by Susan King
James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave each lady a kiss on the cheek, quick brushes that barely touched skin. “Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, and to each. “Enchanted. Charmed.” The ladies, as the occasion required, backed away, still facing the king while trying to manage their voluminous trains.
“Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James then said. She let go of his arm and stepped forward to make a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, the nine requisite feathers bobbing. On some ladies here, they looked ridiculous. On this girl, simply swan-like. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek. James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.
“Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”
“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head. When she backed away, blue satin train swirling around her, she seemed to glide prettily.
James turned to introduce the others. Finally, he was able to gather them together, leading Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward a man waiting in the receiving line further down. Sir Walter Scott was easy to spot in the crowd, a tall man with graying blond hair, a nimble smile, and sparkling blue eyes.
“Struan, excellent to see you here,” he said, extending a hand.
“And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin and my sister, Fiona MacCarran. And Miss Charlotte Sinclair. May I present Miss Lucie Graham, and Miss Elspeth MacArthur, who hails from Kilcrennan.”
“Oh, sir, I am pleased to meet you,” Elspeth MacArthur said, sounding delighted. “I so admire your poetry and your work in the ballads. I particularly favor The Lady of the Lake, since I live not far from Loch Katrine. You make it seem very romantical.” She blushed.
“My dear, I am honored to have the good opinion of a Highland lady.” Scott took her gloved hand in his. Then James saw Miss MacArthur turn pale and gasp.
“Oh! The Waverley novels,” she blurted. “They are all yours, Sir Walter—”
“I do not claim to be the author of those books, Miss MacArthur, despite the rumors. Rather, I am a poet.”
“But the books are all yours too. Soon the world will know and be glad of it. Your next story about…Nigel…and aye, Quentin,” she said, “will be some of your best work—oh! I beg your pardon!” She tried to pull her gloved hand away, but Sir Walter held her fingers tightly and leaned toward her.
“How did you know about the new books?” he murmured.
“Sir, truly, I did not mean to offend.” She looked distressed.
Concerned, mildly bewildered, James pressed his fingers on the girl’s elbow, uncertain what was happening, but sensing she needed the bastion of physical support. Her arm fairly trembled under his hand. Beside him, Lady Rankin gasped, while Charlotte flapped her fan and looked shocked.
“What is going on there?” the king boomed, looking their way.
“Your Majesty, just the excitement of friends,” Sir Walter answered with a friendly smile. He leaned toward Elspeth MacArthur. “My dear,” he whispered fervently, “you have the Highland Sight!”
“Sir, I—” The girl looked flustered as her gaze caught James. “May we go?”
“If you like, Miss MacArthur. Good day, Sir Walter.”
“Farewell, sir,” the girl told Scott, then let go of James’s arm and took up her skirts to hasten away.
“Were I you, Struan,” Scott murmured, “I’d pursue that lass. She’s a rare one. Remember your grandmother’s will.”
“I have not forgotten it, sir.” He would indeed pursue her—to find out what the devil was going on.
Handing his great-aunt into William’s care, he moved ahead to follow the girl through the press of people. She was fleeing into a corridor beyond, but he followed the silver gown, the bobbing white feathers, that jet gloss of hair. Closing in on her, he took her arm firmly and turned toward an anteroom just off the corridor.
“Come with me,” he said sternly, marching beside her, his cane tapping as they walked. The smaller room was quieter, less populated than the other areas. Tall ferns, potted rhododendrons, and large vases of fragrant roses were arranged around the room. The air was thick with a mingled, natural perfume.
James tugged the girl behind some rhododendrons and roses and glared down at her. “What was that all about?” he demanded.
She stared up at him. “What?”
Glowering, waiting for her to relent or apologize for embarrassing his esteemed friend, he felt surprisingly disappointed. She was lovely, delectable really, yet was not the innocent she seemed. She had done a scheming thing back there. Her beautiful eyes distracted him, but he refused to look away. “Miss MacArthur, Sir Walter keeps his identity as a novelist secret. What is your game here?”
“It is no game. The knowledge just came to me. I did not mean to offend.”
“Sir Walter is convinced that you have the Sight. It is a poor joke to play on a gentleman who is so devoted to Highland lore.”
“But I do have the Sight.”
“All this may amuse you, but I will not tolerate a mockery of my friends.”
“But I do have it. Sometimes I just know things. And then I say them. It is not always good of me to do so.” She looked distressed, then drew a breath. Her beautiful eyes flashed silver. “It is rude to accuse me and confront me so.”
Scowling, forming his answer, he glanced up as others entered the room. “Oh, there you are, James!” Fiona said, coming toward him.
“I am mortified,” Charlotte said, strolling in with Lady Rankin. “Outraged!”
Elspeth MacArthur glanced at James. “I suppose I am ruined now.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I scarcely touched you.”
“I mean for insulting Sir Walter Scott.”
“Not at all,” he murmured. “He seemed amused.”
“Are you sorry, then, for scolding me?” she asked sweetly.
“I did not scold. Hello,” he said more loudly, as the others approached.
“What is this?” Lady Rankin asked. She and Charlotte came toward them first, headdress feathers waving, silk and satin trains sliding like plumed tails.
“Yes, what is this?” Charlotte asked.
“I was feeling faint,” the girl said. “Lord Struan was concerned for me.”
“Ah,” Lady Rankin said, narrowing her eyes.
“If that is all,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “That was no proper kiss at all from the king, did you see?” she complained to the others. “I expected something more genteel and certainly more memorable.”
“We cannot expect a romantic gesture from the king,” Lucie reasoned.
“Struan!” Sir Philip came along behind the others and peered through the rhododendron leaves. “And Miss MacArthur! What are you doing back there? Did you see that the fellows are making up the deficit to the ladies? Miss Sinclair, if I may!” Leaning toward Charlotte, he kissed her quickly on the lips.
“Oh!” Charlotte swatted him with her fan, yet giggled.
“And you, Lady Fiona,” Sir Philip then turned to Fiona, who offered her cheek. William bent shyly toward Lucie, who dimpled and smiled as he kissed her cheek.
Lady Rankin huffed indignantly, though she laughed when William kissed her cheek next, gallantly and politely.
Standing beside Miss MacArthur, wrapped in the sweet scent of flowers, James smiled with the others as people streamed into the room from the crowded corridor, many of them voicing the same complaint about the king’s kisses. More and more the young men and women flirted with their own quick kisses, the young women coyly pouting, the young men obliged with a proper cheek kiss, sometimes a kiss on the lips, amid good-natured laughter.
“It seems no one is satisfied with the royal kiss,” Lady Rankin said.
“Not Scottish women, at least,” Charlotte said. Fiona and Lucie laughed.
“It was quite—squishy,” Lucie said, as the others laughed.
“What of
the Highland lass in our party?” Sir Philip asked. “Let me do the honors, since I am the only one of us dressed in proper Highland fashion.” He came around the potted plants toward Elspeth MacArthur, giving her a quick and moist kiss on the lips. Grinning, pleased with himself, he stepped back.
The girl smiled flatly, while James grew very still. Do not take this silliness seriously, he told himself, yet he wanted to defend her. But she gave him a quick shake of her head as if she knew his thoughts.
“Look,” Charlotte said, “the Countess of Argyll has accepted a kiss from the Earl of Huntly. Everyone will be part of the game now.”
“Oh, Elspeth,” Lucie murmured. “Is that Cousin Ellison, just there, standing with that tall man in Highland dress?”
“I do not know her well, but aye, that does look like Ellison. Am I right that her father is your uncle, my mother’s Cousin Hector Graham? He is the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh now, is that so?”
“Yes, absolutely. I wonder who that gentleman is. He is devilishly handsome.” Lucie fluttered her fan.
Elspeth stretched her neck to see through the crowd. “Dressed like a Highland chieftain, with two feathers in his bonnet.”
“He is spectacularly handsome in that Highland kit,” Lucie said.
“It suits some of us! I think I recognize him,” Sir Philip said, looking over their shoulders. “He is one of the Whisky Lairds—you know, the ones who were brought to the Edinburgh dungeon, and caused such a commotion last spring.”
“I read about them! Oh my,” Lucie said, watching the pair.
James angled to look. The fellow made a striking figure indeed in his Highland finery, and the blond young lady with him was very pretty. Hector Graham’s daughter? He had heard something about her, but he would not engage in gossip. Instead, he turned away to continue his conversation with Fiona, who was now looking at the Highland gentleman too.
The man put other Scotsmen here to shame, he thought, easily besting those in black and white, and even those decked out in lengths of tartan, furs, weaponry, and three eagle feathers in their bonnets signifying a clan chief. James wished the man well, and smiled to himself, content in sober black.
“There was some story recently about the legal charges,” Philip was saying.
“Look! He just kissed Cousin Ellison—dear me!” Lucie laughed with surprised delight. “I must say hello, and hope for an introduction.”
“I will go with you,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “Everyone is having such fun in that room, aren’t they? Come, Lucie. I believe Sir Philip is right. That Highland chieftain is rather notorious, in the most interesting way, I can tell you—” Charlotte continued to murmur as she took Lucie’s arm, sweeping her away, the others in their wake.
That left James and Miss MacArthur standing together, very much alone behind the screen of rhododendrons and roses. He cleared his throat.
“A notorious Highlander.” Miss MacArthur laughed softly. “There are a very many of those here, I would guess.”
“I read an account of the man and his friends in The Edinburgh Observer,” James said. “Whisky smugglers down from the Highlands. There were unusual circumstances of some sort.”
“Most Highlanders here drink smuggled whisky, or brew it, or smuggle it themselves—at the least, they are wishing they had a dram right now,” she said. As James chuckled, she looked at him, eyes twinkling like stars. “Though I will say he did kiss my cousin very nicely. Perhaps the only man here giving a lass a real kiss.”
“True, the others are hardly bestowing proper kisses,” he said curtly. Cleared his throat again. Was he blushing? His cheeks felt hot. His cravat felt tight. Damnation. “I do not understand the fuss over the king’s kisses.”
“The kisses were disappointing, I assure you. Now they are just enjoying their wee game.” She glanced up, smiled. “Though I am no judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”
“What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He felt unaccountably irritated.
“The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have several looms at Kilcrennan, large and small, and he helps set them up. But I agree, those were not proper kisses, I suppose. Look, even more of them are at it now.” She laughed again. “Lord Struan, perhaps you should go join them and give someone a proper kiss yourself. Miss Sinclair might expect it.” Her eyes, silvery beautiful, crinkled with amusement.
“Perhaps. Miss MacArthur,” he said, as an urge welled in him. She was here, and not being kissed, and he very much wanted to kiss her. Before he could think further, he tilted her chin with a crooked finger. She did not protest, watching him with those remarkable eyes. Her lips parted slightly. “This is what one would call a proper kiss.” He bent, touching his lips to hers.
Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. The simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, felt her quivering hand on his forearm.
“Oh,” she gasped, “oh—” And tilted her face upward for more.
“Aye,” he breathed, leaning down. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silk and satin. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat.
He felt as if he stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed. Felt himself falling.
Drawing a breath, he pulled her closer, and she sighed against his mouth, pressed her body against his, the movement wildly enticing. She groaned softly as he slid his hand up from her waist until his fingertips skimmed the soft skin of her shoulder. She caught her breath, and his body surged—
He dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”
She clutched his sleeve, let go, stepped away. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh! Good day, Lord Struan, thank you for”—she did not look at him—“your kindness today. Truly, I must go.”
“Miss MacArthur,” he murmured politely. He craved after that kiss, wanted to pursue her, seek more, his body pulsing—and he guessed by her sweet and hungry response, she was not adverse. But he should not have done it, let alone allow it to become a real kiss. He inclined his head. “My apologies.”
She was already sweeping away, silvery blue, a froth of a gown and that satiny blue train like the curl of a wave. Then she glanced back, her silver eyes haunting.
He would not forget those beautiful eyes or their provocative owner. Too soon, she vanished into a glittering sea of people.
Chapter 3
James heard the shriek as he stepped over the threshold. Unexpected, unnerving, it came from somewhere overhead in the foyer. As if in answer, a dog howled distantly in the large, drafty old house. Setting down his leather satchel, James straightened and looked up. Was the cry just a creaking door or old floorboards, or hinges needing repair?
“Halloo!” he called out. “Halloo the house!”
The moan sounded again, eldritch, ending on a shrill note that shivered down his neck. Again the dog howled, and a second one barked. James looked around the dim foyer. “What in blazes,” he muttered. “Halloo!”
No answer. The arrival of Struan House’s viscount was not particularly promising. Ghostly shrieks, baying dogs, and here he stood alone and ungreeted, drenched by a chill September rain. If the work awaiting him here proceeded smoothly, he told himself, he would only be here a few weeks.
Once again, and too often of late, he wondered if he would see Elspeth MacArthur while he was here. She had mentioned that her family home was in the glen, and try as he might, he had not forgotten her. She lingered in his thoughts, even his dreams.
The memory of a few simple kisses haunted him, as did her sparkling, seductive eyes. He recalled the taste of her lips under his own, the feel of her in his arms—but he had not fallen in love like a damn fool, not at all. Yet the memories were persistent and distracting.
Nor had Sir Walter helped the
matter. “Miss MacArthur is an intriguing young lady. When you go to Struan House, seek out her out. Find that one, James.”
Well, here he was at Struan House, come for other matters and little time to visit Kilcrennan, wherever it was. Drawing off his gloves, he crammed them into a pocket, brushed the rain from his coat shoulders, removed his hat and shook the moisture from it. Too damned much rain lately, he thought.
Eyes gray as rain—his mind did it again, made that little leap when his thoughts were not on the girl. He was obsessed. He disliked it.
“Halloo the house!” he called. Nothing.
Perhaps he should find her, he thought, to ask what mad spell she had put on him, and why she had pulled that ruse on his friend Scott. He was not satisfied in that matter. The poet was the one obsessed with finding her—not James. There. Although seeing her in ordinary circumstances, when she was not done up like a fairy princess, might dissolve his own damnable obsession.
“Halloo!” He turned in the foyer. Floored in slate and lined in dark wood paneling, it had a wide stairway along one wall and a huge marble fireplace on the other. Above the mantel, the heads of stags were in stark contrast to the angels carved in the fireplace surround. The walls were hung with antique weapons as well as small paintings of landscapes and dog portraits.
All of it looked familiar, racing back to him now. He had not been here since childhood. He thought of the beasts howling upon his arrival today and remembered stories of ghosts and monstrous creatures when he had been here as a boy. He had almost forgotten how spooky Struan House could seem. He had visited a few times when younger, but he now he was an adult, a thorough skeptic, a calm and unruffled man who allowed nothing to make him anxious. Not even this place.
“Anyone here?” he called again, his voice echoing.
He walked forward, and a bloodcurdling shriek sounded, lifting the fine hairs along his neck. He spun around. What the devil was going on here?
Fatigue did not help his patience. Three days ago, he had started out for Stirling and beyond by landau, entering the foothills of the Highlands to stop at an inn at Callander, where the roads were good. After a night’s rest, he dispatched his driver back to Edinburgh. He spent a solitary day walking the sunny hills in the countryside, finding interesting formations of mica schist, which answered to the bite of the small hammer he had carried with him. He made notes on his finds and that night had a quiet dinner, enjoying the Highland atmosphere more than he would have admitted. Next morning, MacKimmie, Struan House’s ghillie, had arrived to fetch him in an old but serviceable carriage pulled by a pair of sturdy bays.
