Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)

by Susan King

  “Agate? What color is this stone you want to find?”

  “Blue,” she said.

  “Truly! Agate is a bit unusual in this region of Scotland, and the blue sort is rare anywhere. Did your grandfather find this stone nearby?”

  She nodded. “On the hill behind the house, before the gardens were altered.”

  “A long while ago?”

  “The property belonged to the MacArthurs when my grandfather was a young man. He kept the stone here, among the rocks, but...it all looks different there now. He left it, but would like to find it, and keep it if is agreeable to you.”

  “Of course, if it holds sentimental value for him. We will find it if we can. On my walks around the estate, I have seen massive beds of sedimentary rock, granite and sandstone with crystalline deposits. But agate is mostly found in volcanic rock.”

  “Volcanic?” She looked surprised. “There are no volcanoes here.”

  “Not currently, but there may have been thousands of years ago. My own research addresses that question. Layers of volcanic rock imply tremendous heat long ago in the terrestrial past. Geologists are only beginning to investigate Scotland’s mountains, and indeed much of Europe, for signs of the history of the earth.”

  “Oh,” she said, impressed by his knowledge. But he was a professor of such things. She nodded. “I did not realize there was such history to rocks. I suppose I never thought of it, though of course, it makes sense.”

  “It is a newer field of study. I find it quite fascinating. My sister is also studying the formation of rock beds in Scotland. Miss MacArthur, why did you come back here today to look for it?” he asked quickly.

  “My grandfather mentioned the stone. I wanted to find it. To surprise him.” She could hardly explain that Grandda needed the thing to open a gate to the fairy world.

  “I see. So Struan House once belonged to your family?”

  She sipped her tea, then nodded. “The estate and much of the glen belonged to my great-grandfather. When Grandda was young, he spent much of his time here. The grotto in your garden was once part of a large hill with a precipice.”

  “I know my grandfather had the stone wall extended up the slope for the grotto. Unfortunately, he died, and my grandmother did not live to enjoy it for long either. But why not come to the door and just ask about your missing stone?”

  “I thought no one was here. It is the time of the fairy riding.”

  “Ah. So you believe in the legend too?”

  “It is a local tradition.” She shrugged. “I thought to look for myself and be quick about it. I did not count on the rain. I did not mean to disturb you, Lord Struan.”

  He waved a hand to dismiss her concern, and sipped his tea. The cup looked small and delicate cradled in his hand. She imagined those long, nimble fingers turning a beautiful rock over, holding it up to sunlight… then imagined his hands on her, warm and agile and caressing. She shivered, but not from chill.

  “You are writing a book about volcanic rock,” she blurted. A strange word sounded clearly in her head. “Geo…nosey. What is that?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Geognosy? It means earth knowledge—the study of the earth as a complete structure, interior and exterior. I did not realize that you were familiar with the work of Werner, who coined the term.”

  “I never heard of him. It just came to me.”

  He stared at her, cup halfway to his lips. “Good God, how do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Echo my thoughts. I am working on a book about geognostic science. A few years ago I studied in Freiburg with Abraham Werner, who developed the theory of geognosy, which looks at the earth as a whole. Either someone told you, or—”

  “Or I just knew,” she explained softly.

  He seemed about to say something, but poured more tea, and added to her cup. “While I’m here, I want to explore the rock formations in these hills. If your grandfather found agate nearby, that could be meaningful for my work.”

  “If you wander these hills, be careful. You may encounter the Daoine Síth.”

  “The dowin-shee?” He looked puzzled.

  “The people of peace, in Gaelic. The fairy folk. The caves and hills in this glen are their special territory. Do geologists take into account otherworldly creatures who might inhabit the subterranean earth?” She smiled.

  “Not if they value their reputations.” He sat forward. “I suppose I should mention that I have agreed to work on my grandmother’s book about fairy lore. Perhaps—I wonder if you could help me better understand her work.”

  She shrugged. The thought excited her, but she did not let on. “Your study of rocks here might surprise you. Fairies are everywhere on Struan lands.” She felt a bit mischievous. And sitting before you, she thought, if family lore is to be believed.

  “I do not believe such nonsense, but I promised to work on her final book, and I will honor it. What can you tell me about this fairy riding custom?”

  “They ride out at this time of year especially. They may also be seen at the time-between-times, when the curtain between our world and theirs is very thin—dawn, twilight, midnight, mist, and so on.”

  He tapped his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “At times when visibility is poor enough to allow for tricks of the eye and mind. I see.”

  “I think you do not see,” she murmured. “But you could if you wanted to.”

  He quirked a brow. “Well, the custom has frightened the living wits out of my staff. Between the banshee in the foyer, the ghosts in the house, the fairies in the garden, two new maidservants packed up in haste and left for Edinburgh. They could not get away fast enough.”

  “Southrons.” She laughed. “Highlanders do not mind such things.”

  “The Highland staff has left too. I understand they all avoid Struan House and the glen this time of year.”

  “No one wants to be taken by the Fey. They ride through these lands around the same time each year. You and I should not be here either.” She glanced at him.

  “I am not intimidated by such fancies.” He smiled, so warm and genuine that she felt herself relax. “I suppose you are an expert on this, being part fairy yourself.”

  Elspeth nearly spit out her tea. “What do you mean?”

  “One of the housemaids must have seen you in the garden this afternoon, because she claimed she saw a fairy there. She departed in a hurry.”

  “Me? I was not there then, unless the housemaid looked just before you came outside. Perhaps it was one of the Struan fairies.” She frowned. Was it possible?

  “It must have been you, or someone else. Such stories are part and parcel of folklore, but there is often an explanation. By the way, Lady Struan mentioned your grandfather in her notes. She respected his knowledge of local traditions. I thought it would be useful to speak with him myself.”

  “About your grandmother’s book, or about the fact that I spent a night at Struan House?” She twisted her mouth awry.

  He huffed a laugh. “Perhaps both, Miss MacArthur.”

  Elspeth laughed too. Sitting here with him so peacefully, sharing a meal while the rain lashed the windows, she felt good. She liked him, she realized. Quite a bit, in fact. His intelligence, his wit, even his stubbornness and skepticism were intriguing.

  She stood, feeling herself begin to blush again. “The dishes need cleaning. I will do it.” She carried her bowl to the worktable, limping, while Struan stood and brought the rest over. He limped a bit too, but neither of them remarked on it.

  As he fetched water from a kettle for the washbowl, Elspeth began to clean the tea things. Struan did his best to help, although she suspected he had rarely done such chores before. Soon the dishes were cleaned and set away, and Struan took the lamp from the pine table.

  “I’d best close up the house. There are no servants here to attend to it.”

  “A Highland laird sees to the shutting of his own house, regardless of servants. Even in fine Highland houses, it is the lai
rd’s responsibility to bolt the doors.”

  “Then I am being a good Highland laird tonight. I hope locking up is custom rather than necessity in this glen.”

  “We have not had cattle raiders or feuding clans for two generations or more. There are whisky smugglers in the hills, but they stay to themselves even while they bring their goods along the lochs and rivers to the sea.”

  “And we all benefit from their work by cover of night, I suspect.”

  She smiled briefly, then paused. “What disturbs the peace of any house in this glen is not locked out by bolts, unless they be of iron.”

  “Iron keeps the fairies away.” He nodded. “Or so I have read.”

  “Unless there is iron, if the wildfolk want to come in, they will find a way.”

  He chuckled softly. She knew he thought all of this harmless superstition, and she found his practical approach interesting, wholly masculine, and a bit of a challenge. She tilted her head, wondering. Standing in that cozy kitchen within arm’s reach of him, she felt again a sense of ease and comfort. She did not want this night to end.

  Then she recalled tender kisses shared months earlier, and she could almost feel his hands upon her again, warm and strong and welcome. An urge to be in his arms, to feel the kisses, the passion, the cherishing that came with that, made her yearn suddenly, deeply.

  Love, the thought came to her then: love feels like this.

  He tilted his head to question her silence. “Miss MacArthur?”

  “Where—where shall I sleep, Lord Struan?” she asked hastily.

  “You may have your pick of the guest rooms. This way.” Holding a lantern, he led the way, looking back to offer a hand to her elbow as she limped behind. He limped too, without his cane, but his focus was solicitously for her.

  A thrill went through her like small lightning. The man had a restrained sort of power, masculine and protective, tempered by courtesy and patience. She found it compelling. She walked unevenly beside him, his hand touching her elbow now and again. Her heart surged within her.

  The wolfhound followed, nudging after them, setting Elspeth off balance so that she stumbled against Struan, a hand to his chest. He put his arm around her. The plaid slid from her shoulders, and he caught it. She stopped, and for a moment looked into his eyes, dark in the lamplight. Through his clothing, his heartbeat under her hand felt strong and hard.

  “You’ve made a friend in Osgar.” His voice was gruff.

  “His breed is called fairy hound. They take readily to anyone with fairy blood, so it is said. And he has definitely taken to you,” she told Struan as he reached down to pet the dog’s head and Osgar lolled in pleasure. “Do you have fairy heritage?”

  “My grandmother claimed there was a fairy ancestor far back among the Struan MacCarrans. She was not of that blood herself, but was fascinated that it might have been in her husband, and therefore her children and grandchildren. She was the only one of us to believe it. Actually, I was about to ask the same of you. Do you have...fairy blood?”

  “Oh,” she said, shrugging. “There are legends in our family too. It is not uncommon in the Highlands. My grandfather says my mother…had fairy blood. I did not know her myself.”

  “And so you wanted to believe a fanciful tale. Certainly it is easy to believe that she could have given you that heritage. It is in your eyes, I think, in their beauty,” he murmured, as he drew the plaid about her shoulders. He brushed back her hair where it sifted over her brow. Every part of her was aware of his touch. Wonderful shivers coursed through her. His hand dropped away. “But it is all lovely bits of legend and fancy.”

  “I heard about the Struan MacCarrans, long ago. I see you disdain it.”

  “There is a legend. Family lore holds that long ago, a MacCarran ancestor saved a fairy woman from drowning, and they were married. Supposedly her blood runs through descendants of the main branch, which includes myself and my siblings. Apparently, some MacCarrans have strange abilities because of this mythical ancestor, but I have never seen evidence of it. Come along, you lot,” he called back, as all three dogs followed. Struan took Elspeth’s elbow to help her up the steps.

  “Saved a fairy woman?” she asked, keenly interested.

  “Charming Highland hogwash,” he said, and smiled.

  Chapter 7

  “Some guest rooms are on this level,” James said as they walked along the upper corridor. “And some the next floor up, but no need to climb more stairs.”

  For either of them, he thought. He knew well the concessions needed for a weak limb. He was glad to offer her support, but his body was responding a bit too keenly to her nearness. A strong feeling best ignored.

  He would show her to a guest room, and in the morning, take her home. Until then, he would shut himself away from her—no matter what she had said earlier about willing to be ruined. He would not ruin her reputation, or his own, with heady passion that could be easily controlled with a little willpower and cool reason.

  “The rooms are all freshened for use. Mrs. MacKimmie saw to it, with guests expected next week.”

  “But I am unexpected,” she said.

  “And welcome to stay.” He opened a door and stood back. The lantern light spilled into the room as Elspeth stepped inside. “The hearth is cold in here. Let me.” James followed her, while the three dogs plopped down to arrange themselves in and around the doorway.

  Limping, he wished he had gone back to the garden to find his cane, for he was clearly feeling an ache in his leg. He knelt by the fireplace, finding peat bricks already stacked, and lit a match from the burning lamp Elspeth MacArthur held out for him. He coaxed the peats to catch, tried again.

  “I can do it, sir. There is a knack to it.”

  “I have it. There. The room will warm soon.”

  “Thank you.” She held her hands before the small flames. James stood up beside her. His gaze flickered along her body, lush curves beneath a damp gown, cloth still translucent in places. She glanced up. He grew still, seeing compassion in her eyes. Not pity. Understanding.

  “You should rest your leg.”

  “And you, more to the point, should rest that foot.” This girl, he thought—who was she? How did she know his past without being told, as she claimed? That had shaken him—she had shaken him. Nor could he ever forget those lightning kisses in Edinburgh. Though it had been part of a public and acceptable flirtation that day, he had felt a deeper impact then, and remembered it now.

  “I remember the first time we met,” she said, echoing his thoughts in that damnable way she had. She tipped her head. “We kissed.” Soft words, like a caress.

  “We did. All part of that merry company.” An arm’s length separated them. He could easily move to kiss her again. Was she inviting it? Her mix of innocence and coyness confounded him. “I must go,” he said. “I have work to do in the study. I had planned to work through the evening.”

  “On the fairy lore? I could help.”

  “Some other time, perhaps. The less time we spend together now, the better.”

  “If we are discovered alone here, it will not matter what we did, or did not do, in the end. Others will make assumptions. But we will know the truth.”

  “We will know, aye. That is more important than the rest of it.”

  She sighed. “I was being honest with you, Lord Struan. Even a slight compromise will be enough for me. I will hold you to nothing, I promise.”

  “It is not in my character to ruin a young woman and abandon her.”

  “Only the hint of it will be enough. No need to feel an obligation.”

  He huffed. “Why would you be satisfied a hint of scandal?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  He frowned. What was this? Another part of a ruse? “Few men would respect the terms of such an offer.”

  “You would.”

  “You,” he murmured, “cannot know what I would do.”

  “I do.” Her eyes crinkled. “I know.”

  “
You seem like an innocent. A blithe and bonny girl,” he added, and impulsively took a step, bent down, and kissed her. Swift and powerful, surprising himself. The responding touch of her lips, deepening the kiss, fed a sudden flame in him.

  Sliding his fingers into the silken mass of her curling, damp, night-dark hair, he cradled her head in his hand; slanting his mouth over hers, he felt her buckle against him, heard and felt her sigh. Her lips opened to his, and he grazed his tongue over her lower lip. That touch shuddered through him.

  He had not intended this. A moment only, a warning to show her the risk she invited. Then he would remove himself from the situation. Yet he felt overwhelmed quickly, as if he had taken hold of a flame, daring to be burned. He forced himself to pull away. Her eyes were closed, her lips full and rosy, cheeks flushed.

  “Lovely,” she said in a dreamy voice. Her eyes opened. They sparkled.

  “Oh no, you lass,” he said, his hands still on her shoulders. “This is no foolery. There are consequences.”

  “You think I want to trick you because you are a wealthy man? I do not.”

  “Anyone might assume so. You are a charmer, Miss MacArthur. This would be an adequate compromise, since you insist.” He stepped back. “Something happened between us while we were alone. I admit my guilt. Will that suffice?”

  If she truly wanted to walk away, it might do for her. If they had to marry, it could work to his advantage, certainly. He felt the urge to take her into his arms again, wanting marriage, wanting as much as she would be willing to give.

  Instead, he stepped back, cautious, sensing himself on a precipice.

  Elspeth hopped about on one foot, grabbed the fireplace mantel. “I did not plot this to trap you, though you seem to think it. But the kissing was very nice.”

  He blinked. No face-slapping, no huffing or hysterics, no attempt to invite more and entrap him. What was she about? “Just…nice?”

  “Wonderful,” she said softly. “But you need not marry me for it.”

  “Why not insist on marriage now, to gain the, ah, willing compromise you wanted? Or will that come later, once the fish is well and truly caught?”