Page 47 of A Rogue in Twilight
“We need not worry too much. It is all imagination.”
She slid him an odd, assessing look and strolled away. When she paused by the fireplace to hold her hands out to its warmth, she looked up at the landscape painting that hung above the mantel. “That is beautiful. I had forgotten it was here.”
“It is marvelous,” he said, joining her to study the painting in its ornate gilt frame. “My grandmother loved it. A local artist, she said once.” The scene showed a meadow and a grove of trees whipping in the wind. The sky was purple, pink, and deep blue,a gorgeous twilight scatted with stars. Tucked in the landscape, tiny people danced about while others rode past. It seemed quaint to him and he had never given it much attention.
“I loved it too,” Elspeth said. “Grandda and I sometimes visited here for tea with Lady Struan, and I would study the wee dancers and white horses and the magical twilight sky.” She smiled up at him. “The local artist was my father.”
He peered close at the signature in a bottom corner. “Niall Mac—MacArthur. Your father, indeed!”
“He had a gift for such, though he was a weaver too. He painted this the year before I was born, Grandda told me, and Lady Struan bought it from him. It is a fairy painting. Do you see?”
“I thought it was just trees and such.” The twilight sky and billowing trees were rendered with a deft hand, he saw now. Looking closer, he saw the dancers wore gossamer veils with a glow of light around them, while cloaked figures rode on horseback between the trees.
“A skilled and imaginative artist. I am impressed. So my grandparents knew your family before you were born?”
“Aye, they would have. Long ago, the Struan estate was owned by my great-great-grandfather, who sold it to your kin. That was before the Jacobites rebelled, but many Highlanders were failing due to English laws and invasions of property.”
“I knew it was acquired a century ago, but did not know it originally belonged to the MacArthurs. Is Niall MacArthur living at Kilcrennan too? You never mentioned.”
“He—is gone. I never knew him or my mother. Grandda raised me from infancy.”
“Oh, I see. I am sorry.” He felt touched deeply by that. “I know what that is like. My parents died when I was eight,” he said. “My siblings and I were separated into the care of relatives. My aunt, Lady Rankin—you met her last August—raised Fionaand I in Edinburgh. We are twins, and stayed together. Patrick and William went to other kin.”
Her gaze was warm with understanding. She rested a hand on his arm briefly. “So we are both orphans.”
“I would hope we have happier things in common.”
“A love of fairy lore?” She laughed. He loved the silvery sound of it. “So you are a twin! I liked your sister very much. I am glad you had each other during those years.”
“She liked you as well.” The day they had met Elspeth at the ladies’ assembly, Fiona had agreed with Sir Walter Scott that James must see her again.
Fate had apparently arranged it. He frowned, bemused by the notion.
“Thank you for telling me that. I think you do not share much about yourself.”
“There is safety in secrets,” he agreed.
“Sharing something so personal takes trust. So thank you.” Her clear, steady gaze met his. The sense that she understood him, perhaps as kindly and sympathetically as his twin, washed over him.
“Trust is important, aye.” Though he did not come easily to that, he realized he trusted Elspeth, though he did not know her entirely and suspected she had secrets too.
“Do you remember your parents?” she asked.
“I have good memories of them.” He still felt a sharp sense of loss there, and did not willingly open that door. “My father was a scholar, a good man, calm and fair. My mother—kind. Lovely,” he added, unable to say more. Each time he thought of her, he remembered her beautiful voice and imagined roses and lavender, her favorite flowers.
“Lavender,” Elspeth said. She inhaled, eyes closed. “I can smell it somewhere.” Startled, he shook his head. “There are no flowers in here.”
“You are fortunate to have siblings,” she went on. “I have none, and I know very little about my parents. Grandfather does not talk about them much, but he says—well, you would laugh. He says they are with the fairies.” She looked away.
“I would not laugh at that. Your Grandda is an interesting character.”
“Very. Sometimes I dream about my parents and hope they were like the beautiful couple in my dreams. Grandda says aye, but he likes me to be happy.”
“Of course.” He studied the painting again, and a new detail caught his eye. “Did your mother model for your father? One of the girls looks like you.”
“Truly?” She rose on tiptoe, wobbling on her injured foot. James steadied her arm. “Oh, I see! That one—and another here, and there too. They look alike.”
“They resemble you. And there is something about the shape of her face.” As she glanced up at him, he touched her cheek, her chin. “Aye, much the same.”
