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

by Susan King

  She paused. “I cannot leave this glen.”

  “Ever? Is there a spell cast over you?”

  She was silent. He wondered if she had stepped away.

  “Listen to me. I am a viscount. I own a fine estate.” He began to tick off on his fingers. “I have a respectable yearly income, or will have, if—some legal problems are solved. I have a townhouse in Edinburgh and a position at the university. I’m not unpleasant to look at, despite a bad leg, and I have written a volume on geology that weighs nearly as much as you do.” He stopped, surprised at his own fervor. He was never one to tout himself or reveal feelings or needs. Yet he had never courted any girl with so much determination. “Surely that counts for something.”

  “I am impressed. You will have no difficulty finding a bride in Edinburgh.”

  He exhaled, exasperated. “It is more difficult than you know.”

  “Marrying me will solve all your problems and mine, I suppose,” she said. “Wait. Legal…problems? What does that mean?”

  If one factor discouraged him from having Elspeth for a wife, it was her uncanny ability to ferret out his private thoughts. “Marry me and I will tell you the whole of it.”

  “No.”

  “Elspeth, I will not stand here begging. Consider it and give me your answer tomorrow.” He leaned his forehead against the door. “I am not good at this confounded courting business.”

  “Better than you know,” she said. “I am flattered. You are a titled gentleman, and very pleasant to look at. I do not mind the leg at all, if that worries you about courting. I have a bad ankle myself. In fact, I should rest it now rather than stand here. Goodnight.”

  He wanted her to stand there—he wished he could take her into his arms. “You know we must marry. Truly, what is your objection? Blast it all,” he muttered.

  “You swear too much. It is a plague in your personality.”

  “Elspeth,” he growled.

  “Very well. I would stay in the Highlands, but you are a Lowland man. And I think you cannot wait to be gone from here and back in the south again.”

  “I never said that.” Not in her hearing, at any rate. “You would have a comfortable life in the city with me.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I am sure you would accommodate whatever I wanted. I know that. Now let us be done with this tonight, Struan. It is late.”

  The more she denied him, the more appealing the prospect grew. She was interesting. Intriguing. Fascinating. “Tell me this first.” He leaned to the door, speaking low. “Are you perhaps waiting for someone else? Is there a man who lives in this glen who has your heart instead?”

  “I wish he did live in this glen,” she whispered. “He is a fine man. We loved sweetly, once, with the fairy magic upon us, and he won my heart. But not all of it,” she added. “Not yet.”

  James went still, heart thumping. Passion, excitement, a lightning strike of hope went through him. “And this fine man, is he the one for you?”

  “So he likes to think. Away with you now, James MacCarran, Lord Struan.”

  Moments later, he knew she was gone from the door. He lingered, head bowed. He felt touched deep, could not define it. Stepping back, he went down the shadowy corridor.

  He felt different somehow. He was not quite the man who had arrived at Struan House originally, no longer just a scientist with a cool head and shielded heart. But he was not yet sure how he was changed.

  Elspeth smoothed her skirts and straightened her green jacket, her garments dry now, having hung by the hearth fire while she slept. Most of the dried mud had brushed away, though the stains might never disappear even with a thorough cleaning. She hurried, aware that time was slipping away. She must be home soon. Outside, rain still pattered the window glass.

  But she wanted to stay. Struan’s marriage proposal still echoed in her mind. The intimacy of his voice was a caress, and his words, his meaning, had thrilled her. She felt she must refuse, but regretted it more than Struan could ever know.

  Glancing into a little mirror on the chest of drawers, she combed her fingers through her tousled hair and plaited it in a single braid, tied it with a ribbon tugged from her bonnet. Like her gown, her favorite straw hat had gone limp, the ribbons ruined, but she set it on her head anyway. Then she grabbed her plaid arisaid and tossed it over her shoulders. Her garments could be restored, but she herself had changed—not ruined, but altered. And she would never be the same.

  She glanced out the window at the dreary, sodden landscape. With her ankle swollen and sore, it was impossible to walk home. She would have to ask the viscount to drive her. He had not returned to her door last night, though she had lain awake, wondering and thinking. Just as well he stayed away, she thought. She teetered on the verge of agreeing to marry him, even knowing it was just obligation. Still, she tried to convince herself that she need not marry him, or anyone.

  What she wanted most was to remain at Kilcrennan and in the Highlands, and if that meant not marrying, she would accept it. The difficulty, she realized, was that she was falling in love with a Lowlander. Last night had not been the beginning. It has started on the August afternoon she had first met Struan in Edinburgh.

  If she ever did fall in love, according to her grandfather, that would end the fairy magic binding her and binding him as well. So it might seem a solution.

  But that very magic made Donal MacArthur happy. And she could not take that away from him in his twilight years.

  After last night, she began to understand the power of the fairy sort. Perhaps it was real—she felt the chill of that possibility. Grandda had tried to warn her, always claiming that he had lost a son to the Fey and succumbed to the thrall of the queen himself. His bargain, so he said, brought him into the fairy world every seven years, and gave him a gift for the weaving—but over and over, he had warned Elspeth not to risk challenging the fairy ilk.

  But Kilcrennan and her grandfather were all she knew and loved best. She could not bear to bring harm to them. Marriage to Lord Struan, even love, seemed a selfish choice if it could take away the happiness of others.

  Sighing, she knew it was time to talk about this with him—at least some of it. She left the bedchamber and went to the stairs. Her ankle still ached but seemed improved as she descended cautiously.

  Struan was nowhere to be found. She had peered into the library, study, and parlor, even the kitchen, encountering the dogs in the corridor by the garden door. Beyond the window, the rain continued, and through the mist she saw the green lawn where she and Struan had tumbled to the grass with wild and tender kisses, while the fairy court rode past.

  Inhaling sharply at the memory, she entered the kitchen and noticed a tray on the long pine table. A silver pot, a china cup and saucer, a plate with a bit of toast, and a folded piece of creamy paper sat on the tray. Steam swirled up from the silver spout, fragrant with cocoa.

  She touched the note. His handwriting was strong and slightly spiked, with a hint of roundness, like a secret tenderness. She traced a finger over her name—Elspeth, he had written. Nothing more. The tray contents told the rest. He had prepared this for her and then had gone out, she guessed, in a hurry.

  Pouring out the chocolate, she sipped it and nibbled on the buttered toast. Osgar came forward to nudge at her hand, and she relented, giving him a scrap of toast. He urged her toward the door, and she followed.

  As he scratched at the back door, the terriers trotted into the room as well. Elspeth tied her bonnet securely and opened the door, pulling her arisaid up, too, against the wet. Letting Osgar out, she kept the other dogs back, for they would need chasing eventually, and she knew they had been out already, their coats damp.

  Limply slightly, she lifted her skirt hem out of the mud, and Osgar pushed against her to offer support. She patted his shoulder. “Good dog. My loyal friend.”

  She would dearly miss the dog. And his master. Sighing, she looked around.

  The gardens were windblown and deserted. Just as she tu
rned to go back inside, she saw James—Struan, for she should not continue to think of him more intimately—walking toward the house from the direction of the stables and outbuildings. He wore a greatcoat and hat, one hand engaged with his cane, the other shoved in a pocket, coattails billowing in the wind.

  “Good morning, Miss MacArthur,” he said as politely as if they had met in a park or a village green. “Chilly and wet today.”

  “Lord Struan,” she said with a touch of coolness. Now that she saw him, she was not sure how to react. She thought he might feel the same. “The weather has improved some. I can return home this morning.”

  “Aye, but not on foot. I will drive you as soon as the roads dry enough to allow it. I have walked about some—the roads appear to be deuced muddy at the moment, but we will see how the day develops. Stay as long as you like.” His smile was shy, quick, somehow heart-wrenching.

  “I should go.” She glanced away. “Have you seen to the animals already?”

  “All is well. I may be a city lad now, but I know something of country life. Most of the animals here are on the home farm in the glen, but there are a few in a byre here. I saw one of the grooms—he came up briefly to see to the animals, as he had promised. The cow gave no milk this morning. Frightened by the storm, he thought.”

  “Or the Fey.”

  He tipped a brow but made no direct comment. “Mrs. MacKimmie keeps some chickens here. There were a few eggs this morning. The lad and I split them.” He put his hands into his pockets, displayed four brown eggs, pocketed them again. “We can have breakfast.”

  “I had hot chocolate and a little toast already, thank you for that. A bit more would be lovely.” She turned to walk toward the house alongside of him.

  “Quite welcome. I am not a bad hand in the kitchen for basics, being a bachelor and used to scant household staff in my own home—in Edinburgh. How is the ankle this morning?” He glanced down as she limped along. His own gait had the slight rhythm that seemed a part of him. “You’re in no condition to walk home, though you seem anxious to escape Struan House and its laird.”

  “I do not want to escape. But I must not be here alone with you.”

  “Unless, Miss MacArthur, we change our status.”

  She said nothing. In silence, they followed the path toward the kitchen door. The soft rain lessened, and in the pale morning light, the ground was beset with puddles and runnels of water. Elspeth went carefully, now and then accepting Struan’s assistance. He was right—it was clear she could not walk home. He would have to drive her, and she would have to wait on the roads, and his whim, for that.

  “Halloo! Halloo, my lord!”

  Elspeth turned, as he did too, to see two men walking along a road toward the house. “Who is that?” Struan asked. “MacKimmie and the grooms are gone.”

  One man wore a kilt, jacket, and dark bonnet, with a plaid over his shoulder. The other was dressed in a black suit and black hat. Elspeth felt her stomach sink.

  “Mr. Buchanan and his son,” she explained. “The elder Buchanan is a smith, and his son is kirk minister down the glen.” She stopped, and Struan did too. “When they see us together, they will make their own conclusions, and the news will travel quickly. Those two do not guard their tongues well, nor do their wives.”

  “Even a minister? Well, then. Let us meet our fate.” Struan took her arm to escort her toward the stile in the stone fence that curved over the meadow.

  “Och, it’s the new laird!” said the older man. “And Miss MacArthur!”

  She smiled. “Good morning to you both! Lord Struan, may I present Mr. Willie Buchanan, a blacksmith in the glen. And his son, the Reverend John Buchanan.”

  “Good to meet you,” Struan said, shaking their hands. Looking like old and younger twins, the Buchanans tipped their hats to both.

  “A fine soft day.” The elder Buchanan smiled. “After a wild night.”

  “Aye.” Struan nodded. “Let us hope the rain clears soon.”

  “The clouds are thick yet, and dark, see there, over the mountains to the west. More rain to come,” Willie Buchanan pronounced. “Sir, do you have any metals gone to rust in this weather, you be sure to send for me.”

  “I will,” Struan promised.

  “I meant to come sooner to welcome you to the glen, sir,” said the reverend, “but for the puir weather and my parish duties. What a surprise to find you here, Miss MacArthur,” he continued. “I thought you would be working your loom at Kilcrennan, all snug by the fireside.”

  “I—ah—I went to visit my cousin, near here,” she stammered.

  “We stopped by Kilcrennan just this morning to see if all was well after the storm, and Peggy Graham said you were away to Margaret Lamont’s house. She was concerned for you, in the bad rain.”

  “We thought to go to Margaret’s house to see that that all was right and good there, but the roads are that muddy,” said the elder Buchanan. “Not safe that way.”

  She drew a breath. “I did set out for Margaret’s house, but the storm made that very difficult. Lord Struan, ah, came to my assistance.”

  “Did he now.” The elder narrowed his eyes. “What sort of assistance?”

  “A dry roof, a fireside, and the offer of an escort home,” Struan said smoothly. “May I offer you hospitality, gentlemen?”

  “Thank you, sir, but nay,” the old smith said. “We’d best be going. We are walking about to ask after others in the big storm, and off to see that me auld mum is well too. We canna take the pony cart, must go on foot. The river and stream are floody, too, and the auld stone bridge is washed out again. Not collapsed, but not safe for now.”

  “Oh!” Elspeth glanced at Struan. “That is the way back to Kilcrennan.”

  “You can walk the long way over the hills,” the reverend said. “No cart or gig can take the road or the bridge until things dry up again.”

  “Is Mrs. MacKimmie home, then?” Willie Buchanan asked Struan. “I have greetings for her from my wife, who is her good friend.”

  “Not at present, Mr. Buchanan, but I will tell her you called,” Struan replied.

  “Not home? Perhaps Mr. MacKimmie, then.”

  “He is not here at the moment. The weather, you understand.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Buchanan, glancing at his son. “Not home.”

  Listening, Elspeth shivered and drew her plaid higher over her head. The gentlemen adjusted hat brims and jacket collars as they all stood in the drizzle and the wind, with a stone fence and iron gate between them. The two Highlanders did not seem in a hurry to leave. Shifting her weight to her uninjured foot, Elspeth felt Struan’s hand briefly at her elbow. A fast look exchanged between the Buchanans.

  “All yer Southron housemaids ran off, I heard,” Mr. Buchanan said. “We saw yer groom driving the lasses along the road yesterday morning.”

  “Apparently they dislike ghosts and fairies. I have not had much trouble from them myself.”

  “Och, Lowlanders,” old Buchanan said. “Though I canna blame them for leaving. It is a custom in this glen to avoid Struan lands when the fairy riding comes about, whether or not one believes it, aye. My son does not, being a man of God. But I say you are a brave man to stay here at this time. Did no one warn you?”

  “Mrs. MacKimmie mentioned the tradition. It does not bother me to stay.”

  The elder Buchanan twisted his hat in his hand and glanced at Elspeth. “Are you sure he understands the whole of it, Elspeth?”

  “He does, sir,” she answered, holding her chin high.

  “You will find Highlanders a superstitious lot, Lord Struan,” the reverend said. “The people of this glen have their legends, of course. Many find the stories entertaining, but some put real trust in them.” He glanced at Elspeth. “It is not a matter of religious faith, nor paganism or Godlessness, as some suggest. Rather it is part of the unique Celtic character. As a pastor, I let it be and do not concern myself overmuch with it.”

  “Very wise, sir,” Struan said
. “The legends are fanciful and harmless.”

  “The stories,” Elspeth said, “are not just amusement. I have always felt that as part of the culture of the Scottish Highlands, they should be given their due.”

  “Of course,” Reverend Buchanan agreed. “The late Lady Struan was quite interested in the tales of the glen, as I recall. She often drove her pony cart about to interview people about local customs.”

  “My grandmother loved her work,” Struan said affably. “The skies do look rather dreadful. Will you come in for tea or something stronger, though it is early?”

  “No, thank you. We will be on our way. Miss MacArthur, may we see you home?” The reverend smiled. “We would be glad to walk you back to Kilcrennan.”

  “Thank you, it is not necessary,” she said, smiling, standing on one foot, hidden by her skirts and the stone wall. Beside her, Struan was silent. She felt his alertness.

  “No need to impose on the good laird,” the elder Buchanan said. “Yer grandfather would want ye home. He’s expected back this evening from the city if the roads permit.”

  “I was about to see Miss MacArthur home,” Struan said.

  “Nonsense, you are busy, surely. We can do it,” the reverend insisted. “I am sure you will agree, Lord Struan, that the situation is not particularly seemly.”

  “There is nothing amiss here,” Elspeth said. “We are not strangers. Lord Struan and I are acquaintances. We met in Edinburgh,” she blurted.

  “Just so,” Struan agreed. Elspeth was grateful for the support and security she felt as he stood beside her.

  “Ah.” The smith glanced at his son and back again. “Well then, sir, we will move on before the weather worsens.” Then he turned to Elspeth and spoke in Gaelic. “A thousand good wishes to you in your future, Elspeth, daughter of Donal.”

  “And to you, sir,” she replied in that language.

  The men moved on. Then Elspeth picked up her skirt and hurried toward the house, limping with uneven steps. Catching up to her, Struan opened the door and waited for her to enter first.