by Susan King
She frowned. “I would rather be a ruined and disgraced spinster, never marrying,” she said, “than marry as my grandfather wishes for me.”
“Ah, is that it? A fellow you dislike? I imagine your grandfather is only thinking of your future.” Unless the old fellow had sent her here to intentionally snare a supposedly wealthy, titled husband.
“He insists that I marry a Lowlander.” She wrinkled her nose.
“What in thunder is wrong with a Lowland man? I am one.”
“Nothing, really. But I want to stay in the Highlands. I do not want to marry the tailor who only wants to have my grandfather’s business one day. If my disgrace will send away that suitor, I will be content.” She lifted her chin. It was a lovely chin, above a slim and elegant throat.
“Content to never marry, never be happy? No one would believe that.”
She looked down. “Of course I want to be happy. But I would rather live in the Highlands and be lonely than go to the Lowlands and lose—my life here. Yet Grandda says I must leave. I cannot explain why, but I will not do it. I suppose you think this is all play-acting. I suppose you scoff at me, and suspect me as false.”
“You do not know what I think of you, Miss MacArthur,” he murmured.
She glanced up. There was a pure clarity in her eyes, somehow, as if she did know exactly what he thought. “May I ask—”
“Aye?” Would entrapment be next? How much the fool was he?
She plucked at her damp sleeve. “May I borrow something for the night?”
“Of course. Let us try this chest.” Flustered, he went to a tall wardrobe and opened its doors. Inside were shelves of folded garments, and a few gowns hanging on hooks. “There might be something here.”
She limped to join him. James drew out a lightweight, translucent, lacy chemise. He felt his face burn red. “Er, perhaps you should look for yourself.”
Elspeth touched a folded white garment on a shelf, lifting its lace-trimmed sleeve and high-necked bodice. “A very fine nightrail. Whose things are these? Oh dear, did these belong to your grandmother?”
James regarded the white, billowy thing, which would no doubt swallow the girl. His grandmother had been a tall woman. “Possibly.”
“I should not borrow these.”
Elspeth wearing his grandmother’s nightrail—that would make the girl less appealing, James thought. Good. He thrust the softness toward her. “Take it. I insist.”
She held it up, unwittingly defining the globes of her breasts beneath his grandmother’s delicates. An excellent deterrent. “Should I?”
“Absolutely. Goodnight, Miss MacArthur.”
In shadow and firelight, her eyes were wide and silvery, innocent yet wanton. However wrong it was to be alone with her, some men would take advantage of it, and her. He would never—yet, despite his grandmother’s nightgown, he wanted her in that moment. He backed away hastily and went to the door in uneven strides. The dogs turned around him as he crossed the threshold.
“Goodnight,” he said again, then fled down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. The terriers came with him, while the wolfhound stayed behind.
Fairy hounds knew their kind, James remembered. Osgar had chosen her.
His usual reserve should be enough to keep him aloof and controlled in any situation. Yet this fey and fetching creature asked blithely to be compromised, and he had nearly done just that, acting the fool—and instead hurried away in a panic.
Downstairs, he snatched up a lamp he had left on a side table and went to the study. With a loud, exasperated sigh, he sank into the leather chair. He had set down his work hours ago. Before his life had changed. An odd notion quickly dismissed.
Soon established at the desk again, he tried to keep his mind on his grandmother’s papers. Thoughts of a delectable girl in a quaint nightrail distracted him. Tapping his fingers on unread pages, he gazed through the window into darkness as the rain pattered forcefully against the glass.
He was not wary of women. He enjoyed them—their character and differences as much as their softness and allure—and he did not care a whit for society's opinions. But he would not satisfy his urges in blatantly ungentlemanly ways. He had kept a mistress a few years earlier, had dallied with women before and after that, and for two years he had been neatly avoiding, with good reason he thought, Miss Sinclair’s expectations. Nor would he fully compromise the Highland girl, no matter how willing she seemed.
He thought of the others. His Belgian mistress had been the widow of an esteemed geologist, a man he had corresponded with and planned to meet, but the man had died by the time James had a chance to visit the area, traveling with his regiment. The scholar’s young widow had allowed James to look over her husband’s scientific papers whenever he was on leave from the Black Watch—and soon she gave him access to her person as well. Young, hungry for passion, knowledge, adventure, and fearful that he would enter battle soon, James had let the dalliance continue. They had both been lonely, and they had met, loved, and parted without regret, friends more than lovers.
Only his first love, when he was not yet twenty and studying at the University of Edinburgh, had stirred deep feelings in him—and he never intended to feel that much hurt again. The red-haired daughter of a wealthy merchant, she was interested in botanical sketching and often wandered the hills above the town. James met her while he was collecting rock samples. Soon they met by arrangement, helping each other’s efforts. Then they began to play sweetly, privately, in the grass and met elsewhere when they could.
She took a chill that winter, and by the time James called at her house, she was seriously ill, with her family still unaware she had a beau. Turned away, he had not spoken up, thinking he would hear from her soon. The next time he saw her, she was in a coffin in a funeral carriage. He regretted not revealing himself to her family. A few of her drawings were tucked away in his Edinburgh townhome. He would always treasure them.
The wind whipped past the house then, with such strength that for a moment James heard a faint shrieking above. The storm, he thought. Or that pestering banshee again, he thought wryly.
Wondering if the groans and creaks of the old house would alarm the girl upstairs, he sighed, rowing fingers through his hair. No, she was a hearty Highland sort, used to such things. Setting aside an urge to go upstairs to see if all was well, he took up a stack of handwritten pages and resumed reading. The pages were covered in his grandmother’s small, careful handwritten script.
A local weaver, Mr. Donal MacArthur, is an abundant source of history and traditional tales for this account, his grandmother had written. He claims that in his youth he was abducted by the fairies. However, the gentleman refuses to elaborate on the details of his experience. He believes the fairies show their wrath to those who speak too intimately of them and reveal their secrets. It is this author’s fervent hope that the weaver will share his fascinating story of fairy abduction with the world someday. His granddaughter, he claims, is part of that story too.
James sat up, reading the passage again.
The wolfhound was growling.
Elspeth woke, quick and alert, hearing Osgar’s low rumble. The hour must be very late, she thought, the darkness quiet and deep. The sounds of the storm had faded. “What is it, Osgar?” she asked.
The dog padded to the side of the bed to stare at her through the darkness. He sat back on his haunches, whimpering. She reached out to pat his head, then lay down and tried to find sleep again.
The bed was soft, the pillows plump, the linens cool and fresh, she was exceedingly comfortable, yet she could not sleep. A sound, faint through the walls, sounded like her name. Sitting up, she saw the room lit only by sparse light of the peat fire, flickering blue-gold, all else in shadow. Had Lord Struan called her first name, or knocked? It made no sense.
Eilidh...
The sound was soft, echoing slightly. Eilidh....
Osgar whimpered again and began to pace impatiently around the room.
Gasping, Elspeth drew her knees to her chest, still and silent. In a corner of the room, she saw flitting lights—a pale green glow, a shimmering blue, a streak of violet. Sitting up, she thought the fire’s reflection danced on some surface. Then she saw a cluster of shapes form in that same corner—tall, graceful contours, heads and shoulders, long draped robes.
Shivers rose along her neck, arms. “Who is there?” she called.
Eilidh... The shadows and lights moved closer.
Ghosts? She felt chilled all over.
Glow and blur coalesced, and she saw a hand reaching toward her. She scrambled off the bed, leaping away. Pain stabbed through her ankle and she cried out, leaning on the edge of the bed, staring toward the corner.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. Turning, she snatched up the plaid from a chair and went to the door, heart pounding. The dog bumped against her, as hasty as she to get out of the room. She gripped his collar and looked back.
The light had vanished. She sighed. But she did not want to get back in the bed and opened the door instead.
Thunder rolled and mingled with a distant patter of hoofbeats. The riding? She shuddered.
Osgar gave a loud woof and stood tall, ears pricking. Elspeth heard the name again—Eilidh in soft chorus—and feared they had come for her, as Grandda said.
“Leave me be!” she gasped, and ran, limping, into the dark corridor. She only knew she must escape that room. Remembering with relief that she was not alone, she limped along the hall, wondering which door belonged to Lord Struan. Finding a set of double doors, she knocked.
No answer. She knocked again. A crash of thunder shook the walls, and she shrieked, opening the door and stepping inside. In firelight and darkness, the room was empty, the bed undisturbed. Osgar bumped against her hip as she turned and ran out.
Holding the dog’s collar, she hobbled along the shadowy corridor toward the main staircase. Perhaps Struan was working in his study. She had to find him, not only because she could not bear to be alone, but because he could be under threat as well if what her grandfather said was true.
How could she explain to Struan that the wildfolk had appeared in her room, that she had heard the pounding of horses’ hooves outside the walls? The Fey rode tonight. They knew she was here, inside Struan House. How could she say that—or even believe it herself?
She stopped, gasping. Either she was going a little mad in the middle of the night, hearing just thunder and rain, or her grandfather’s tales were true.
Deep down, she knew this was not her own madness. Were the locks made of true iron, just in case? Had Struan shut the house as he had promised? She went down the stairs as quickly as her ankle would allow. Her heart was slamming.
Eilidh…Soft as a whisper of wind.
That was her fairy name, the one her grandfather said she must never use herself, for the power of it. A crack of lightning came so suddenly that she leaped, shrieked. A blue-white light filled the stairway. The dog hastened ahead of her, whining, to reach the main floor first.
She heard her name whispered again. She froze, then hurried on, not daring to glance over her shoulder.
Never look behind you in a fairy-held place, her grandfather had said, for at that moment they will have you.
The light flared again, lengthened to human shape. She screamed.
Chapter 8
A shriek, just as lightning blazed through the windows. James jumped to his feet, then ran from the study into the hallway. The terriers ran barking alongside him. That had been no banshee. Elspeth. Alarmed, he rounded the corner toward the stairs just as the wolfhound hurtled past him. A ghostly figure in white followed.
He stepped forward and the slender wraith leaped at him, arms looping about his neck. “What in blazes! Elspeth!”
“Oh!” She sank against him, trembling. He gathered her close as another whip crack of lightning flickered through the windows, brightening the hall. She felt good, too good, in his arms. He smoothed her tousled hair, his heart beating fast. “What is it? You’re scared—”
“I am not,” she protested, though she clung to him like a squirrel on a tree.
“Well, I was bloody frightened,” he admitted. He held her tightly, felt her relax. “I thought you were a ghost leaping at me. What happened?”
“I could not sleep, and came down to find you.”
“It was just lightning, my dear.” He had not meant to say it that way.
“I am not a ninny to be scared of such things. I only thought I might sit and do some reading while you worked in the study.” She clutched the lapels of his waistcoat. He had been working in shirtsleeves for comfort, his coat still drying.
James covered her hand in his own. “Nothing mundane would send you flying down here as if demons were after you. I thought you were the resident banshee when you came down in that floaty white thing—”
“Hush!” Her fingers pressed his lips. “Do not summon the ban-sith!”
“It’s only the storm, or creaking hinges, or rain on the roof.”
She took her fingers away, shook her head, clutched his lapel. “It is not that—oh, James, please—”
Then, for no good reason he knew, he was kissing her. Tender and fervent, one kiss melting into another as he tilted his head to hers, caught her face in his hands, pushed his fingers through her hair. She moaned and sank against him, her mouth urgent beneath his, driving him onward when he knew—and surely she knew—this should not happen.
Yet he wanted this so keenly that his mind went foggy. Catching her by the waist, he pulled her hard against him, pressing his body to hers through the thin fabric. The wanting pulsed so hard through him he thought he might go mad with it. He was already a bit lunatic where she was concerned.
Not this way. Stop. The thought sobered him. He took her by the shoulders and put a little distance between them. “Enough, else we both regret it.”
“I do not regret it,” she said, breathless.
“One of us should be practical.”
“Neither of us need be, really.”
“Good God.” He was seriously tempted, but took a quick step away, heart pounding. “If you do not want to stay alone in a thunderstorm, I am working in the study. Sit there if you wish, or in the library. But do cover yourself up, lass, would you,” he added irritably. “I am not that strong a fellow.”
“Oh, but you are,” she said with a little laugh.
He began to answer, stopped. She had a lucent glow, standing there in the dark hallway, her pale oval face, the long whip of her thick black braid, the white billow of his grandmother’s nightrail. His grandmother’s nightdress, he repeated to himself severely. But her eyes, large and luminous as moonlight, entranced him.
“Never look over your shoulder at the fairy ilk,” she said, inexplicably.
“Come along,” he said, and crooked out his elbow. She took his arm and they moved forward. She was barefoot and limping, slap-pat on the wooden floor.
“Where in botheration did the dogs go?” he asked, hoping for a distraction. He was keenly aware that Elspeth wore only the nightrail, dragging a plaid blanket. His hands had found the warm curves of her body beneath soft fabric. Grandmother’s gown, he reminded himself. “Blast and damn,” he muttered.
“Lord Struan, please,” she admonished. She sounded amused, relieved.
“We do not need a banshee in the house with you here,” he said. “You’ve cast your own lunatic spell over the laird.”
“Yet he is acting the gentleman.”
“Is he? He should rather desperately beg your pardon, Miss MacArthur.”
She laughed and held his arm as formally as if they entered a ballroom. Both of them were partly clothed and in disarray, alone in the house in a fierce storm. Her lush allure and her delightful willingness, together with the passion and affection gaining equal influence in him—this had the makings of a disaster.
He truly began to wonder if they would get through this night without an obligation of ma
rriage. He felt drawn to her like iron shavings to a magnet. And she did not seem to mind in the least.
The dogs followed them into the library, and James led the girl through to the small study. The place seemed reassuringly ordinary. He sat at his desk, but Elspeth did not relax. She stood with her head cocked, looking wary, as if listening for something. Thunder boomed. She jumped.
“Sit down,” he said. “Read a book.” He gestured toward the volumes stacked on table surfaces, crammed on shelves. Contrary to the restraint and control he liked, he was not particularly tidy in his work. He would put them away when finished.
“I am fine,” she said, standing with arms folded. He could see the high plump of her breasts through the fabric. The plaid over her shoulders hid little of that.
“Miss MacArthur, I cannot think if you stand there like that.”
She went to the window seat that was tucked beneath a tall window overlooking the back garden. All was darkness, whipping rain, winds. “The roads will flood, the bridge will wash out.”
He cocked a brow. “A prediction?”
“I know the glen. The stone of the old bridges can crumble in very bad storms and the roads may turn to mud. The local men make repairs, but it takes time.”
“New bridges should be built, and the roads resurfaced.”
“Aye. But no one can afford to do that here. Bridges and roads need money.”
Nodding, he wondered again if she believed that the laird of Struan had the generous pockets the glen needed. He scarcely had enough funds to keep his own house and grounds in order, let alone pay for bridges in the glen, or make a wife wealthy. And unless he finished his grandmother’s book and wed a fairy bride, he reminded himself sourly, he would have only a small inheritance.
Fairy bride. He watched her, unable to concentrate when she sat curled on the seat, the thin gown defining the delightful shape of her hips and legs, a blush of skin showing through the fine fabric. Standing, he began to put books away, carrying them to a wrought iron ladder, climbing up to slide the books onto high shelves. His gait made the process slow, but the activity was what he needed.
