Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1)

by Susan King

  “I have lectures to prepare, and other matters to see to, so aye.”

  She bounced on the seat as the gig hit a rut. James murmured about the poor roads as he guided horse and vehicle around an upward curve in the road, pausing the gig at the top. The descent looked steep, the road marred by runnels of mud. Drizzle and mist dampened Elspeth’s bonnet, plaid shawl, the lap robe tucked around her, and James’s hat and coat. The road seemed slippery under the wheels, the fog thick.

  He slapped the reins, pulled the brake a bit, and guided the horse downward in silence, focused and capable. Elspeth gripped the side support and hung on.

  “Devilish weather,” he muttered. “I have yet to see full sunlight. There has been mist, rain, and the deluge of the Apocalypse ever since I arrived. Perhaps your wee fairies brought us together when they sent you down a mudslide into my arms,” he drawled, “but they could give us some sunshine now.”

  “They did not arrange the poor weather.” Yet she frowned. Had they? Her grandfather had always encouraged her to see meaning in everything around her. Nothing was as simple as it seemed, Donal MacArthur often insisted.

  Ahead, she glimpsed the old bridge through the mist. As they rounded a difficult descending curve, James concentrated on his task and Elspeth watched the water, rushing and foamy, just ahead as the gig approached the bridge.

  “Stop!” she cried out, placing her hand on his arm. “The water is too high!”

  He drew hard on the reins. “Wait here,” he told her, and leaped to the road.

  Not about to wait, she climbed down herself, lifting her skirt hems out of the mud to follow him toward where the bridge spanned a gorge. Her boot heels sank in mud, her walking impeded by her stiff ankle. Her skirt snagged on gorse and she tugged it free, soon joining James at the edge of the wide, heavily flowing stream.

  The wooden bridge spanned a gap of twenty feet or so, the stone pylons embedded in earth and rock. The stream gushed through and lapped at the sides of the arched bridge, water splashing over the planks. The stream was the color of milky tea.

  “Careful, Ellie,” James murmured in a distracted tone, taking her elbow. His use of the shorter name that her grandfather sometimes used grabbed at her heart. She set her gloved hand on his arm, glad for his strength and sureness.

  “The burn is rarely this high,” she said. “Once or twice I remember seeing it like this.” Along the sides of the gorge, tree roots and bracken thrust up out of the water, and fallen branches swept by in the fast current.

  Placing his gloved hand over hers, James stepped back a safe pace and took her with him. “Is there another place to cross?”

  “There’s a level place two miles or so that way, at the head of the gorge. But the burn is very wide there and one must step from rock to rock to cross. There is no bridge. It heads us the other direction, and would make the journey even longer.”

  “We have little choice unless we return to Struan House and wait for the water to subside. Is there no other access?”

  “Not close by. Some people jump the gap,” she said. “Downstream there’s a leap, where one side of the gorge is higher than the other.” She pointed in the other direction.

  He laughed. “I will not chance that, and you should not either, though I would not be surprised if you have given it a go in the past.”

  “Intuition, sir?” she asked, amused.

  “Logic, Miss MacArthur, knowing you.” He inclined his head.

  She smiled. Learning more about him with each moment, she knew there was true warmth and heart beneath his cool exterior and staunch skepticism. “True, I did try the Leap with friends when I was younger. They made it, but I fell. I could make it now, I think, now that I am taller.”

  “And not very tall at that. Out of the question.”

  She remembered his leg. “Of course,” she murmured.

  “You have a turned ankle, and what of our horse and gig?”

  “Perhaps we could walk the horse over the bridge.”

  “Possibly.” James went forward to step tentatively on the bridge, jumping up and down to test its soundness, then walking toward the middle.

  Elspeth heard the low groan of wood and iron. “No, stop!”

  He moved back to the grass. “It might hold, but the water could wash over at any moment. We must go upstream to cross, or return to Struan.”

  “The bridge will hold for me. I can get across from here. You return to Struan with the horse and gig. You need not escort me all the way home.” She did not want to say farewell yet, but did not want him to take any risk for her.

  “The viscount keeps you alone at Struan, and then tosses you out of his gig to walk home on a poor ankle over an unsafe bridge? My girl, they write ballads about cruel lovers like that,” he said. “Your grandfather would be after me to hang me.”

  Lover, she thought, thrilled at the casual way he said it, accepted it. “He would bring a reverend, not a rope.”

  “Which one would be worse, to Miss MacArthur’s thinking?”

  She did not answer, walking back to the gig beside him. He lifted her inside, his grip firm on her waist, then leaped up and took the reins to turn the placid mare. He guided the horse along the earthen track beside the gorge in the direction of the other crossing. Below, the water rushed and brimmed nearly to its sodden banks.

  Soon the sides of the gorge disappeared to flatten into moorland, and Elspeth saw then that the run-off had flooded the grassy, rocky meadow to either side. “There is a place to cross on foot,” she told James. “The rocks are flat and it is usually easy to walk across. But the water is too high for that now.”

  James stopped the horse. “I see it. But it is not an easy hop and step across just now. If we come closer to the banks, our wheels will bog.”

  She nodded. The burn had overflowed to create a swampy area to either side, and the crossing rocks were mostly submerged under swift, brownish water.

  “How deep do you think it is over there? Are there sizeable rocks?” He pointed downstream.

  “Not very rocky, and not very deep usually, but far more than that now.”

  “I think the gig can make it across. If the horse will not falter, we will do all right. Hold on.” He set the horse forward before Elspeth could protest.

  Under his skilled and certain hands, the horse plodded on carefully, pulling the rattling gig steadily across the boggy ground. Elspeth clung to the seat, grabbing James’s sleeve occasionally for fear of bouncing out.

  Then they were fording the burn, the horse moving through the flow, the gig following. Elspeth gasped at the swirl and rush of the current but tried to be calm.

  “We will be fine,” James assured her. Within moments, the water swirled to the hubs, then nearly the tops, of the wheels, splashing over James’s boots and soaking Elspeth’s hem.

  “Turn back,” she said, clutching the seat.

  “Do not fret, lass.” He slapped the reins gently to encourage the horse as it stepped through the surge. Water sluiced over the floorboards. Elspeth shrieked.

  Halfway across, the horse paused, pulled, paused. The wheels seemed stuck, the gig shuddering in the current. Water slopped higher, wetting Elspeth’s shoes and skirts, sloshing over Struan’s boots. The horse pulled again, whinnied, stopped.

  “Stay here,” Struan said, and stepped down into water that surged around his legs. The tail of his frock coat floated behind him as he surged ahead and took the horse’s bridle. He spoke quietly, patting the mare’s nose, then moved forward, the horse following. Within moments, the gig lurched free.

  Elspeth drew her legs up to the seat as muddy water washed over the floorboards. The horse gave a hesitant whicker but plowed steadily onward in response to the man, whose calm and caution emanated a sense of safety. Elspeth breathed out slowly as the vehicle, horse, and man moved ahead.

  Holding the bridle, James guided the horse carefully, only once slipping in the swirling water, soaked to his chest, his hat tipping off as he rose up. E
lspeth leaned down and snatched up the hat as it swirled past.

  Finally the gig surged out of the water, wheels and body dripping, to roll onto the bank with a lurch. James sloshed back and climbed inside.

  “Well done,” Elspeth said. “Your hat, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He placed it on his wet hair, water running from its brim. Elspeth laughed, wringing out her skirts.

  “Kilcrennan is that way,” she said, and pointed northward.

  “There is something to be said for funding new roads and bridges here,” said Struan, as the dripping gig rolled along the rutted, muddy road.

  “As laird of Struan, you do not have to wait for the Crown to fix the roads if you have the funds for your own estate. They are very slow about such things in the remote Highlands.”

  “I imagine so.” He was quiet the rest of the way to Kilcrennan. Chilled and damp, Elspeth wondered what to tell her grandfather when the time came.

  Chapter 13

  James shrugged into a borrowed tartan waistcoat of dark green and black, lined in satin and very neatly made. He picked up a neckcloth and wrapped it around the high collar of his fresh linen shirt. The borrowed things included leather boots, along with trousers and a frock coat of dark gray superfine. They fit well, a bit too wide for him, but long enough for his height. Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, had provided them, showing him to a guest room where he could wash, change, and rest. The clothing, she had explained, belonged to Mr. MacArthur himself.

  “He would not mind lending these to you. Lord Struan, we are so grateful to you for taking care of Miss Elspeth in her injured state and seeing her safe home. I will lay out a hearty tea in half an hour if you would come downstairs, sir.”

  Safe home. James savored the phrase. If Mrs. Graham knew that Elspeth had spent two days alone with him, the woman made no fuss over it.

  Knotting the cravat, he went to the window to look over the courtyard of the modest estate. Only two thousand acres, Elspeth had explained when they had arrived. Kilcrennan itself was a fine house, old but respectably kept, an ancient stone tower keep converted to a manor house. Its walls were a bit tilted, its interior a bit shabby and spaces cramped, its age and its charm evident. A few outbuildings included weaving cottages, as the housekeeper had explained earlier. In the distance, blue mountains were visible through the mist beneath a sky that promised clearing soon.

  Glancing down, he saw Elspeth walking out of the entrance two floors below his bedchamber window. She had changed to a gray gown and a plaid woven of pale colors around her shoulders. As she hurried away from the house, he wondered where she was headed, with tea being laid soon. He hoped to see her before he left.

  Just the sight of her tugged at his heart, and he felt an inexpressible yearning. He realized how much he wanted to marry her—a sudden revelation, more powerful than his earlier insistence. He wanted that fey and fascinating girl in his life. The sense went far beyond obligation or the dictates of his grandmother’s will. He was falling in love, he realized. Somehow, that was simply unexpected.

  He was glad for the distraction when a gig and horse rolled into the yard. This must be Donal MacArthur, he thought, as the vehicle drew to a halt.

  The man who stepped down was older, yet looked fit in a dark suit and red plaid waistcoat. When he removed his hat, his thick hair and beard shone like copper and silver. He flung his arms wide as Elspeth appeared, flinging herself into his arms, enveloped in a deep hug. From his window, James heard her laugh, heard her grandfather’s booming reply.

  “Home, wee girl! I worried you might vanish on the moor in the rains!”

  “The fairies did not take me, Grandda. I stayed safe at Struan House.”

  Mrs. Graham approached then, and James was surprised to see the housekeeper receive a kiss on the cheek from the master. The three stood together in lively conversation. Donal set his arm around Elspeth, and Mrs. Graham put an arm around her too. They were linked, the three, snug, supportive, loving.

  James pulled in a breath. He remembered the warmth of his own family, years ago, the love and affection of his mother, father, of siblings and kin; remembered joyful holidays, smiles, encouragement. He and his siblings still had some of that closeness, although they saw each other infrequently, and distance had grown.

  Watching the MacArthurs, he felt the old loneliness returning. But that had no business affecting him now, he thought. He had learned to live with what was lost.

  And so if Elspeth MacArthur would not marry him, he would be fine. He would survive that, too, he told himself. But he was not ready to give up the quest yet.

  Donal MacArthur looked up then, meeting James’s gaze at the window, and nodded, lifting a hand. That silent greeting thanked him, acknowledged and included him. Elspeth looked up and smiled too. He felt the warmth of it. It was very like love.

  Be careful, he told himself. Love was too easily lost. He stepped back, adjusted his cravat, and headed for the stairs.

  Tea was supper after all, James discovered, a generous spread served in the dining room. He joined Elspeth and Mrs. Graham, and as they chatted, he glanced around the small, cozy room with its blue walls, creaking wooden floor, and aged but gleaming furnishings. The table was set with crisp white linens, delicate china dishes, and a silver service that even his fussy aunt would be proud to claim.

  The fare was excellent: hot rolls and salted butter, cold sliced beef and lamb, rowan jelly and sweet custard, a variety of small cakes and biscuits, and a rich brew of steaming black tea. Mrs. Graham poured, encouraging Lord Struan to add cream and sugar and help himself liberally to whatever he liked.

  His Aunt Rankin, James thought, might have to admit that the Highlands was not a crude and backward place at all, but quite civilized. She had maintained that opinion all her life, and had reluctantly sent her wards, James and Fiona, up to the Highlands to visit their grandparents. “You will catch your death of colds up there, and come home undisciplined and having to be educated all over again,” she had claimed more than once. “Although it is said to be a pretty place,” she said begrudgingly.

  Of course, he and his sister had never become sick or unruly. They had happily searched for rocks in their grandfather’s company, and quick-witted Fiona had learned a good bit of Gaelic. Each time James had departed the Highlands and Struan House, he had longed to go back. By the time he had gone from Eton to Oxford and then Glasgow, later achieving a teaching position in Edinburgh, he was too busy to visit his widowed grandmother often, although he had always craved to spend more time in the Highlands.

  Now, here, glancing through the window at a stunning view of the mountains, he felt at home. The warmth of the place and its inhabitants created that sense, and he savored it quietly.

  Mrs. Graham poured liberal amounts of tea and filled their plates with cold meat and rolls, custard and cakes. James watched Elspeth, admiring her simple loveliness in the gray gown, her hair softly drawn up, small pearls dropping from her earlobes. Her shawl was a crisscross of soft green, lavender, and rose yarns.

  “A handsome shawl, Miss MacArthur,” he said. “My sister would admire it.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. It is one of my own weavings. I would be honored if you would accept a similar shawl as a gift for your sister.”

  “She would like that,” he murmured.

  “I could show you the looms later if you have time.” A blush seeped into her cheeks. He nodded, smiled.

  “Please stay the night, Lord Struan,” Mrs. Graham said. “It is going dark, and the roads will not be improved yet.”

  “I’ll gratefully accept the hospitality if the MacArthurs do not mind.”

  “Of course we would not,” Elspeth said.

  “Mr. MacArthur will join us shortly,” Mrs. Graham said. He learned during their conversation that the housekeeper was a cousin through Mr. MacArthur’s late wife, and had been with them since Elspeth had been in infancy.

  “Are you kin to Sir John Graham, and his sister Lucie?” Jam
es asked. “I consider Sir John a good friend. I was with them at the king’s reception in Edinburgh, when, ah, Miss MacArthur and I were first introduced.”

  “Oh, aye, they are cousins of mine, but keep to Edinburgh,” Peggy Graham said.

  “Sir John is a fine road engineer. Naturally, that gives him a keen interest in geology too, and we sometimes consult together on his plans.” As he spoke, the drawing room door opened, and Donal MacArthur entered.

  “Ah, Lord Struan! Good to meet you, sir,” the man said briskly, coming toward him. James stood to clasp his hand. “Welcome to Kilcrennan.”

  “Lord Struan will be our guest for the night, Mr. MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham said, sounding more like a wife than a servant, or even a cousin.

  “Excellent!” MacArthur sat beside his granddaughter and helped himself to food, and accepted a cup of steaming tea, heavily sweetened, from Mrs. Graham.

  “Thank you for the loan of the clothing and boots, sir,” James said. “Unfortunately my own things got quite wet as we crossed some high water.”

  “Down by the Durchan Water, Grandda,” Elspeth supplied. “It was very floody, but Lord Struan got us across, very bravely.”

  “And so we are further in your debt, sir,” Donal MacArthur said. “Souls have been swept away in lesser floods than this week. I had a de’il of a time coming back from Edinburgh. Would have been home sooner if not for the high waters and poor roads. I feared that Elspeth had been caught in the rains, and it worried me so I traveled even faster. We are very grateful to you for helping her.” MacArthur leaned forward. “I understand you are a professor at the university, sir.”

  “I teach natural philosophy, specifically geological sciences, and do research and writing on the subject as well.”

  “Rocks and such, hey! A good use of a fine education. We have many interesting rocks here in this glen. Though I hear you do not spend much time at Struan House. Beg pardon, you have been viscount since your grandfather passed on a few years back? Yet Lady Struan told me her grandson kept to the city.”