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

by Susan King

  Had Elspeth MacArthur set this up deliberately, anticipating the weather, hearing the laird was alone? Had she hoped events would lead to marriage that would benefit her family and community? She had been frank about wanting to be ruined. Had she been honest about her grandfather’s plans to marry her off?

  He looked down, saw her flipping through the pages of a book. She was lovely, a fey sort with that dark hair, pale features, and delicate frame. Anyone might believe she had fairy blood. Even Sir Walter Scott was intrigued.

  If James married her, he could meet the will’s conditions. Preposterous. He and his siblings should dispute the will instead of chasing will-o’-the-wisps.

  Still, he was glad to work with his grandmother’s manuscript. Lady Struan felt closer to him as he worked, and he was glad to honor that, and her book, regardless of the subject matter. What was nonsense to him did appeal to many others.

  The wolfhound loped toward the girl. She patted his great, unkempt head. “Good lad, Osgar,” she said.

  “That dog follows you everywhere now,” James said. “You need not be frightened in this house. He could scare off anything, earthly or unearthly.”

  “Oh no, he’d probably let them in.”

  “Them?”

  “The Fey. They are out riding tonight.”

  “Come now, Miss MacArthur. Not even a fairy would be out and about in such a downpour. Nor do dogs open doors. Let us put pretense aside.”

  “I would never fool you.” She looked up, her face a pretty oval.

  “A nice promise,” he answered, easing another book into place.

  “You have closed off your heart from hurt, James MacCarran, Lord Struan,” she said. “You trust no one.”

  His heart pounded. “Life is much smoother that way,” he said casually, shoving another book into place. “It eliminates complications and—” And love. He stopped.

  “And love?” she asked, watching him from below.

  He crammed in another book. “Silly notions and sentiment.”

  “Why do you not believe in the Sight, or fairies, or even love?”

  He climbed down and went back to the desk. “Because believing,” he said quietly, “requires accepting the fantastical. I am not a fool. Give me good solid rocks to categorize. Those are real.” He stamped his boot heel. “The earth beneath our feet. The air we breathe. What we touch and see. It is real. It makes up our world.”

  “You are afraid to believe.” She sat up, the lamplight reflecting in her eyes. “Afraid that you cannot explain everything in your world. Afraid to trust something unseen and powerful.”

  “I go to church on occasion. I was taught to trust in that.” He did not, particularly, not as intently as others. “No man trusts other forces easily. Certainly not me.” He picked up more books, headed for the steps.

  “You are afraid of me a little, I think.”

  “A wee slip of a thing like you? Not at all.”

  “I am not frightened of you, or of being alone with you. Nor am I afraid of what might happen…to us. Or to my heart.”

  He glanced at her. She did frighten him a little. She was too honest, too damned enticing. She invaded his solitude and stirred up too much. “This situation alarms me, Miss MacArthur, on your behalf. Disgrace is not the best solution to your marriage dilemma.”

  “It could be,” she answered.

  He set the books down. A decanter of whisky sat on a nearby shelf, and he lifted it to swirl its contents. “Mrs. MacKimmie keeps bottles filled in every room. We can indulge when—under duress.” He could use a good swallow of whisky to fortify him against that fetching little wraith in his grandmother’s nightgown.

  Better to keep his wits about him. He set the decanter back.

  “Struan House has a good supply,” she said. “It is the laird’s house, after all. The smugglers are always generous so long as we look the other way. My grandfather never wants for free whisky. If you are pouring some, I will have a taste. It is a night for a few drams.”

  Very well. He poured a little into a glass and brought it to her. She swallowed, handed it back, liquid gleaming. “And you, sir?”

  He sipped, set it down. “Enough. If I am foxed, you might compromise me.”

  “I have abandoned the idea. You’re too unwilling.”

  “Oh, I am willing. Just too much the gentleman.” The silence pulsed in the air between them.

  The wolfhound stood then, whining, and padded toward the door. A distant, eerie shriek drifted overhead. Elspeth stood, grabbing James’s arm, and they turned toward the door together. A cracking glow of lightning split the shadows, and thunder sounded.

  “The banshee.” Her fingers tightened on his arm.

  “Just an old rusted weathervane, I’m sure.” He was not convinced. “I’ll have Mr. MacKimmie fix it.”

  “The banshee is warning us that something is about to happen.”

  “Being alone together in these blasted circumstances is enough for me.”

  “It warns us that the fairy ilk are riding on Struan grounds.”

  James was framing his next denial when a cacophony of thunder and other noises shook the very walls. “What the devil,” he muttered, moving toward the door, Elspeth holding his arm. “It sounds as if the horses have gone loose from their stalls. I’ll check. Wait here,” he said. “Osgar, stay.”

  “I am coming with you,” Elspeth said. Wasting no time on argument, James hurried toward the back corridor, then down the steps past the kitchen. The girl and the wolfhound followed him.

  “Wait here, Elspeth.” He did not even notice that he used her name. He snatched a coat from a hook and stepped out into a whipping gust.

  “Struan!” she called behind him. “James! Please wait!”

  He looked back. “I will be fine, lass.”

  “Whatever happens,” she called, “do not look back!”

  He waved and walked into the storm.

  Eilidh. Gasping, Elspeth stepped out into the elements. The Fey were riding that night, and Struan—James, for it sounded more real to her, and he liked what was real and reliable—James had gone out unsuspecting. She knew he would find the horses safe, the stable closed. The sounds had not come from there. He might be in danger—she had to find him, urge him to return to the house. Whoever encountered the fairy cavalcade on Struan lands might vanish, never to be seen again.

  Eilidh...come with us. The voices blended with the wind, and the beat of horse hooves seemed part of the thunder. She knew how serious the risks were—Donal MacArthur had fallen to their mystical lure years before, and paid the price of it every seven years. Now she, too, felt the strange pull of their presence. But if she could find James and stay with him, he was so solid and unbelieving that surely even their power would diminish before that strength, and they would both be safe.

  She had never feared them before, not like this. Tonight she felt truly wary. Struan had no idea of the dangers involved if he stayed outside. Seeing his cane as she limped over the lawn, she grabbed it up to help her walk, then rushed onward, her nightgown and clutched plaid whipping back, her braid soon damp and stray.

  Then the wolfhound was beside her, bumping against her. She took his collar, reassured by his presence. Crossing the soggy grass, limping in bare feet, she felt the pain diminish. The lure of the Fey could make a person feel good, feel healed, even euphoric. Their magic infused the very air. If they were real, she told herself. If.

  Something moved ahead, shapes and shadows in the mist that took on a strange blue glow. She heard footfalls and bells. Moments later she saw a line of horses, light and dark, moving through the night mist just beyond a line of trees. She hurried forward and stopped, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid to be heard or seen.

  The riders. There. The Sidhe of old, just there, gliding past on horseback.

  Her imagination? She breathed out, in, held it. Gripped the dog’s collar. Osgar stood silent and stiff beside her.

  Some called them the Seelie Court—a
marvel, a vision, she saw them emerge sparkling out of the mist, tall men and slender women who sat their horses elegantly. They were impossibly beautiful, the glitter and spark of their jeweled clothing like webs of light and fire. Their cloaks and garments, a rainbow of color hemmed with gold and gems. The reins in their hands were bejeweled too. Their hair, set with filaments of gold and silver, softly curled, sun-gold or night-black, braided and beribboned. Rings flashed on their fingers, buckles glinted on belts and shoes. Their eyes glowed like crystal, blue, green, amber.

  As they approached she saw magical symbols embroidered in shining threads on hems and saddles. Tiny silver bells, dangling on harnesses and braided in the horses’ manes, chimed soft and clear in the night.

  In the lead rode a woman, with a man and another woman riding to either side of her. Others followed, seven riders in all, with an empty saddled horse. They meant to bring someone back with them this night.

  A cold chill flooded through Elspeth. This was real. She was seeing this. And they had come for her. She knew it like the certainty of stars and sunlight, fire and earth. Shivers plunged through her. A dream? Could it be, and so vivid?

  She stepped back into the shadows as the cavalcade headed toward the back gardens of Struan House. They would soon pass the very place where Elspeth stood watching, half-hidden beneath an ancient oak tree. A stone wall stood between her and the riders. They came at a steady pace.

  She flattened her back against the oak, sheltered beneath its dripping leaves, and watched the riders pass clean through the stone wall as if it was not there, as if they were nothing but mist. Their gait made a kind of music, clip-clop and bell ring, with the sighing of the wind.

  Even as Elspeth shrank against the tree trunk, the fey lady in the lead turned her head, saw her, angled the horse toward her. There! Come to us, Dear One....

  They were close now, nearly abreast with her where she stood under the tree, horses passing slowly, the boughs of the oak trees shaking in the storm winds. The lady, beautiful in green and gold, pale hair streaming like moonlight, reached out her arm and beringed hand. Elspeth shrank back.

  Yet she felt a strong tug, nearly irresistible. She thought of James, disbelieving and unaware of the threat, and she clung to the tree. The true Sidhe—if such these were—could steal the very soul from a human.

  Come with us, they said in a melodious sing-song, and she felt the pull again.

  The dark-haired lady, near her now, reached out again. Sweet One, join us!

  Unable to stop herself—she felt drawn to this fairy woman, more so than the pale-haired lady—Elspeth lifted her arms. She felt herself losing strength against their thrall. The outdoors was their domain, the earth, the trees, the rain, the wind, the rocks, the air. Here, their power was strong. Her hand was up, the fairy reached out. She heard music in the rain, smelled the scent of flowers despite the storm, and then she felt herself lifting on her toes—

  “Elspeth!”

  His voice cut briskly through the wind and the music. She looked around to see James running toward her. Forcing herself to step back from the riders, she whirled. And somehow bolted toward him over the wet lawn, crossing just in front of the cavalcade as it moved toward the house.

  A moment later she heard horse hooves behind her, beside her as the riders came close. Dear One, wait! Eilidh….

  “Elspeth, here!” James was not far now, running, waving. The riders passed Elspeth, and in an almost fickle way, headed for the man. “I’m here!” he called.

  “James, no!” She ran toward him. The riders moved, clopping hooves and silver bells. When they reached James, the lady in the lead beckoned to him.

  Come with me, she called.

  Elspeth saw him pause, look up at the Fey. The wind blew at his coat, his hair. Then he reached up. A mist seemed to envelop him and the horses.

  “No!” She ran toward him, reaching out to grab James fervently, so that he stumbled back, turned, wrapped his arms around her. The horses were but an arm’s length away, their riders reaching down toward both of them now. Elspeth spun James around, to turn him away from the riders, wind whipping hard as she tucked her face against his shoulder. Grabbing her plaid, bringing up her arm, she covered both their heads best she could. The Fey lingered in the mist, calling out again.

  Come with us.

  On impulse, Elspeth took James’s face in her hands to keep him from looking around. Then she kissed him, hard and desperate, gasping against his warm, pliant, responsive lips, pressing against him along the length of her body, as he caught her to him, held her close.

  “No, no, you shall not have him,” she whispered frantically.

  Chapter 9

  The kiss deepened, his lips opening with hers. Then he took it over, hands cupping her face. Elspeth held tight, determined to keep him from turning his head to glimpse the Seelie Court and the magical lady who wanted to take both of them away.

  “Hold tight, hold me tight,” she whispered between kisses.

  In the fairy lore her grandfather had taught her, she had learned that a loved one could be saved from the fairies by a fast embrace, by never letting go, never looking back, until the danger passed.

  As James kissed her, she sank against him, feeling as if a whirlwind spun around them. Her hair whipped free, his fingers threading into the strands as he tilted her head back and renewed the kiss with hunger and wildness. The wind shoved them, turned them, yet Elspeth strived to keep him from looking toward the riders.

  Finally she sensed a change in the air. A glance through her lashes showed the riders fading into mist. The man riding with the women looked back—looked familiar to her, though she could not think why. Then he vanished.

  Soon you will be with us, Eilidh, came an echo on the wind.

  She could not follow them, though she had felt their power, though she knew now that her grandfather had been right after all. They did exist, if she could trust what she had just seen. And they wanted to take her away, just as Grandda had said.

  But in the snug circle of James’s arms, she felt safe. Loved, if only for this moment. Real or not, she wanted that feeling to last.

  The mist and the chime of bells faded, leaving drizzle and fog. The danger had passed. James was saved; they had saved each other. When as he wrapped her in his arms now, she did not want to move, though she knew they should flee. Kisses resumed, fervent and hungry and endless, the rain wet her face, slicked her hair, her hands, their lips in a slippy, delicious blend. She knew only this, the rain, the caresses, her need for him.

  “Hold me,” she whispered, pressing against him. “Hold fast, never let go—”

  He groaned low against her lips, tightening his arms around her. Sliding her hands under his coat and waistcoat, finding the fabric of his shirt with her chilled fingers, she pulled, starving to feel skin, craving wildness. His hands slipped down her arms, over her hips, up again, creasing the damp nightgown, finding her breast. She drew in a breath at the sweet shock of his touch.

  They turned slowly, dance-like, his fingers cradling and teasing as she found his mouth again in a deep kiss. His tongue glided to touch hers, fingers finding her breasts, their tips. Her knees wanted to fold—she sank to the soft, wet grass, feeling a different sort of thrall taking her over now. He dropped with her to the grass in the darkness, and now she did not want to flee, not yet, wanted only to be here with him, anticipating, her heart beating hard.

  Pressed close, chest to breast, she felt his desire for her too, hard and sure against her. The mist thickened, hiding and suspending them in a place without time, filled with kiss and caress, and pulsing heartbeats. As he touched her, she gasped, arching, wanting to be even closer, hungry for more. She tugged at his coat, his clothing, shaped her hands over his broad chest and shoulders as he pulled her deeper into his arms. Breathing fast as he did, she rocked her hips against him, intimate, daring, pleading. Here, now, this, she wanted to say.

  His lips touched soft at her ear, and she moaned a
s his head dipped downward, hands rucking the damp fabric of the nightgown. As his lips found her breast, pearled it, she moaned, let him slide his hand downward, slipping, teasing until the pressure and the wanting took her breath away. She shaped her fingers over him now, cloth between them, feeling heat, steely solidity there—when he groaned soft against her lips, she felt wanton, willful, felt a freedom that she did not want to deny. Suddenly she knew full well what she was allowing, knew what they both wanted. When he paused, a question, she pushed forward in answer.

  His breath was ragged on her lips, and he drew his hands upward, away. Air kissed her skin, her face. Shifting, he angled on an elbow, pushed her rain-slicked hair back from her brow.

  “Dear God,” he rasped, “what is this—wildness between us?”

  “Wildness of a fairy night,” she whispered, and kissed his hand, where it rested on her cheek. And knew at that moment this was more than fairy magic, imagined or real. She had given him her heart, her pledge, though she might never see him again after this wild night.

  Love, the word came to her. Could it be so? Quick as that, simple and certain? She could be impulsive and direct, sometimes a flaw. But this felt true, even if he did not—

  “Not here, not like this.” James got to his feet and took her hand to pull her up beside him. “Not like this, savage in a garden. In a storm. My God,” he said, taking her shoulders, pulling her close for a moment. “Wildness on a fairy night. After this, I could almost believe in fairies.”

  “Did you see them?” she whispered. “Did you see?”

  “Who?” He pulled back, glanced about.

  “The Sidhe,” she whispered. “The Good Folk. They were here. Just here.”

  He stared down at her. “Was that the whisky, or a fright in the storm? Or did I—frighten you, confuse you? I blame myself. I am so sorry—”

  “I am not frightened. You saw them, I know you did. They rode past us. The Seelie Court. They wanted us to come with them.”