Page 33 of A Rogue in Twilight
“I would never fool you.”
“A pretty promise,” he answered, easing another book into place.
She looked up. “You have closed off your heart from hurt, James MacCarran,” she said. “You trust no one.”
His heart pounded. “Life goes more smoothly that way,” he said casually, shoving another book into place. “It eliminates complications and—”And love.
“And love?” She watched him from below.
He crammed another book onto a shelf. “Silly notions and sentiment.”
“So you do not believe in the Sight, or fairies, or love. Why?”
He climbed down and returned to the desk. “Believing,” he said, “requires accepting what we cannot see in reality. I am no fool. Give me good solid rocks to categorize. Those are real.” He stamped his boot heel. “The earth beneath our feet. The air we breathe. What we touch and see. That is real. That is what makes up our world.”
“You are afraid to believe.” She sat up, eyes like silver in the lamplight. “Afraid that what you cannot explain might be true. Afraid to trust something unseen and powerful.”
“I go to church on occasion. I was taught to trust in that.” He did not, especially, but that was not under discussion here. “Few would trust unseen forces easily. Certainly not me.” He picked up another stack of books.
“You are a little afraid of me, I think.”
“A wee slip of a thing like you? Not at all.”
“You are. I am not frightened of you, or of being alone with you. Nor am I afraid of what might happen—to us. Or to my heart.” She watched him openly.
“Your heart?” He glanced at her. She did frighten him a little. She was too honest, too damned enticing. She had invaded his solitude and stirred up too much. “This situation frightens me, Miss MacArthur, on your behalf. Disgrace is not the solution to your marriage dilemma.”
“It could be,” she answered.
He reached for the decanter of whisky that sat on the corner of his desk, lifting it to swirl its contents. “Mrs. MacKimmie set bottles in every room,” he said, changing the subject. He could use a good swallow of whisky to fortify him against the fetching little wraith in his study. Better to keep his wits about him. He set the decanter down.
“Struan House has a good supply,” she said. “It is the laird’s house, after all. The smugglers are generous if we look the other way. My grandfather never wants for free whisky. If you are pouring some, I will have a taste. It is a night for a few drams.”
He did not disagree. Relenting, he poured a dram into a glass and brought it to her. She swallowed, gave it back. “Now you.”
He sipped, set it down. “Enough. If I got foxed, you might compromise me.”
“I must abandon the idea. You’re too unwilling.”
“I am quite willing, but too much the gentleman.” Silence pulsed in the air.
The wolfhound stood then, whining, and padded toward the door. A distant, eerie shriek drifted overhead. Elspeth stood too, grabbing James’s arm, and dragged him toward the door. A cracking glow of lightning split the shadows, and thunder sounded.
“The banshee—” Her fingers tightened on his arm.
“Just an old rusted weathervane.” He was not convinced, yet persevered. “I’ll have Mr. MacKimmie fix it.”
“The banshee is warning us that something is about to happen.”
“Being alone in these blasted circumstances is enough for me.”
“It wants to warn us that the fairy ilk are riding across Struan grounds.”
James was forming his next denial when a cacophony of thunder shook the walls. “What the devil,” he muttered. “It sounds as if the horses have gone loose from their stalls. I must check. Wait here,” he said. “Osgar, stay.”
“I am coming with you,” Elspeth said. Wasting no time on argument, James hurried toward the back corridor, then down the steps past the kitchen. The girl and the wolfhound followed him.
“No, wait here please.” Snatching a coat that hung on a hook, he grabbed a wide hat from another hook and stepped out into a heavy gust.
