Page 32 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Come.” He took her hand and she went with him, barefoot and limping,slap-paton the floor.
“Where in botheration did the dogs go?” he asked, hoping for a distraction. He was too aware of Elspeth in a nightrail, dragging a plaid blanket over her shoulder. His hands found the warm curves of her body beneath the soft fabric. His grandmother’s nightrail, he insisted to himself again. “Blast and damn,” he muttered.
“Lord Struan, please do not swear,” she admonished, but sounded amused.
“We hardly need a banshee in this house with you here. You’ve cast your lunatic spell over the laird.”
“He is acting the gentleman.”
“Is he? He desperately begs your pardon, Miss MacArthur.”
She laughed and held his arm as formally as if they entered a ballroom. Both of them were partly clothed and in disarray, alone in the house in a fierce storm. Her lush allure and her delightful willingness, together with the passion and affection gaining equal influence in him—this had the makings of disaster.
He wondered if they could get through the night without an obligation of marriage. He was drawn to her like iron shavings to a magnet. And she seemed to like it very much. He could have used a little discouragement.
The dogs followed them into the library, and James led the girl through a connecting door to the study. The place seemedreassuringly ordinary, messy desk, papers shifting, his coat on a chair, teacup abandoned on a plate with crumbs.
He sat at his desk, but Elspeth stood with her head cocked, looking wary, as if listening for something. Thunder boomed. She jumped.
“Sit down,” he said. “Read a book.” He gestured toward the volumes on table surfaces, on shelves. Contrary to the restraint and control he liked in some things, he was not particularly tidy when he worked.
“I am fine here.” She stood, arms folded, the plump of her breasts visible through the pale fabric, for the plaid had fallen to the floor.
“I cannot think if you stand there like that,” he murmured.
She went to the cushioned seat tucked beneath a tall window that overlooked the back garden. All was darkness and whipping wind and rain. “The roads will be flooded and the bridge will wash out.”
He cocked a brow. “Is that a prediction?”
“I know the glen. The old bridges sometimes crumble in bad storms and the roads go to mud. The local men make repairs, but it is difficult to keep ahead of it.”
“New bridges should be built and the roads resurfaced.”
“Aye. But no one can afford that here. Bridges and roads take money.”
Nodding, he wondered again if she thought the laird of Struan had the generous pockets this glen needed. He scarcely had enough funds to keep his city house in order, let alone keep up with Struan House and pay for bridges and other repairs needed in the glen. Unless he finished his grandmother’s book—and wed a fairy bride, he reminded himself sourly—he would inherit only a modest sum.
Fairy bride.He glanced toward her again. He could hardly concentrate with her curled on the seat like that, the thingown defining the delightful shape of her body, a blush of skin showing through the fine fabric. Standing, he decided to put some books away, carrying them to a wrought iron ladder to climb up to higher shelves. His awkward gait made the process slow, but the activity was what he needed.
Again he wondered if he had been duped—had Elspeth MacArthur set this up deliberately, anticipating the weather, aware that the laird might be alone? Had she hoped to invite a quick marriage to benefit kin and community? She had been very frank about wanting to be ruined. But had she been honest about the rest of it?
He looked down to see her flipping through a book. She was lovely, a fey sort with that long dark hair, pale features, and delicate frame. Anyone might believe she had fairy blood. Even Sir Walter Scott had been intrigued by her when they first met in Edinburgh. If James did marry her, he could meet the will’s conditions.
Preposterous, he thought.
He and his siblings should have further disputed the will rather than agree to chase will-o’-the-wisps. Still, he found it a privilege to work on his grandmother’s manuscript. He felt close to Lady Struan this way, and he wanted to honor that, regardless of the fanciful subject. What seemed pure nonsense to him might greatly appeal to others.
The wolfhound loped toward the girl. She patted his great, unkempt head. “Good lad, Osgar,” she said.
“That dog follows you everywhere now,” James said. “You need not be frightened in this house. He could scare off anything, earthly or unearthly.”
“Oh no, he’dprobably let them in.”
“Them?”
“The Fey. They are out riding tonight.”
“Come now, Miss MacArthur. Not even a fairy would be out in such a storm. Let us put the pretense aside.”
