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

by Susan King

  “How fortunate fairies are only imagination. We need not worry.”

  She slid him a sour look and strolled away, pausing by the fireplace to hold her hands to the warmth. She glanced above the mantel. “Such a wonderful painting.”

  He joined her to look at the landscape painting hung in an ornate gilt frame. “This was a favorite of my grandmother’s.” The design seemed a bit busy to him, trees and clouds on a windy and moonlit night. He had never paid much attention to it.

  “Lovely detail,” she said, gazing at it. “I have seen this before, when Grandda and I would visit here to chat with Lady Struan. Look at the dancers, the white horses, the magical light.” She turned to look up at him, smiling. “You have a fairy painting in your very proper library, sir.”

  “Fairies? I thought it was just trees and such.” The sweeping moonlit landscape showed dark, silver-edged clouds and billowing trees. The artist’s hand was adept, with a talent for delicate detail. The moor and woodland seemed deserted, but at second glance, he saw horses and riders. Now he noticed a few people dancing, wearing gossamer veils, moving in a glow of light. In the distance, figures in sparkling cloaks moved on horseback between the trees.

  “An imaginative artist,” he said.

  “My father painted it,” she said quietly. “Niall MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

  James looked at her in surprise. “Your father! You never mentioned. I had not heard that a local artist did the painting. It has been here since I was a boy.”

  “My father was a gifted artist, and painted this before I was born, so Grandda said, around the time my great-grandfather sold the estate to your grandfather. During the Clearances, my great-grandfather was trying to help his people with the sale, and was glad that the estate would go to a Scotsman rather than an Englishman, I think. He was sad to sell it, so I have been told.”

  James nodded. “I came across the record of sale among my grandmother’s papers. I noticed it was dated the year that I was born. Your father is gone from Kilcrennan now?”

  “I never knew him, or my mother. My grandfather raised me from infancy.”

  Murmuring in sympathy, James felt deeply touched. “I lost my parents when I was eight years old,” he said. “My sister and my brothers and I were taken from our home in Perthshire and separated, sent to the care of relatives. My great-aunt, Lady Rankin—you met her—raised me and Fiona in Edinburgh. We are twins.”

  “Twins! That must be lovely, to have a sibling so close.” Elspeth tilted her head, her gaze warm. “So we are both orphans. We have that in common.”

  “I hope we have happier things in common than that,” he said wryly.

  “I liked your sister very much,” she added. “I am glad you and your siblings had each other during those difficult years.”

  “Thank you. Fiona liked you as well.” That night in Edinburgh, Fiona had agreed with Sir Walter Scott that James should seek out Elspeth MacArthur again. Both of them had hoped that might prove a match, he recalled.

  “Thank you for telling me something about your past. I think you do not like people to know much about you.”

  “Safety in secrets,” he agreed.

  “Now and again it is a relief, and a joy, to share something private. It takes trust. So I thank you.” Her glance was clear, steady, perceptive. He felt once again as if she understood him better than anyone, perhaps even his sister.

  “Not everyone is trustworthy,” he murmured. He wanted very much to trust Elspeth, he realized. Secrets indeed, he thought. He had plenty, and so did she.

  “Do you remember your parents?” she asked.

  “I have some good memories. But I try not to think of them. It is best that way, I find.” He preferred to avoid the sharp sense of loss that struck him whenever he opened the door to those memories. His father had been calm, fair, kind. Sometimes the smell of lavender and the sound of a gentle laugh would remind him of his mother. He did not let himself think of them often.

  “Lavender,” Elspeth said suddenly. “Do you smell it? It’s lovely.”

  Startled, he looked away from her. “No.”

  “I wonder where it came from.” She shrugged. “I have no siblings,” she went on, “nor do I know much about my parents. Grandfather says little about them. My father was an artist, I know that. Losing Niall hurt Grandda deeply. But to me, they are only shadows. Sometimes I dream about them, and then I wonder if they were actually like the parents who appear in my dreams.”

  “I would think your dreams, in particular, are quite accurate.”

  She smiled brightly. “But sir, you do not believe in such things!”

  “A little, when it comes to you.” He looked at the painting again. A detail caught his attention. “Did your mother model for your father? One of the girls looks like you. There,” he said, pointing.

  “Truly?” With a delighted gasp, she rose on tiptoe to see, but was unsteady on her injured ankle. James took her arm in quick support. “Oh, I see! This one—and others too, that one, and that—they all have dark hair like mine.”

  “And their faces have the same delicate shape as yours. Look at the one on the left. There is enough detail to see that her eyes are pale gray, like yours.”

  She continued to smile. “Do you think it could be her?”

  “The shape of her face”—he swept his fingers gently along her cheek—“Aye. There is a resemblance.” Touching her was heaven. He lifted her chin with his fingers, leaned close. She smelled wonderful, cool rain and warm woman, and aye, lavender somehow. Comforting. Joyful, if he could go so far as that.

  Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Do you think he did paint her? I know so little of her. The circumstances were...unusual.”

  “I see.” Perhaps she meant illegitimacy or a dispute between families. “If that is her, she was a beauty, and you favor her.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “You have given me a gift, something of my parents I did not have before.” Resting a hand on his lapel, she rose and kissed his cheek.

  He drew in a quick breath at the tender gesture. He set a hand to her waist and drew her gently toward him, tentative, nose against hers, breath touching—and then a kiss. He felt her return it fully. The pull of it threatened to overcome him.

  Elspeth sighed, melted against him, slid her hand up, over his shoulder, along his collar. But she pulled away. “I must go,” she whispered, eyes still closed.

  “You need not,” he said, kissing her brow, her hair, savoring.

  “I do,” she murmured, pulling back. But she did not break away, only resting her hands on his chest and gazing up at him, still caught in his arms. He could have lost himself in those eyes, silvery pools with something, aye, magical in them.

  “I must go, if the roads allow. Grandda and Peggy Graham will worry about me otherwise. I am sorry to have been such trouble to you. Truly, I am grateful. And truly, you do not need to marry me.”

  “I would certainly feel better about all of this if I did marry you. I think both of us would find it rather convenient.”

  She blinked, then turned her face away. “I need time to think.”

  Was that progress? He hoped so. “In a few days, Lady Rankin will arrive with family and friends to tour the Highlands. They have...certain expectations of me.”

  “Is your sister coming as well? I would like to see her again.”

  “My sister and our youngest brother will be here. Miss Sinclair plans to accompany them as well. You may remember her.”

  “The one who set her cap for you? And your aunt seems to favor that.”

  “Perhaps, but I am not keen on the match.”

  “Miss Sinclair is lovely, and she is part of Edinburgh's social circles. A wealthy heiress, so I heard. She would be an ideal wife for you.”

  “So would you,” he said.

  “I do not understand why you think so.”

  “To be honest, both you and I want to avoid other engagements, and there are...many other reasons.” He tipped
his head. “Shall ask you again, Elspeth?”

  “Hmm.” She considered, eyes twinkling. “Would you drop to one knee?”

  “If you like.” Anything, he thought, surprising himself.

  “What do you want?” Her tone was serious now.

  “I want,” he said quietly, firmly, “to marry you. I am glad, in a way, to have an obligation to you.”

  “Thank you.” But she stepped back, disrupting his hope in the moment. “Please do not let me keep you from your work any longer. Please, can we leave soon? I will read until then. And search for other books on fairy lore in the library.” She chattered too brightly, turning away, skirt swirling.

  What had changed her mind suddenly, when they seemed on the verge of agreement? Things had whirled again without warning. “I have some in the study.” He led her there, indicating the desk littered with books and papers. “My grandmother’s manuscript,” he said. “As a condition of her will, I must agree to finish it, so I am doing some research and making notations. I found some books in the library to help with that.”

  She traced her fingers over the books piled there. “But you do not believe in fairies, or in any part of Otherworld.”

  “That makes no difference. Her book is a compilation of accounts and stories. Readers can decide for themselves what they want to believe.”

  “One must believe wholeheartedly in whatever one does.”

  That simple truth gave him pause. But he shrugged. “Anyone may write objectively about a subject with which they do not necessarily agree.”

  “And one may make a marriage without love. Obligation is enough.”

  He inclined his head. “Touché, Miss MacArthur.”

  She flipped the pages of a book. “I suppose we might assist each other,” she said softly, “in a mutual agreement.”

  “What?” He was distracted, studying the lovely curve of her neck, small and vulnerable where her glossy dark hair gathered in a braid; and the delicate shell of her ear. Everything about her was beautiful. He stood close enough to feel her warmth beside him. “What did you say?”

  “Which road shall we take?” Her fingers tapped a verse on an open page. “Here, the ballad of Thomas the Rhymer.” She drew a breath to read.

  Oh see ye not yon narrow road,

  So thick beset with thorns and briars,

  That is the road to righteousness,

  Though after it but few enquires.

  Entranced, James leaned forward to read the next verse.

  And see not ye that broad, broad road

  That lies across the lily leven

  That is the path of wickedness

  Though some call it the road to heaven.

  “The second road is more interesting than the first.” He touched her shoulder, and when she allowed it, he traced a finger along the back of her neck. She turned sweetly, willingly into his arms, and sighed. He thought she said his name.

  This time the kiss happened quickly, naturally, without hesitation. He knew the risks, knew he might lose his heart, his very soul here and now. He wanted to lose them to her. Brushing his lips over her cheek, her earlobe, he came to his senses, remembering the fierce passion of the night before. Drawing back, he set her a little apart, almost casually, unwilling to show the depth of his feelings even now.

  “Perhaps we could agree to an engagement so long as it suits us both,” he suggested. “A wicked sort of bargain, but it may do for now.”

  She tapped a finger on his chest. “Never bargain where it concerns fairies.”

  “Does it concern fairies?” he asked quickly. Had she sorted that out somehow?

  “‘Tis the road to fair Elfland, where you and I this night maun go,’” she quoted.

  “It seems a fair bargain to me, and could solve our immediate dilemma.”

  “Only in part. Well, perhaps. I am thinking.” She looped her arms around his neck. He could not resist her, felt a spinning within, so that he kissed her, pulled her close. He felt like a man drowning, and she his only hope.

  “Any more of this, my girl, and we had best marry quick.”

  “If we both agreed, but I sense that you do not—”

  The door to the study pushed open then, and Osgar entered, Nellie and Taran trotting behind. James scratched the tall hound’s head as he butted between the humans. “Enter the fairy hound, just when his fey mistress needs him.”

  “I must go home,” Elspeth said. “We will not be alone here for long.”

  “I will go out and look at the road.”

  “Wait.” She stood with her back to the window, silhouetted in the light. “Someone is coming. A girl on foot. A coach not far behind. Aye, and my grandfather is in his gig as well. Very far off. He will be home tonight.”

  Puzzled, James walked past her to look through the window at the view spanning to the east. He saw only drizzle and mist on the hills.

  Then, in the distance, he glimpsed a woman walking along the crest of a hill. Within moments, a coach appeared around the curved base of the hill, making its way along the muddy track. It stopped, and the female stepped. The vehicle moved onward.

  “Your ghillie is coming back,” Elspeth said, joining him by the window. “He just saw the maid walking alone, and so is bringing her to the house.”

  James frowned. “Even if you had the eyes of a hawk, you could not have seen that. Your back was turned until now.”

  “When will you believe me, Struan?” she asked quietly. “I know things. I am not what you think I am, nor am I who you think.”

  He did not understand what she meant, entirely, but he felt an undeniable desire to know more about her, to be with her. Hope, however rusty, awoke in him. Still, he would not fall for fairy nonsense. Every blessed thing had an explanation.

  “I suppose we should get you home,” he said. He went with her to the door. As they crossed the corridor, an overwhelming feeling welled up in him, a yearning both physical and inner, and with it an emotion he dared not name. “Elspeth—”

  She spun, reaching out even as he did. Suddenly she was in his arms again and he was kissing her deeply, thoroughly, with hunger and longing. Forcing himself to pull away, he brushed her hair from her brow. “There is something between us. We must both admit that.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “Let us just agree on an engagement, and see where it leads us. I will speak to your grandfather.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Fickle,” he said wryly, affectionately. “I hoped that kiss meant you had changed your mind.”

  “It is just the fairy blood,” she said lightly. “Fickle, as you say. They say it runs in the family, that fickleness, from our ancestry.”

  “If only it were true. You have no idea how much I want to believe it.”

  “Yet you are still not convinced?” She smiled, turned, and walked ahead of him.

  Chapter 12

  Soon enough and too soon, Elspeth sat in a gig beside Struan as they went carefully along the muddy road. He drew on the reins as the coach slowed as it approached. James leaned out to speak to the driver, who stopped as well.

  “Good afternoon, Angus MacKimmie!” he called. “And Mrs. MacKimmie! How nice to see you so soon.”

  The housekeeper, seated in the coach with a maidservant, leaned forward. “My lord, aye, we’re back. Our daughter has enough help, and with your guests arriving next week, we thought we would be needed here more. This is Annie MacLeod, who is one of our maidservants at Struan. Good day, Miss MacArthur,” she added, nodding, looking a bit startled to see her.

  “Mrs. MacKimmie,” Elspeth said, feeling a hot blush. “Lord Struan was just taking me to Kilcrennan,” she went on in a rush.

  “Aye,” James said, without offering an explanation. Elspeth sensed the housekeeper bursting to know, her eyes flickering from the viscount to her.

  “How are the roads, Angus?” James asked.

  “Not very good, sir, depending on where you go. Over to Kilcr
ennan, you may have some trouble at the bridge.” He peered toward Elspeth. “Good afternoon, Miss MacArthur,” he said, tipping his hat.

  “Miss MacArthur had a bit of a mishap and is unable to walk home as she intended,” James said. “I have offered to drive her.”

  “Oh dear, lass, are ye hurt?” Mrs. MacKimmie asked. “How good of you, sir.”

  “There’s mud gushing doon the hills to swamp the road in some places,” MacKimmie said, “and trees down here and there. The auld stone bridge is nearly washed over. I wouldna go that way, sir.”

  Elspeth sat silent as James thanked the ghillie, and when waving farewell, she felt a sense of relief as they rumbled forward. “Thank you for telling them little.”

  “No need to explain,” he replied, “nor will they ask, I think.”

  “The MacKimmies are good-hearted souls. But Willie Buchanan and the kirk minister will let everyone know our business.”

  “I am sure secrets do not stay that way for long in a small glen.”

  “The fairies keep their secrets. Humans have a bit more trouble with it.”

  “I think you have a few secrets yourself,” he murmured.

  “As do you.”

  “Have you not sniffed them all out with your Highland powers?”

  She lifted her chin. “Everyone but you takes me at my word.”

  “I am a cautious sort. Now, I have a question for you.”

  “I will not marry you.”

  “I only want to ask when you might be able to assist me with my grandmother’s book.”

  She looked at him from under her bonnet rim. “When would you like?”

  His keen, quick glance told her all his thoughts. Immediately, she saw. He needed her—he wanted her. She caught her breath, feeling the urge herself.

  She could refuse his marriage offer, but his request that she work with him meant that she could be near him a little longer. “I could come any day,” she said.

  “Excellent. This is Thursday. I will fetch you Monday, how would that be?”

  She nodded, heart pounding. “What about your guests?”