Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1)

by Susan King

  She made her way along carefully, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed, and she jumped a little. Hurry, she told herself, for it would be dark soon.

  A dog barked, and a man called out. Startled, Elspeth whirled to peer through sheeting rain, stepping forward. Her heel hit a sluice of muddy water, her feet went out from under her, and then she was sliding downward, unable to stop herself on a cascade of muck. Bumping along, she landed with a lurch at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled and muddied, legs sprawled. Sitting up, she pushed the plaid off of her face and shoved her hair back.

  Black boots stood an inch deep in mud just in front of her. Looking up, she saw brown trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves, a brown jacket, a damp neckcloth—

  Lord Struan stared down at her.

  No fairy, nor eldritch hag sprawling at his feet, James saw—just a wet, bedraggled girl in a filthy dress and plaid shawl. Her face was obscured by dripping hair, but he immediately noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from her neat ankles and calves in muddy stockings and shoes, to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts encased in sopping fabric. She looked young, pretty—and miserable.

  “Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “Let me help you.”

  With a gasp, the girl shoved her skirts down over her legs and pushed back the plaid. James saw a heart-shaped face haloed by curling tendrils of black hair, and eyes looking up at him, gray-green, silver as rain.

  “Why, Miss MacArthur,” he said nonchalantly. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”

  “Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”

  “Apologies. I plead the shock of the moment.” He offered his hand again. She refused it and managed to stand, wincing.

  “I’m fine, sir,” she said, waving away his extended hand.

  He doubted that, seeing how she favored one foot and hopped about. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?” Water ran from the brim of his hat. He was drenched and so was she, with the rain continuing to pound. He waited politely.

  “Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said. Thunder rumbled. “Are you just arrived? I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.” She wiped the back of her hand across her muddy face and sniffed.

  James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”

  “How nice. I must go. Please excuse my intrusion.” Turning, she stepped to the side, gasped, and flailed her arms as her footing faltered. James took her elbow.

  “Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk out in a thunderstorm. Into the house we go.” He turned with her.

  He led her down another incline and along the stone pathway through the wet, raggedy garden, and quickly realized that the girl was having difficulty walking. The rain lashed nearly sideways now, and he set an arm about her shoulders to protect her as she hunched forward, drawing up the soggy plaid against the downpour.

  Lightning cracked brightly overhead, and the wind whirled about them. James felt an eerie sense, as if there were real danger in the air even beyond the storm.

  “Hurry,” he said, and snatched her up in his arms, taking the garden path in quick strides. He had dropped his cane, but his leg did not seem to hinder him for some reason. Rushing along a garden pathway lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies, he headed for the kitchen door, Elspeth MacArthur clinging to his neck.

  Thunder pounded again, and for a moment James felt caught up in the nightmare of Quatre Bras, where he and his Highland Watch regiment had defended ground against an onrush of French cuirassiers—the booming thunder reminded him of that day. He hurried, breathing hard as he reached the door, managed the handle with the girl in his arms, and nearly hurtled inside.

  In the dim corridor, the wolfhound and two terriers waited, shuffling out of the way as James carried the girl inside. He kicked the door shut and set off with her down the hall, past the kitchen and up a short flight of steps to the main hallway, then along that to the parlor. The dogs trotted close and curious on his heels.

  The MacArthur girl was a sopping wet bundle, but still no burden. She fit in his arms like sin itself. Her curves eased against him, warming them both. Her face was close to his, breath soft upon his cheek, one arm resting around his shoulders, a hand on his chest.

  His breath came back quickly, thanks to his fit nature, but his heart slammed nonetheless as he tried not to focus on the girl fitted so warm and wet against him. And no doubt ruining his shirt, he tried to tell himself. He must think of the need to get the girl dried off. Think of the ache in his left leg from a wound incurred seven years ago. Think of the cane he had dropped in the garden when he had lifted her up. Blast it all, he had lost his hat, too, and likely ruined a good coat in the rain.

  Mundane but helpful thoughts kept his mind off the delicious creature leaning against him, gazing up at him as if he was some sort of hero. He almost laughed. Dull was what he wanted to be, what he went out of his way to establish these days. This mad rain-soaked adventure was out of character.

  But before he bid her farewell, once she was dry and warm, he meant to find out why the lovely Miss MacArthur had been in his garden in the first place. Surely she was the so-called fairy that had scared off the housemaid.

  Chapter 5

  Up steps and along a hallway warmed by glowing brass lamps and Oriental carpets, James carried the girl quickly into the drawing room and set her down on an upholstered wing chair angled near a low fire crackling in the grate. The room was dim, so he grabbed a tinderbox and lit a few candles in brass holders.

  “Best get you warmed up. You’re soaked,” he said.

  “So are you. Sir, I appreciate this, but I must go.” She rose, shifting to favor one foot. “I should not sit down here or anywhere. I am wet and muddy—I may have already ruined your pretty chair.”

  “My concern is not for the chair, but for you, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please. My housekeeper would have my head if I let a lady go out in such weather, and injured.”

  She sighed. “I suppose I could stay until the rain lessens. Do you have something to cover the seat? Mrs. MacKimmie knows me, and is a forgiving soul, but I will not make a mess for her to clean if it can be avoided.” She took off her long, damp plaid shawl, and began to drape it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace.

  Looking dismayed, she brushed ineffectually at her muddy skirt, a pale green muslin confection patterned in florals and hemmed in rows of flounces, worn with a little green jacket that surely lent no warmth. Her bonnet, green with ribbons and things on it, was wet and bedraggled too. James wondered that she went out in the rain in such frippery—but he did not always quite grasp decisions made by the female mind. She did have a long plaidie, and so had some pragmatism.

  Noticing how the wet gown clung to her graceful curves, he merely looked away. “I’ll fetch you a blanket,” he said, turning to look for something.

  She removed her little jacket and attempted to smooth her dress. His own coat of superfine was fair drenched, but he could not properly remain in shirtsleeves in a lady’s presence. He would endure the discomfort. The situation was already damaging enough. If Mrs. MacKimmie should return, or anyone else arrive unexpectedly to find them wet and in disarray, the situation would appear far worse than the actual truth. He did not care for his own sake but did not want the girl to suffer embarrassment.

  Not seeing a blanket or shawl, he opened drawers in a highboy to find linens, candles, papers, and in another, writing materials, paper, ink, quills. He was not familiar with much of Struan House beyond the study and library and his own rooms. Finally, he opened a low chest to discover a dark blue tartan lap robe. He brought it to her, and she thanked him, tucking it around her, and sitting again.

  He pulled a tapestry footstool toward her and she set her feet on it. “Where are you injured? If I may ask.”

  “My ankle.” She drew her skirts up, then glanced up with a quick amused twinkle in her eye. “Turn away, sir, o
r your fine city manners might be offended.”

  He huffed. “I have a little medical experience. I studied medicine at university before I took up another science. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  She nodded. James dropped to one knee, then carefully unlaced and eased off her leather boot. He took her stockinged foot in his hand to see swelling that was already expanding a pretty little ankle in a very muddy stocking.

  “You wanted to be a doctor, like your brother, the one I met in Edinburgh?”

  “William is well suited to that calling. I discovered that I am better suited to natural philosophy. Geological science in particular,” he added. He did not tell her the reason for changing his mind—a bloody field the day before Waterloo when he had done his best to help in the futile aftermath despite his own injury. His cousin—more like his brother—had died in his arms that day. Numb to his core, James returned to Scotland, stuffed his emotions away, abandoned medicine, and took up the study of rocks.

  Now and then he still thought about his desire to study medicine and wished he had continued, seeing how William enjoyed its challenges and cared about his patients. But rocks were safe. Rocks did not demand more than one could safely give.

  He peered up at her. “May I?” He cupped her heel, turned her foot.

  “Go on.” She drew her skirts higher.

  He ran his fingertips along her foot and up her ankle, delicately contoured but for the turgid area. He gestured to the other boot, and she bent to untie its laces. He drew that off to judge the difference in her ankles, which was unfortunately considerable. When he gently rotated the injured ankle, she winced but did not cry out sharply. He nodded.

  “Possibly a bad sprain,” he said. “I do not think it is broken. But we will not know for certain until a doctor can see you.” As he cradled her foot in his hands, he felt a thrill go through him—physical, aye, for she was delectable. But he felt something more rush through him. Protective. Giving. His heart pounded.

  Glancing up, he saw the girl incline her head, eyes closed. “Oh,” she whispered.

  He sucked in a breath and set her foot on the cushioned stool. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much.” She gathered the plaid closer around her, blushing.

  James rose to his feet. “You need warmth and something for the pain.” He went to a table that held two decanters and a few glasses. Lifting one to sniff its amber contents, he nodded. “Whisky. A few sips will do, if you will.” He poured a healthy dose into a glass and brought it to her. “I know ladies do not usually indulge in strong spirits unless they are out on a hunt, for example, but this might help now.”

  “Whisky is perfectly acceptable to Highland ladies at any time. Thank you,” she said, tipping the glass to her lips, swallowing, pausing. Then she took more, without a cough or a tear in the eye. Bright color stained her cheeks as she handed the glass to him. “Your turn, sir. There is a Highland custom of passing the welcome dram, even between genders.”

  “A welcome to Struan House, is it?” He drank, the sweet, mellow burn searing his throat. Seeing her smile, dulcet and radiant, he hesitated. Realizing he was quite alone with the young beauty who had appeared in his dreams all too often recently, he cleared his throat and set down the glass.

  Then he knelt to take up her injured ankle again. “This ought to be wrapped,” he said. She laughed. He raised a brow in question.

  “Cinderella, about to get her slipper?” She was smiling, cheeks pink.

  “Hardly that,” he murmured, feeling warmth seep into his own face.

  She giggled, then reached for the whisky glass to down the last of it. Then she dropped her skirts to cover her ankles, the cold mucky folds covering his hands as well. “It is just a slight twist. I can manage. My home is just eight miles from here. I should leave before dark.”

  “Eight miles?” He looked at her, incredulous. “You walked eight miles to get here?” He still meant to ask why she had been in the garden at all.

  “Not so far a distance in the Highlands. I was going to my cousin’s home, just three or four miles from here. I could go there instead of back home tonight.”

  “You should not be walking anywhere just now.” He still held her foot under the hem of the gown, and it seemed improper, exciting, warm and real. Nor did she protest. “Your ankle is badly swollen, Miss MacArthur. Until a doctor sees you, a bandage will help support it. Anyone can see you must avoid walking for a while.”

  “Perhaps I could borrow a gig or a pony cart from you, then.”

  “I will be happy to drive you once the weather eases up. At the moment, the landau and gig are both in use by the ghillie and a groom, who took the housekeeper to her daughter’s home, and the servants elsewhere.”

  “Ah, they are going away for now. I understand,” she murmured.

  He frowned. So they all knew? “There is a cart here, I suppose, or I could take you home on horseback. Let the rain clear a bit.”

  She looked through tall windows at the lashing rain. “When it ends, aye.”

  James set her foot on the stool and rocked back on his heels. “Miss MacArthur, I feel I must tell you something.”

  “Aye, sir?” She tilted her head prettily, eyes sparkling, cheeks a perfect pink. Was that her natural beauty, or was it whisky? This situation was not good, he thought.

  “Ah, we, uh—you should be aware that we are alone here just now.”

  “Utterly alone?” She kept her head tilted—most young ladies would be shocked, but she seemed only curious.

  “For a little while. The ghillie took the maidservants to Stirling, and other servants have gone to see kinfolk for a few days. A few have quit my employ altogether, to be honest.”

  “The banshee can make some anxious.” She smiled calmly.

  “So you know about that too? Mrs. MacKimmie is gone as well, tending to family for a day or two, but will return soon. She left the house in good order with food in the cupboard. A local girl will come in briefly to do chores, perhaps tomorrow. Alone for now, aye. I apologize for not telling you sooner.”

  “We were distracted. Truly, no one will return before tomorrow?”

  “Quite possibly.” He met her eyes directly, and she glanced away.

  “My grandfather is away from home at present, and I told our housekeeper that I would go to visit my friend across the glen. But she is not expecting me, exactly. To be quite honest, sir, no one knows I came here.”

  His heart thumped harder, and a quick shot of excitement—or dread at the situation—drove through him. He ignored it. “An unfortunate set of circumstances.”

  She sat up, smiling brightly. “It is a perfect set of circumstances.”

  “Miss MacArthur, please be assured that you are safe in my company.”

  “I know.” She leaned forward, silvery-green eyes twinkling, cheeks flushed high. Kneeling, James felt the softness of her breath between them, felt the allure of her closeness. “Sir, it is a rather compromising situation.”

  “Some might think so. But that is not the case,” he said firmly.

  “But I think...I do not mind being compromised.”

  What? He frowned. Did she think to catch a wealthy man and oblige him to marry her? First, he was not wealthy. The girl was wasting her time. Second, he did not intend to threaten her virtue. “I promise you are in no danger from me.”

  Her smile was like sunshine blooming. Two dimples, impish indentations, appeared low in her cheeks. Her lips were full, winsome, rosy. He knew their taste. In a way, he had already compromised the girl under a rhododendron in Edinburgh.

  He stood quickly. “Miss MacArthur, I apologize, but—”

  “Lord Struan, it would be very convenient if a scandal resulted from this.”

  “What!” he burst out. Heat like outrage, or unbidden passion, swirled through him. “I could compromise you if I were the sort of rascal to do that. But I am not,” he said firmly. “Now tell me what in blazes you are going on about.”

  “Yo
u swear quite a bit,” she said. “Highland gentlemen rarely curse. It is not Gaelic custom. Is it a Southron habit?”

  “Pardon. It is a habit I developed among soldiers and living a bachelor’s life. Which I do not intend to change,” he clipped out. “Do not play coy, pouting like a pretty child, swatting your eyelashes as if there is sand in your eyes.”

  “Oh. Was I?” She frowned. “Not intentionally. What should we do, then?”

  “I suppose it depends on what you want to accomplish.”

  “A gentle compromise. Only that.” Smile. Sunshine.

  She was trying, albeit clumsily and somewhat innocently—he hoped—to manipulate and charm him. But why? “Miss MacArthur, you had best say outright what you intended by coming here.”

  “I came to see your garden. That is all. But now that I am here, and this has happened, I think I would rather enjoy being compromised.”

  His heart thundered. “Do you know what you are saying?”

  “Gloriously rrruined,” she went on, in an exaggerated Scots burr. “That would quite suit me. If you do not mind, Lord Struan.” She took up the glass, sipped the last drop, turned it upside down, and smiled up at him. “Please.”

  He stared, suspicions churning. “Ruination,” he snapped, “would lead to marriage, Miss MacArthur. Compromise and matrimony would both be mistakes.”

  “We are alone together. Regardless, I am already compromised.”

  “So you plotted—and not very well—to trap the local laird into marriage? It will not work, I assure you.”

  “I did not!” She sat up. “It occurred to me just now. Perhaps I spoke in haste—”

  “Let us hope so.”

  “—only thinking it could solve a problem for me, and for you as well.”

  “The only situation to solve,” he snapped, “is how to get you home quickly.”

  She tilted her head, assessed him. “Something else troubles you, and marriage might solve it.” She frowned slightly, sympathetically.