Page 69 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Your grandfather wants you to marry well and leave Kilcrennan, I know that.”
“He does. And now his mind is set on Lord Struan.”
“What is wrong with that, if you like what happened with him?” Margaret smiled.
Elspeth felt heat fill her cheeks. “Grandda wants my happiness, but I need to stay here at Kilcrennan, not go south with a husband. I thought no one would ever marry me if I were compromised. But Struan offered, and offered again, and is waiting, unless he has given up by now.”
“I have not seen him, but Peggy says he is a lovely braw man. A good man.”
“Oh, he is,” she said quickly. “And he was a gentleman with me, truly. I never expected that—” Her voice caught. “Oh, dear.”
“So you fell in love? And what is the trouble with that, then?”
“It is so confusing.” Elspeth flipped pages. “I cannot find the pattern I want.”
“The MacCarrans are a small clan. They may not be in this book.”
She was relieved that Margaret left the other topic. “We have other books, older ones that Grandda uses. Perhaps it is there.” Elspeth a black leather notebook from the shelf, very worn, with slips of paper stuck among its tattered pages. She paged through and finally stopped. “MacCarran! Here it is.”
They leaned together to study a page of sketches and charts showing weaving patterns. “‘The MacCarrans are a sept of the MacDonalds of the Isles,’ it says. My great-great-grandfather wrote these notes. Interesting!” Elspeth said.
“It says here that the Kilcrennan weavers made a tartan for a MacCarran laird in the years of peace,” Margaret said. “Thatwould have been before the Jacobites. What a blessing to have these old notes. The ancient plaids were not always specific to a clan, but varied depending on local weavers and the plant dyes they had available.”
“The MacCarran is very authentic, then.” Elspeth studied the design and color notes. “Twenty warp threads of deep blue, twenty warp of forest green, ten weft threads of red, five of white,” she read. “That repeat would be very handsome.”
“I heard something about the MacCarrans long ago,” Margaret said. “A small clan with an interesting history. Do you know their clan motto?”
Elspeth shook her head. “Lord Struan mentioned a tale of a fairy ancestor, but he does not believe in such things himself. It is all fancy, he says.”
“Then he needs to spend more here with you and Uncle Donal,” Margaret laughed. “Ask your viscount about the MacCarran motto.”
“He is not my viscount.” Elspeth took a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal from a box on the table and copied the sett pattern. “I do not know when I will see him again. But I can weave this for him and send it to him if he leaves for Edinburgh.”
“Perhaps he will take it to Uncle Donal’s tailor friend,” Margaret said.
“I do not care what he does with it.” Elspeth copied carefully, not looking up.
“It will be a fine gift and you should deliver it yourself.”
She glanced at her cousin in surprise. “Me, go to Edinburgh?”
Margaret smiled. “Weave fast, and go to Struan House.”
Her heartbeat went fast. “I suppose I could.”
“This is what I remember. The MacCarrans had a golden cup in their castle seat that was very ancient, a gift from a fairy ancestor. Around its base was a motto.”
“What was that?”
“Love makes its own magic,” she said.
“Oh! That is beautiful. He never said.” Elspeth felt tears sting her eyes.
“I thought you might like it.”
“Oh, Margaret, what have I done?”
“Only you can say, and only you can make it right. Ask your heart what it wants, and follow that.”
