Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1)

by Susan King

  “Nor have I you.” She tried to push him again, but he gripped her wrist, drew her close. She allowed that, though she trembled with anger, confusion, a sense of betrayal. When he touched her, she could scarcely think. He cupped her cheek, capturing her attention.

  “Knowing this, and needing a fairy bride, or whatever you think that is,” she said in a clipped and angry tone, “you listened to me go on about fairies. And then asked me to marry you.”

  “And would again. That evening compromised you, and if you remember, you were the one wanted that. Asked for it, as I recall.”

  “I thought you offered marriage out of obligation. Now I see it was because you wanted your inheritance. How convenient for you that I came by that night!”

  “I asked because I wanted to marry you.” His voice was low, firm. When she huffed in anger and turned to leave, he took her arms, turned her, set her back against the wall behind the door. “And I still do.”

  “Because I have some tie to the fairies that is unbelievable but very timely.”

  “I admit it was part of my thinking.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” And why, she suddenly realized, had her own intuitive senses not told her? She was befuddled with love for him. That was why.

  “No explanation seemed necessary at the time. I would not know a fairy from a fishwife. And you repeatedly refused my offer.”

  “I had good reason to refuse. More than I thought.” She turned her head away.

  “And I had my reasons for asking.” He whispered that, standing so close that Elspeth angled her head away, feeling he might kiss her, afraid she would relent.

  “Elspeth.” He touched his nose to hers, questing, and his lips grazed her cheek. She sighed, her hand curling against his shoulder, her knees weakening. Then she toughened and pushed him away, stepping back.

  “Stop. There are people in the next room,” she said.

  “Let them come in, then. They will witness my proposal.” He reached out again, but when she stood still, his hand dropped. She nearly relented again, but stood fast against it.

  “I cannot trust you now,” she whispered.

  “Fair enough. I understand. But know this, Elspeth. I would trust you with my very life. And I am in love with you.” He sighed, ran fingers through his hair. “This has all been so quick, but I am sure of that. I love you. It seems like magic, happening so quickly. And yet I am certain—whether or not you believe me.”

  Her breath caught. Love makes its own magic. She remembered, then, the motto of the MacCarrans. She wanted to tell him so, step into his arms. Both her grandfather and Cousin Margaret had urged her to love him, accept him. “It was all very quick, aye. And I feel—the same. I am sure of it. But—” she drew a breath—“There is something I must tell you.”

  “More secrets? Go on, then.” His voice thrummed low.

  “My mother was a fairy,” she said, and nearly held her breath. “An actual fairy, you see. Not fancy, or imagination—or a wish. She was born of the fairy ilk.”

  “Good God,” he said.

  “Or so my grandfather insists.” She smiled tremulously.

  “That is not easy to comprehend—” He stopped as a knock sounded on the partly open door. Elspeth leaped, startled. “Who is it?” he asked in a gruff tone.

  “Fiona,” his sister said. “Patrick is with me. The others have gone out to the garden. May we come in?”

  Struan muttered consent, and Elspeth stepped away, smoothing her gown and shawl, tucking hair tendrils back in place. When the MacCarrans entered, Struan shut the door.

  “Now then,” Patrick said. “What’s the kerfuffle? Aunt Rankin went back to her room, apparently in need of rest after your revelations. Charlotte went off in a huff, dragging Philip with her. And though your study door is open, it was clear that the two of you are not working, but arguing .”

  Elspeth stood silent, hands folded, cheeks blazing.

  “Miss MacArthur,” Fiona said then, “though it may sound mad, I must ask. Do you have any rumors of fairy blood among your ancestors?”

  Elspeth lifted her chin. “So I am told.”

  “Quite a bit, apparently,” Struan drawled, running a hand through his hair.

  “Excellent,” Fiona said. Elspeth blinked at her. “James, how exciting. You have found her!”

  “Found me?” Elspeth asked stiffly.

  Struan leaned against the large desk. “I warn you, she is not happy with me over this fairy scheme. And when the fairies are angered, I hear, they are not very cooperative.”

  “Fairy scheme?” Elspeth asked. “And do you expect me to be cooperative?”

  “Is that an admission that you do indeed have fairy blood?” Patrick asked. When Elspeth deliberately looked daggers at him, he raised his hands submissively.

  “Our grandmother’s will requires that each of us find and marry someone of fairy blood,” Fiona said. “She wanted to restore the fairy legacy to the MacCarran clan, or at least that is what we believe.”

  “Without the conditions, none of us can inherit,” Patrick said.

  “In that case, Lord Eldin becomes the primary heir,” Fiona added.

  Stunned, Elspeth stared at them, trying to sort it through. “Perhaps Lady Struan hoped to change your minds about the Daoine Síth. She believed the tales.”

  “The what?” Patrick asked.

  “The fairies,” Fiona translated. “The peaceful ones.”

  “Not so peaceful when crossed,” Struan added, leaning against the desk.

  Elspeth ignored that. “Lady Struan knew that the next Lord Straun would need to appreciate the strength of fairy tradition in this glen. And the presence of the fairies, as so many here believe it.”

  Patrick nodded. “That could be. She knew more about the subject than most, and she did think we were all far too practical, in need of more fancy in our lives.”

  “Now I have to wonder,” Struan murmured, “if you, Elspeth, were the very proof she sought to present to us. She knew you and your family.”

  “Is it possible that Grandmother lured you here, Jamie, to bring the two of you together?” Fiona smiled. “Perhaps she felt sure you two would suit each other.”

  Elspeth hesitated, meeting James’s glance. The strength of that blue tidepool drew her in. “If you want to believe something, it could be so.”

  “Given all the fairy nonsense—er, the fairy lore in Miss MacArthur’s family, perhaps Grandmother did hope we would meet.” He turned to his siblings. “And when Elspeth came to Struan House, circumstances, ah, conspired in such a way that it seemed prudent to offer to marry her to avoid a scandal.”

  “But I have refused,” Elspeth said.

  “Oh my dear,” Fiona said. “I do hope you will change your mind.”

  “Miss MacArthur, if I may,” Patrick said, “you would do our family a great service by marrying Jamie. Fairy blood or none,” he added, looking at his brother, “I quite like the young lady and very much approve. Fiona?”

  “I completely agree.” His sister nodded.

  “You will not convince her. She is a stubborn lass,” their brother murmured.

  A movement past the window caught her attention then, and Elspeth looked out to see her grandfather’s gig advancing along the road toward Struan. He was returning already—scarcely an hour had gone by. She could tell the MacCarrans the truth now, take that risk—or keep her secrets, and lose her chance at happiness.

  Soon she would turn twenty-one, and her life might change irrevocably if Donal MacArthur was to be believed. But she could hardly explain that to the others. It sounded preposterous even to her, and she had grown up with it.

  But Donal MacArthur was correct in one way. She had fallen in love. It was already too late to stop that. With true love, the fairy curse over her family could break. But unless the treasure was returned, according to legend and to her grandfather, Donal would remain in danger.

  She walked over to Struan, faced him, took a breath. “I have fair
y blood through my mother,” she said. “I believe I have seen the Daoine Síth. Some things I am sure of, and some I struggle to accept, just as you do. I know you find all this difficult to believe, Lord Struan. But for me and mine, these tales have always been so. I wonder if you can truly accept that.”

  “I can,” he said, and took her hands in his. “Marry me and help me do that.”

  Elspeth heard Fiona sob happily, touching a hand to her chest. Beside her, Patrick beamed in silence.

  Suddenly Elspeth knew what she must do. Knew what might resolve this for all, and bring happiness, though it was a risk. “Very well then. I will marry you—on one condition.”

  “Will you? I think my grandmother would approve of setting a condition.” James nodded, squeezed her fingers. “Go on.”

  She straightened her spine, feeling as if she stood on a cliff edge, as if only their clasped hands, their joined will, their love, could save them both.

  “I will marry you,” she said, “if we find the lost fairy treasure tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? That sounds like another refusal, my girl. An impossible condition. But my grandmother’s demands seemed impossible too,” he added wryly, “and we may be able to meet them.”

  “I mean this,” she said sincerely. “I do want to marry you. But I cannot until the treasure is found. I cannot explain it yet. Not for the riches—please do not think that. I do not care whether or not you are a wealthy man. Please trust me when I say that this treasure must be found for all our sakes. The people of the glen, and Lord Struan and his family. All of us.”

  “We could marry and take as much time as we want searching for treasure in these hills. Why the hurry?”

  “Because I do not know how long we will have together,” she blurted. “A lifetime or a few days. If the treasure is not found, my grandfather says the bargain he made years ago with the Fey could cause terrible mischief and calamity. You will be affected by that now, I fear.”

  “There may be no threat at all to you, or me, or anyone.” He pulled on her hands to draw her closer, his calm, solid presence soothing. “Even if we have only days, Elspeth MacArthur, I would marry you. If we have a lifetime, I would marry you. Trust that.”

  “I do,” she whispered. “And I believe we can find the treasure now. My father left the clues in his painting, if we can decipher it.”

  “Then let us try, hey.” He leaned forward, kissed her brow lightly. A warmth like sunlight went through her—happiness, passion, hope pouring in their own sort of light. She tilted her head and kissed his cheek, touched her head to his, immersed in his strength, in his tenderness. She wanted to be with this man forever, had no doubt about that. She was deeply grateful to have found him, felt filled with the warmth and security of love newly realized.

  Now all they needed was a good deal of luck drawn from that love and certainty—for she felt danger gathering all around.

  Fiona, eyes shining with tears, came forward to hug her, and Patrick kissed her cheek, welcoming her to the family. Smiling, accepting their good wishes, Elspeth tried to resist fear. She had just thrown down a gauntlet to Fate and the Fey.

  Yet she felt she had just been true to herself, perhaps for the first time in her life, truly honest with herself, and taking a step forward in life in defense of that. James MacCarran, Lord Struan, already seemed part of her soul. Their differences only enriched their match, herself changeable and airy, he solid and earthlike, and they could each help the other to grow and learn. This felt right, despite the risks.

  “James, please,” she murmured. “Help me find it tomorrow. We must.”

  “Then we will try. Do you know where to look?”

  “My grandfather has searched the glen for years, but my father’s picture shows something new that may help. We just need to puzzle it out.”

  “The cave in the landscape painting?”

  “Grandmother called the painting a pretty picture of Ben Venue,” Fiona said. “She told me that once. Could that be a clue?”

  “A' Bheinn Mheanbh!” Elspeth gasped, nodded. “That is the Gaelic. It is a small mountain near Loch Katrine. Your touring party may go past it tomorrow.”

  “Then you must join us, James. With Miss MacArthur,” Patrick said.

  “Elspeth,” she told him, smiling.

  “Good,” James said. “Ask your grandfather to come as well, to help us search. We will slip away from the group and look for treasure.”

  “Charlotte will not like that very much,” Elspeth said.

  “She is not my concern. You are,” he replied, and set his arm around her shoulders. She sighed, relaxed against him.

  “I know it all seems impossible,” she said. “And I am very grateful.”

  “If I can find myself a fairy bride, anything is possible,” he said.

  She laughed, though tears stung her eyes. If Grandda was right, this would be dangerous indeed. If they failed, she might never see any of them again.

  A rapping sounded on the door. Patrick opened it. “Mrs. MacKimmie!”

  “Begging pardon, sir, but Mr. MacArthur is here and asking for Miss Elspeth.”

  He held the blue agate in his hands so that the lamplight glowed through it. The hour was late, and he had removed the stone from the case, planning to present it to Elspeth in the morning. Her promise, at last, to marry him had touched him deeply. Any condition she set seemed attainable.

  If stones like this existed in the hills around this glen, he thought, they would find shining crystals and stones, even a bit of fool’s gold, to satisfy Mr. MacArthur’s wish for a horde of treasure. There was no harm trying.

  Whatever the outcome, he felt relief and hope now. Had Elspeth set him a Herculean task to test his sincerity and his acceptance of her wild beliefs? His love was sincere, but he understood her need to test it. If he was honest with himself, he had to question how much of his desire to marry her rested with the inheritance.

  That was part of it, at least initially. For himself, he would not care. For his siblings—aye, he cared a good deal. Sighing, he set the agate down.

  Elspeth and Donal would return to the house early in the morning to join the Highland tour. He had persuaded the weaver to act as a guide. Though he was not versed in Sir Walter’s romantic poetry and novels, the rest of the group was, and they would know what they would like to see.

  Had Elspeth told her grandfather about their engagement by now? He thought so, although it was best kept to the few of them as yet.

  He was trying to accept this fairy business and the eccentricity in Elspeth’s family, but he was puzzled that she had called her mother a fairy. But all of it would sort itself out to rational explanations someday, he was sure.

  Leaning back in the leather chair, he lifted the agate again and held it to the light. Moonlight to midnight, Elspeth had called the color range. At the heart of the stone was a cluster of delicate clear crystals, a toothy formation like a miniature landscape of peaked hills and castle turrets.

  He reached over to the leather bag containing his tools and notebooks and extracted the loupe. Adjusting the two lenses for magnification, he tilted it over the agate.

  The lenses showed the blue striations to be translucent hues of excellent clarity, and he could see more detail in the central crystals. The outer casing of granite was a thick husk, the agate inside exquisite, particularly the center facets.

  He angled it. The crystalline cavity looked very much like a tiny cavern.

  “What the devil,” he murmured.

  Frowning, he stood and took lamp and crystal into the library, going straight to the painting over the mantel. With the agate perched on his flat palm, he looked from it to the painting.

  When tilted, the cavern-like crystal center was nearly identical in shape to the hillside cave rendered in the painting, where the spilling treasure was visible. Even the turf on the hillside looked like the dull rock husk, and the cut in the hillside, painted in blue, green, and earthen tones, had a swirl pattern like
the agate rings.

  Odd, he thought. Frowning, he returned to the study to sit at the desk. The blue stone had belonged to Donal MacArthur. The man’s son must have seen it, and used it in his painting. That was all.

  The hour grew late, and he had work to do. He reached for his grandmother’s manuscript, remembering that she had mentioned Niall MacArthur. Where was that...flipping pages, he found the name and settled back to read.

  Niall MacArthur, a young man of the local gentry, his grandmother had written, went into the hills one day to sketch from Nature. Later he lay down to rest on a hill at sunset. A passing shepherd greeted him, and that was the last Niall MacArthur was ever seen by human. He never returned home, and vanished that day.

  His father, Donal, searched for his son for months. One evening, as the father, a weaver, sat at his loom, the son appeared to him in a mist. He said that he had been lured away by a beautiful fairy. She had asked him to love her, and forsake the earthly realm to be with her forever. He begged his father to meet him at a certain spot in the hills where the rock hid a portal to the Otherworld. There, the son would explain all.

  James stared at the page, covered in his grandmother’s minute handwriting. He had skimmed these pages when he had first arrived, but had read closely. Now he sat stunned. Lady Struan had known about Niall’s disappearance.

  He turned the page. The father went to the rock and used a stone as a key to open the portal. There he met his son and the beautiful lady who had lured him into that subterranean realm. With them was the queen of the hills surrounding the glen, the same queen who had won the father’s love in his youth. She still held the tether of his heart, calling him back to her every seven years. He could not refuse the appointments, for he had accepted a gift from her that aided him daily in his craft, and that was the price he paid.

  The son and his fairy bride presented the weaver with their infant daughter in a barter for the son’s soul. The bargain they agreed upon allowed the weaver to raise the girl until the fairies called her back to them on her twenty-first birthday. So the weaver took the girl with him to raise and protect. Her fairy kin gave her the gift of The Sight so that she might see what cannot be seen, and know what cannot be known.