to study her husband’s scientific papers when he was on leave from the Black Watch, and she soon offered him access to her person as well. Young, hungry for passion, knowledge, adventure, and fearful that he might end on a battlefield, he had let the dalliance continue. They were both lonely, and they had parted friends more than lovers, and he returned to Scotland to dive deeply into geological research.
Wind whipped past the house then with such strength that for a moment James heard a faint shrieking. Creaking doors or the storm sailing over rooftops, he thought. Or perhaps it was that pestering banshee again.
Wondering if the noises would alarm Elspeth MacArther, he sighed, pushing fingers through his hair, and decided not to inquire about her wellbeing. She was a hearty Highland sort, used to such things. Setting aside an urge to go upstairs, he took up a stack of handwritten pages and resumed reading his grandmother’s small, careful handscript.
A local weaver, Mr. Donal MacArthur, is an abundant source of history and traditional tales for this account,his grandmother had written.He claims to have been abducted by the fairies when he was a young man. However, the gentleman politely refuses to elaborate on the details of his experience. He believes the fairies will show their wrath to those who speak too intimately of them and reveal their true ways. It is this author’s fervent hope that the weaver will share his fascinating story of fairy abduction with the world someday. His little granddaughter, he claims, is part of his story.
James sat up and read the passage again.
The wolfhound wasgrowling.
Elspeth woke, alerted by Osgar’s low rumble. The hour was very late, she thought, the darkness quiet and deep. The noisy storm had faded. “What is it, Osgar?”
The dog padded over to the side of the bed to stare at her through the darkness. He sat on his haunches, whimpering. She reached out to pat his head.
“The door is open—go on. Go down to the kitchen, where the door has a flap to let you out, if that is what you want.”
He tipped his head, stared, and whimpered.
She shooed him toward the door and lay back. The bed was soft, the pillows plump, the linens cool and fresh, and she was comfortable. Yet she could not sleep. A faint sound came through then.Her name.
Sitting up, she looked at the sparse light of the peat fire, flickering blue-gold, with all else in shadow. Had Lord Struan called her name?
Eilidh…The soft sound was her Gaelic name, whispered through the air.
Osgar whimpered again and began to pace around the room. Gasping, Elspeth drew her knees to her chest, still and silent. In a corner of the room, she saw tiny translucent lights spinning—pale green, shimmering blue, soft violet. She thought the fire’s reflection danced on some surface. But the lights formed into a cluster of shapes.
Tall, graceful contours, heads and shoulders, long draped robes.
Eilidh…
Shivers rose along her neck, arms. “Who is there?” she whispered.
The shadows and lights moved closer. Ghosts? She felt chilled all over.
She thought a pale hand reached toward her. She scrambled off the bed, leaping away. Pain stabbed through her ankle and she cried out, staring at the corner of the room.
“Who are you?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. Snatching her drying plaid from a chair, she went to the door, heart pounding. The dog bumped against her, as hasty as she was to escape. She took his collar and rushed out of the room into the corridor.
Thunder rolled, and mingled with a distant patter of hoofbeats.
The fairy riding.She shuddered.
Osgar gave a loudwoofand stood tall and alert, ears lifted. Elspeth heard her name again. Hadtheyhad come for her, as Grandda had said?
“Leave me be!” she gasped, and ran, limping, down the dark corridor, anxious to get away from that room. Remembering she was not alone, she ran down the hall, wondering which door might be his. She knocked on one door after another, frantic.
A crash of thunder shook the walls. She shrieked, then remembered Struan had said he would be working in his study.She ran toward the main staircase, the dog alongside her, and hobbled down the steps. She had to find him.
