Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1)

by Susan King

  “I heard, but I do not understand Gaelic.”

  “Mr. Buchanan spoke a Gaelic blessing—one that is used for an engaged couple!”

  “Engaged?” He frowned. “They must have assumed so.”

  “Or else he was telling me indirectly what I should do, or be disgraced!”

  “Indeed? Well, if we announced our engagement, there would be no scandal. Is there much scandal in the Highlands, come to think of it?”

  “Sometimes. But I do not want to be engaged,” she added.

  “We spent the night alone here, and now we’ve been seen together. An engagement should be announced. It can be broken later, if you are so adamant against it.”

  “You are trying very hard to convince me.” She frowned, suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because I think it is the best solution. You said these fellows might spread gossip. It will get about, to your detriment.” He bent to pet the terriers.

  “Highlanders do not fret over scandal the way Southrons do. Some whispering might occur, but few in this glen would judge me unfairly. Even girls who have babies out of wedlock are not severely judged or sent away. We accept that such things happen.”

  “Aye,” Struan said wryly. “They do. So that is why you are eager for compromise, knowing the consequences here are low? You should have explained.”

  She felt a blush rise in her face and throat. “My cousin’s first child was such a one, and she but sixteen. Her family treated her kindly, and a few years later, Margaret married a different man. And a good husband he is to her. As for my wee transgression,” she said, “my grandfather would try to understand. And I would not be expected to marry the tailor. I could stay at Kilcrennan in peace to do my work.”

  He nodded, frowning. “What work is that?”

  “Weaving.” She lifted a corner of the plaid draped around her shoulders. “This is some of my work. I help Grandda with his tartan making. It is no occupation for a lady in the south, I suppose, but it is good and honored work here.”

  “Ladies often have some kind of work they enjoy, though weaving would be unusual, I suppose. My grandmother did as she pleased, chasing fairy legends and writing stories. If she had set her mind on weaving, the walls of this place would be draped in plaid, I assure you. She never let convention deter her from what she most wanted to do. Even after she died,” he murmured.

  “She also spent a good part of the year in Edinburgh. I will not abandon this place to go south for parties and such. A husband is not expected to give up his work, but a wife—“

  “I would not ask that of you. Where is the argument, Elspeth? Marry me and solve this for both of—” He paused. “You can spend as much time here as you like.”

  Elspeth busied herself ruffling Osgar’s silky ears. Then she looked up. “Away from my husband? I could not live like that, either.”

  Struan frowned, and Elspeth again felt a sense that his persistence stemmed from more than gentlemanly conscience. “We can easily keep two homes,” he said.

  Nellie, the white terrier, trotted toward her, and Elspeth bent to rub her snowy head. “Why are you so determined to see this done? Many men in this situation would be glad to be free of any obligation.”

  He shrugged. “You require a husband. And I require a wife.”

  She felt that like a blow. “I do not require it. And,” she said, standing, “I would never marry a man who values obligation above a wife.”

  “I never said that.” He watched her evenly.

  “There is no engagement,” she decided, hurt and angry. Snatching her skirts, she swept past him, walking unevenly, and went toward the steps to the main hallway. Her heart beat hard. Some raw feeling urged her to turn back to ask what this was truly all about. She hurried onward.

  Every instinct, womanly and Celtic, told her she cared for this man, and she thought he cared about her. Were those instincts wrong? He suggested marriage, but dispassionately, despite what burned between them last night—and still.

  “Damnation,” he said behind her.

  Elspeth whirled, shaking, hoping.

  “I forgot the eggs.” He took his hand from his pocket, eggshells in his palm, clear and golden slime coating his fingers.

  She laughed, part sob and part giggle. Struan laughed sheepishly as egg dripped on his coat, his boots, and the floor. The terriers trotted over to lick at the floor and his shoes.

  “I managed to save these.” He produced two eggs from the other pocket. “Miss MacArthur, would you share a small breakfast?”

  She sighed, surrendering. “We can agree on being hungry, at least.”

  Truly, she did not want to leave Struan House and its laird yet. If ever. The pull was strong, even if she denied it. Each moment with him added more facets to it.

  Now, seeing his crooked half-grin, his damp brown hair and sky-blue eyes, the wide shoulders and lean build, she remembered how very good those arms, those lips felt. She melted, yearning to run to him. Yet she stayed where she stood.

  He leaned on his walking stick in the hallway, a casual movement, though she knew he needed the support. He was empirical and factual, yet he was passionate and willing to learn about things he did not understand. He was careful in his personal appearance and with details, yet his study was in disarray. Even now he stood with rain dripping from his fine coat, egg smeared on his hands, one terrier licking his boot, the other pawing at him in adoration. He laughed, and her heart turned in delight.

  “Do you know how to cook eggs, Lord Struan?”

  “Actually, no, but I am willing to try. You need to rest your foot.”

  An apology of sorts, and more. She nodded, felt a stirring of hope despite her fears. Yet if Struan knew the whole truth about her and her grandfather, he would regret his proposal, thinking them lunatic and a family to avoid.

  She had to refuse his marriage offer, even though her heart softened toward it.

  Yet she wanted his company so much just now, a little food too. Then, as soon as weather and roads allowed, she would leave. She followed him into the kitchen, dogs trotting beside them.

  Chapter 11

  Surveying the daunting pile of papers and books on his untidy desk, James sighed, then resumed reading his grandmother’s manuscript. The distraction of Elspeth, to put it mildly, had brought respite from the work, but the task remained. Soon he needed to finish the manuscript and produce a bride with fairy blood—or one claiming to have it—for the solicitor’s approval.

  Elspeth MacArthur would meet or exceed any standard in a wife, fanciful or not, if only he could convince her to marry him. Yet she remained stubborn. Soon he would drive her home, and make certain to meet her grandfather and do his best to court her. If she continued to refuse him, he and his siblings could lose everything.

  A terrible reason to marry someone, he knew, especially when he was becoming fond of the lass. He drew a breath at the thought. But Lady Struan’s will had left him and his siblings little choice in the matter of their marriages and actions, at least until the terms were satisfied and funds dispersed. He felt miserly and deceptive and did not like it. Somehow, someday, he would explain it to Elspeth.

  Shaking his head in silent frustration, he turned another page in the manuscript. He had nearly finished reading and had made inroads with research and notes. Fairy lore puzzled him, to be sure, but the interviews Lady Struan had conducted, mostly to do with fairies and the supernatural, were quite entertaining.

  Certainly, he would rather study ancient rock formations than fairies. Each day he was slipping behind on his own research. Science, vying with fancy here at Struan House, was losing.

  Despite Elspeth’s claim about fairies in the garden that night, he had noticed nothing beyond the fierce weather. Her insistence about the fairies somewhat concerned him, but he was realizing how deeply embedded local traditions were in this glen. Elspeth had learned these tales, and this way of thinking, in childhood.

  Rain pattered against the windows. Chair creaking, he
reached to set the well-thumbed handwritten manuscript aside. The work was challenging, but nothing was as crucial just now as coaxing Elspeth MacArthur to marry him.

  Time was a factor. Before he journeyed to Struan House, he had decided to offer the estate for sale, the most practical solution to the multitude of problems facing him and his siblings. The house was his, outside of the mad conditions of marriage and fairy whatnot that tied up the funds. Accordingly, he had written to the advocate, Mr. Browne, asking him to begin searching for a buyer.

  A reply, however unexpected, had come within a week. James took the letter from a desk drawer and read it again. The Right Hon. The Viscount Struan, it began. My Lord, Rec’d your inquiry and yr request is understood. Of course this is within yr private right. I can recommend two parties, a Scottish lord and an English gentleman. Both might be interested and could generously satisfy any requirements of the sale. Pls advise, Yrs, Geo. Browne, Esq.

  If the place sold, James could divide funds among his siblings, rescuing their finances as well as his own, saving all their dreams. His own dream was a modest one; he just wanted the freedom to pursue his geological research, which incurred expenses enough, particularly on a professor’s income. But lately, another dream was growing—finding a bride. Or, having found one, convincing her.

  That possibility would change the need to sell. Giving up Struan House would be more difficult than anticipated, for he was entranced by the place, increasingly fond of its eccentricities, its hominess, its atmosphere, and its remoteness too. And the last two days had shifted his thinking and his circumstances dramatically.

  Putting the letter away, he returned to reading. Soon, though, he heard the click of dog paws on the wooden floor in the library and the swish of skirts. Glancing through the adjoining library doorway, he saw Elspeth there, perusing the bookshelves, while Osgar plopped down at her feet. Rising, James went to the door.

  She turned. “I did not mean to disturb your work. I hoped to read a little until the rain finally stops.” She held up a book. “May I? I found an interesting volume on fairy stories.” Her soft tone was a bit formal.

  “You are welcome to read anything here, and borrow away any you like.”

  “Thank you. But it may not be prudent to borrow. The rain is lessening,” she added, glancing toward a window overlooking the lawn.

  “Will you not come back even to return a book?” he asked quietly. She did not reply, moving away. He noticed that she grasped a chair for support as she went past. “You should be off your feet,” he remarked, and stepped forward.

  “I am fine, Lord Struan. I can manage.” She held up a hand.

  Were they on such formal terms now? He wanted to help her. Wanted to take her into his arms, more. He was not done with this matter of compromise and marriage, although she seemed to be. As she crossed the long room, the space seemed so far, as if he had lost her already. He did not want to let go of the dream.

  “It’s a handsome room, the library,” he said, trying for conversation, strolling closer, despite her coolness.

  “It is,” she agreed.

  “I have been wondering how many books are in the collection,” he ventured. “I should look through my grandmother’s papers to see if a count was made.” He looked up at the soaring bookshelves, separated by tall windows. An Oriental carpet spanned the distance between him and Elspeth. She turned.

  “The library, indeed the house, is a place to protect and preserve. You and your kin must be proud of it.”

  “Aye.” He wondered again if selling was the wrong thing to do after all.

  “It is a place to keep forever in a family.”

  “Indeed.” She was doing it again, following his thoughts.

  She paused by a glass display cabinet. “Do you know much about these stones?”

  Glad of the excuse to be near her, he came close to peer over her shoulder. He had noticed the stones earlier but had not paid much attention. He should have appreciated them more, as she was doing. “They are the sort commonly found in this area. Mostly quartz. That one is a very nice cairngorm, and this one, here, a good chunk of red jasper.”

  “Why are they here? Did your grandmother collect pretty stones?”

  “My grandfather collected stones and odd objects he found on the grounds, and had this case made to display them. I remember playing with some of the stones when I was a lad and collecting bits when I went for walks with my grandfather. Outings with him made my sister and I want to study nature. So I became interested in rocks, and my sister now studies fossils particularly, imprints in the rock of shells and so on from ancient ages. Harder to discover than rocks,” he added with a smile.

  “And this one?” She pointed at a large blue stone.

  “Interesting. I have not seen that before.” The stone was a sliced specimen of rock with interior crystals, this one cut to reveal a circular pattern of wavy lines in tones of blue. “They call it a Scotch pebble—agate, it is. This is a beautiful specimen. We think agates formed when pockets of gases and liquids dried and hardened, forming rings of colored crystals. Most often they are found alongside quartz, embedded in volcanic rock. I have not heard of many agates found in the central Highlands here, so it is interesting indeed if this one is local. Blue agate is quite rare,” he added thoughtfully. Something tapped at his memory.

  “The blue almost glows,” she said.

  “It has extraordinary luminosity, I will say. I wonder if it came from Struan grounds or elsewhere. I wonder when it was added to the collection.”

  “Could we look at it more closely?”

  He rattled the glass lid, which had a bronze latch. “I do not know where Mrs. MacKimmie keeps the key. When she returns, we can open it.”

  “I will not be here then,” she said. There was a little tension in her shoulders, in the nape of her neck. He wanted to ease it away, flexed his fingers, went still.

  “Then you must return for a visit,” he replied. “Bring Mr. MacArthur, of course.” Then he recalled what she had said. “Your grandfather lost a valuable stone here. Could it be this one?”

  “It could be. I would like to look at it more closely.”

  As she leaned toward the glass, he did too, his arm brushing her shoulder, the pressure warm and pleasant. He glanced at her, savoring the purity of her profile, the blush along her cheek, her lips. She glanced up, gray eyes clear under a little frown.

  “Tell me more about the stone. About Scotch pebbles.”

  “To my knowledge, Scottish agates are usually found in the Midlands, in Perthshire, in the Isles, and a few other places. It is a type of chalcedony or quartz,” he went on, “probably formed by cooling gases during times of tremendous heat in the formation of the Earth. They can appear in beds of sedimentary rock, granite, under red sandstone layers, which indicate very ancient eras when there was the stupendous amount of heat—volcanic—required to create such deposits. But agates are not generally found near the Trossachs, at least so far as scientists know.”

  “I have seen others like this in the hills.”

  “Truly! That would be a fascinating discovery. Could you show me where?”

  “I have seen small ones in the glen, and in the hills beside Loch Katrine, northwest of here. I also saw a stone very much like this larger one, years ago. It was in the hillside at the top of your garden, before it was—improved, as they say.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I remember stones striated like this one. And I remember seeing the blue one on Struan lands. These hills once belonged to the fairies, they say.” She looked up at him. “They say there is a gateway to the fairy realm on this estate, up in the hills.”

  “I imagine many fairy legends are based on natural phenomena. Some geological notes might be a good addition to my grandmother’s book, and to my own geological work. I wonder,” he mused. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to assist me with some of that. You have excellent knowledge of the local area and legends.”

  “
My grandfather knows more than I do. I learned from him.”

  “I would speak to him too, of course.” He was eager to meet Donal MacArthur.

  She tilted her head. “You are not interested in proving the truth of fairies, although your grandmother wanted to do that.”

  He shrugged to admit it. “I prefer truth to fancy. You are sure you saw such agates in the hills above this house?”

  “I believe so. I was young then. Years ago I went with my grandfather. This property used to belong to the MacArthurs before your grandfather acquired it. There was no wall or grotto then on the hillside. I saw a beautiful blue stone,” she murmured, “that Grandda left there because he felt it should stay in its own place. It is poor manners to take what belongs to the fairies, so they say,” she added.

  “This place is rife with fairy magic. It is hard to avoid it, I think.”

  “There are many tales in this glen. One tradition says that it is disrespectful to alter a fairy site with building or digging, and wrong to take away something that belongs to them. You must have come across such legends in your own work if you study natural sites and must dig about.”

  “Of course I know, like most Scots, that fairies are associated with hills, water bodies, stone circles, caves, and so on. One wonders what is not a fairy site.”

  “Scoff if you like, sir,” she said, but smiled a little. “The hill behind Struan House was altered, and it is lovely—but I assure you the fairy ilk are displeased.”

  “They have not made much fuss about it so far.”

  “They have a very long memory for a grudge. If they put your kin under a curse for changing their fairy hill, your kin might have lost lands or fortunes, have sudden deaths in the family, and no children born to continue the line, and so on.”

  “Sounds grim.”

  “Oh, aye.” She gave him a wise, certain nod.

  “How fortunate fairies are only imagination. We need not worry.”

  She slid him a sour look and strolled away, pausing by the fireplace to hold her hands to the warmth. She glanced above the mantel. “Such a wonderful painting.”