Page 58 of A Rogue in Twilight
Surely the weaver had imbibed too much drink and spoke in riddles and delusions. “Does her age matter? She is far from a spinster.”
“She would not mind that. But she must wed.” Donal sipped more whisky, and leaned toward James again. “I went to Edinburgh to talk to a flourishing tailor there about taking Elspeth’s hand. But I found I did not like him so well as before. Now you are here, and I am thinking, this is the lad for my wee Elspeth!’”
Silent, unsure how to answer, James returned MacArthur’s gaze.
“Good then,” the man said half to himself. “What do you teach, though you are a wealthy lord?”
“Geology,” James said, knowing he should divest the man of his opinion about his wealth. Later for that. “Rocks. Earth.”
“Ah! You can help us find the gold!” He raised his glass. “You are the one.”
“I would be happy to look for gold if it is in these hills. Some parts of the Highlands contain veins of gold running through the rock.” Now his head was buzzing too, from the strong fairy whisky. “My grandmother wrote about a legend of some fairy gold.”
“A legend in this very glen,” MacArthur said. “I must tell you—ah, Elspeth!”
Looking up to see Elspeth in the doorway, James stood. “Miss MacArthur.”
“Lord Struan.” She approached, limping only slightly, her gait improved some. He offered her his chair, and she sat, settling her gray skirts around her. He slid a footstool toward her so that she could rest her foot, showing a narrow black slipper and a hint of white stocking.
“What a fine man to give you a wee stool for the wee foot,” MacArthur said.
“Aye,” Elspeth said. “Is it the fairy brew you are drinking?”
“It is, and fine stuff. Struan likes it.”
Hiding a smile, James leaned against the mantelpiece. The whisky made him mellow, warm, content. He could almost believe in fairies just then, and could imagine Elspeth as their queen with her delicate beauty, dark lashes sweeping above pink cheeks, her hair soft as black silk.
When she glanced at him, he saw she was neither amused nor content.
“Elspeth, have some of Dougal MacGregor’s fairy brew. ‘Twill take the pain from your foot. Oh. I should not say his whole name,” he mumbled.
“It is safe with me, sir,” James reassured him.
“I like your lairdie,” MacArthur told Elspeth. “Will you have some, lass?”
“A bit, thank you. A swallow—enough!” Elspeth said as her grandfather poured. “I hope you warned Struan about this brew. It is rather strong.”
“Och, he’s done well with two drams and no weakness. ‘We are na fou,’” he quoted, raising his glass. “‘Well, na that fou—’”
“‘But just a drappie in our ee,’” James said, completing the Burns line.
MacArthur boomed a laugh. “Elspeth, lass, marry this laddie, do!”
“Aye, do,” James echoed softly, feeling more comfortable by the moment. He loved this place, he loved this family, he loved this fairy brew, which was loosening his usual restraint. And he very much loved the daughter of this place. He raised his glass in a small salute to her.
“Away wi’ you,” she said. Her gaze melted his heart just then.
“Never,” he said. Surely it was the whisky. And yet he meant it. He would never leave her, fairy or not. He would convince her. He had to.
“Beware the fairy brew, my lord,” she murmured.
“And beware the wee fairy lass,” he replied. She laughed.
“It’s late, Grandfather,” she said. “Our guest wants an early start.”
“Women always have practical notions when there is good whisky to be had,” MacArthur complained. “First let me tell Struan about the fairy gold. He must hear the truth of it.”
“Grandda,” she said.
