Page 60 of A Rogue in Twilight
“They are a temperamental lot,” Donal said.
“We call them the Good Neighbors,” Elspeth said. “But they would be better neighbors if they had their gold.”
“Certainly people have searched for this treasure,” James said.
“Many, without success,” Donal MacArthur said.
“Such an interesting tale. I want to be sure it is in Grandmother’s book.”
“Oh no, you must not put that in the book,” Elspeth said.
“Local legends are important to her book,” he answered.
“Elspeth is right, you cannot include all the details. Some part of it must be left unsaid. The fairies will be very angry if their secrets are told.”
“Grandda, enough,” Elspeth said. “Struan does not believe in the Fey.”
“But it is fascinating,” James countered.
“You do notbelieveit,” she said. “That is the difference.”
“I believe what can be proven.”
“He’ll believe soon enough,” Donal said. “He’s writing a fairy book, he’s drinking fairy brew. And he’s in the thrall of our wee fairy lass. He’s fallen to the glamourie.”
“The glamourie?” James asked. “My grandmother wrote of it. A fairy enchantment that changes our perception of the world, makes us see reality differently, something like that.”
“The glamourie is all over you, sir. The lass has the knack of it.”
“That she does,” James said, meeting her gaze.
Chapter Fifteen
Stirring deep inthe night, a bit groggy from the whisky, James wondered what had woken him. He heard voices, felt as if shadows moved around him. Sitting up, he craved fresh air to clear his head. The fairy brew, as MacArthur had called it, had been stronger and more lasting than he thought.
Dressing in trousers and boots, shrugging the borrowed frock coat over his shirt, he left the house to walk through the courtyard and follow the earthen lane that led toward the weaving cottages. The night was cool and overcast, and a ringed moon flowed its beams through the clouds. Fog curled low on the ground, and meadows and orchards stretched into the dark distance.
His footfalls echoed quietly, and soon he heard the fast, clacking rhythm of a loom. Faint light glowed in one of the weaving cottages. Was Elspeth awake too? The cadence of the loom was furious and passionate.
He went close and peered through the square window beside the door.
Not Elspeth, but Donal seated at the large loom. A lantern lit the space, the rest in shadow. The man worked very quickly, shifting and moving, lacking Elspeth’s grace but working with power, speed, and certainty.
Watching, James frowned, then gaped. MacArthur worked so fast that James could hardly follow the movements. His hands, the shuttle, the yarns, the loom were all a blur. A redtartan pattern gathered rapidly on the roller, faster than seemed possible.
James rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked again. The loom whirred, clicked, shuddered, and the weaver sped through his work like a demon. The incredible pace seemed beyond what a man could do.
Had the whisky been that strong? Was he dreaming?
“Come away!” A hand touched his arm, and James turned to see Elspeth. “James, please,” she whispered.
He drew her close. “Look! What is he doing?”
“Working. Hush,” she said, touching her fingers to his lips. He circled an arm around her, drew her close. She wore a dark plaid over a pale nightgown, her hair loose and long and silky dark.
“Why are you out here?” he asked. “Did the noise of the loom wake you?”
“I woke, and I knew you were out here, so I came. I can feel you when you are about,” she whispered. “As if you are…part of me.”
