Page 78 of A Rogue in Moonlight
She lifted her brows. “Because I claim to see lights, and—the woman?”
“Because you did see the lights and the lady. I believe you. They say fairy whisky only affects those with fairy blood in their veins. So you have the wildness of the Fey in your blood. Otherwise, you would think it just a very good whisky.”
“These are all just legends,” she said quickly, shrugging.
“How can we say for sure what is truth and what is legend?” he asked softly. “What if your reaction to the whisky proves the claim? You knew nothing of the legend, yet you saw something extraordinary. They do say the fairies choose who sees them and who does not. They chose you, lass,” he murmured.
“Perhaps there is another reason they chose me,” she whispered, glancing down. “Well, no matter. Your excellent whisky has worn off. If I drink it again will the lady return? I would so love to see her again.”
“Why?” He smiled, touched by her earnestness and her interest.
“I want to make a drawing of her.”
“You will have to draw her from memory. Even if you drank your fill she might not return. She allowed you to see her, but the Fey are a fickle lot.”
“But you have seen the same lady before?”
“When I was a boy, aye. Or I thought I did.”
“Where do the fairy ilk live in Glen Kinloch? Is there a place we could find?”
“They are everywhere,” he said, straightening. He reached out his hand to her, and she stood. He drew her toward him as he spoke and she moved gently closer. “It is said they dwell peacefully here, but we cannot seek them out. They choose the when and the where of it.”
“Perhaps I came to the right glen after all.”
“Why do you say that? Was it fairies that drew you here, or teaching?”Or this,he nearly said, as he pulled her toward him. The keen awareness that they were alone attuned him further to the desire he felt, and the bond that he sensed growing between them. The impulsive kisses earlier had taken him by storm, and his body pulsed easily and naturally when he was near her. She was damnably distracting and he wanted to be close to her for more than physical reasons. He was growing certain that his feelings for her were real and worthy, and would not easily be dismissed. It puzzled and drew him.
“Tell me about the fairy woman.” She rested a hand on his arm. “Does she help you make the fairy brew?”
“Fiona.” Setting his hands around her waist, he drew her even closer. She did not resist. “I do not want to talk about fairies.”
“But I want to know. I need to know.”
“I wonder,” he murmured, touching her cheek lightly, “why youare so keen on the fairies of Glen Kinloch.”
“I cannot say, not yet. I am sorry.” She pulled back. “We both have secrets.”
“We should talk of this later. You ought to go upstairs to rest.”
“My head is still spinning a bit, I admit.”
He turned to pick up a candle in its brass holder, then waved her ahead of him to the door, then began to lead her up the turning stone steps.
“I will go first,” he said. “The way is steep and dark.”
At the upper landing, she reached for the door latch and glanced up at him. Dougal hesitated. A cool, mere good night would abandon the promise of what was happening between them. Perhaps that was best.
One more kiss, he thought, one more moment to hold her. Morning and his kinfolk would arrive all too fast. They would not have this chance to be close, alone, honest.
But they were unchaperoned, and already he should take the full blame for it. Already he knew he ought to offer marriage for the situation she was in at his home. She and her Lowland family would surely expect it.Marriage.
Suddenly the state he had resisted for so long—the yoke of marriage—did not seem such an ill fit. Here she was, standing so close, alone with him in his very house, in front of a bedchamber, wearing his very dressing gown. Here she was, a girl he could love, a girl special enough to sip the fairy brew and see the fairy of the whisky—he liked the name she gave it—and she had come into his arms willingly and sweetly. And he had already confided secrets to her that he would never have shared with another.
Trusting her felt good. Right. Marriage. The word had a soft insistence. Even his uncles had suggested it not long ago. He tilted his head, watching her.
“Good night,” she whispered, pressing the door handle.
“Fiona,” he murmured. He set the candle in a niche in the wall. “Wait.”
