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

by Susan King

  “Do not give up your suit, Struan,” Donal said. “You offered marriage in return for the situation that kept her alone with you?”

  “I have offered. But she seems determined to refuse.”

  “A stubborn lass. And young, several years younger than yourself, I vow. Even a few years’ time makes a difference in the way we see life, hey? But soon she turns twenty-one, and—” He stopped. “Well. The fairies have won, what’s done is done.”

  The weaver had imbibed too much, too quickly, James thought and was speaking in riddles and delusions. “She is not old, and far from a spinster.” For quite a young woman, he realized, she had an evolved wisdom and charming perspective on life that many women years old lacked.

  “She would not mind spinsterhood, that one. But it is time Elspeth wed. She would be a fine wife for any man. For you.” Donal sipped again, then leaned toward James. “Lord Struan, I went to Edinburgh to talk to a respected tailor there about taking Elspeth’s hand. But when I spoke with him, I did not like him so well as before. Now I am looking at you and I am telling myself, ‘Ah, this is the lad for wee Elspeth!’”

  James returned MacArthur’s gaze steadily, not sure how to answer.

  “Good then,” the man said. “What is it you teach, even though you are a wealthy lord?”

  “Geology, sir,” James said. He must divest the older man of the opinion of his wealth. Later for that, when Donal was sober. “The study of rocks. Of the earth.”

  “Good! You can help us find the gold.” He raised his glass. “You are the one.”

  “I would be glad to help you search for gold, if any can be found in these hills. Some areas of the Highlands do have veins of gold running through the rock.” He had sampled enough of the so-called fairy brew; his head was buzzing. He looked askance at the potent stuff remaining in his glass. “My grandmother wrote about legends of fairy gold in Scotland.”

  “We have a legend of fairy treasure in this very glen,” MacArthur said. “Let me tell you—ah, Elspeth!” He looked up.

  Seeing Elspeth in the doorway, James stood quickly. “Miss MacArthur.”

  “Lord Struan.” She approached, still limping slightly. He offered her his wing chair, and she sat, gray skirts settling around her, feet crossed at the ankle. He slid a footstool toward her, and she rested her foot there, revealing a glimpse of narrow black slippers and a hint of white stockings.

  “Struan is a fine man to give you his seat, and a wee stool for the foot,” MacArthur said.

  “He is,” Elspeth said, smoothing her skirts, not looking up.

  Hiding a smile, for he was just happy, suddenly, to be near her, James leaned against the mantelpiece. The whisky made him feel mellow, warm, content. He might even believe in fairies for the moment—he could easily imagine Elspeth as their queen, with her delicate bones, her impish lips, her crystal-gray eyes, dark lashes sweeping over pink cheeks. He wanted to touch her shoulder, her silken dark hair, bound and braided with ribbons.

  She glanced up at him then—and he saw she was not the least content.

  “Ellie, have some of Dougal MacGregor’s fairy brew,” MacArthur said. “‘Twill take the pain from your foot. Oh. Did I say—wait, I do not know his name,” he mumbled.

  “Your kinsman’s name is safe with me, sir,” James reassured him.

  “I like your lairdie,” MacArthur told Elspeth. “Will you have the brew, lass?”

  “A bit, thank you. A swallow—aye, enough,” Elspeth said as her grandfather poured. “I hope you warned Lord Struan about this particular brew. It is strong.”

  “Och, he’s done well, had a dram and a bit, and no sign of weakness. ‘We are na fou,’” he quoted, raising his glass. “’Well, nae that fou–’”

  “‘But just a drappie in our ee,’” James joined in, completing the Burns line and lifting his glass in salute.

  MacArthur boomed a laugh. “Ellie, marry this lad, do!”

  “Aye, Ellie, do,” James echoed softly, feeling more comfortable by the moment. He liked this place, these people, so very well. And their lovely whisky had loosened his usual restraint, for he rather thought now that he unequivocally loved the daughter of this place. Loved her. He raised the glass again in another small salute that only Elspeth saw.

  “Away wi’ you,” she murmured, with a little smile that melted his heart further.

  “Never,” he mouthed, and his heart pounded hard within. Never. Surely it was the whisky. And yet, oh, he meant it. Loved her. The thought near overwhelmed him.

  “Beware the fairy brew, James MacCarran, Lord Struan,” she said.

  “Beware the wee fairy herself,” he whispered. She laughed, shook her head, and glanced at her grandfather. Donal was fiddling intently with his cravat and seemed oblivious to the exchange between the two young people.

  “It’s late, Grandda,” Elspeth said. “Our guest will want an early start.”

  “Women always come up with practical notions when there are good topics to explore and good whisky in the glass,” MacArthur complained. “First let me tell Struan about the fairy gold. He must know the truth of it.”

  “Go on,” James replied, intrigued.

  Dear God, not all the truth, Elspeth thought. “Grandda, it is late—”

  “Long ago, they do say,” Donal began, “the Daoine Síth of this glen had a treasure so fine it shone like the sun inside their hillside palaces. Gold and silver and precious stones from mines tended by the fairies themselves, jewels and plate and all you can imagine, a treasure more valuable than any—this, oh this, was marvelous to behold.”

  Elspeth saw James listening intently, his shoulder leaned against the mantelpiece. He looked relaxed, as if he fully belonged here. Her heart quickened at the thought, but when he caught her eye, she looked away.

  “Long ago, one of our MacArthur ancestors found that hidden cache,” Donal continued. “The MacArthurs are the oldest clan in the Highlands, so our tradition says. And likely it is true, or we would not be claiming it, would we?”

  James laughed softly, and Elspeth smiled. She felt simple happiness just having him here. If she married him, that would always be true—she had only to accept his offer. But circumstances made that more difficult than he could know, and more than she could explain.

  Regardless of Highland Sight, she could not tell if his proposal was genuine, or merely an obligation. The man’s thoughts seemed inscrutable. Why did he need a bride, to insist so on marriage? He must be holding back some truth—and yet she did not even understand the truth about herself. If her grandfather insisted she was indeed fairy-born, and if other supposed proof arose, that would convince a skeptical viscount that Elspeth’s whole family was lunatic.

  And the story her grandfather was telling now would seem mad to an outsider.

  “This MacArthur clansman found the fairy treasure in the hills,” Donal was saying. “He hid it away to ransom his kinsman, a piper who had been lured into the hillside by the fairies. The Fey would not give that piper back, only demanded their precious things returned. He refused. So they made havoc in the glen, stealing humans, playing tricks. The thief died of a fairy bolt in his leg, and he the one who had hidden the gold. It has never been found since, never returned to the fairies.

  “So ever since,” he went on, “they have stolen folk away and made wicked bargains. Their mischief will continue until the treasure is found.”

  “The fairy riding,” James said. “So that is why some are frightened of it?”

  “Aye, they fear the fairies will take them as a bargain for missing treasure.”

  “How long ago would this treasure have been taken...if it was real?”

  “Three hundred years, and aye, ʼtis real,” Donal replied.

  “But how could one find it? Are there clues, or maps?”

  “Not that we know. But once it is found, two keys are needed to open the treasure chest. One key is a certain stone. The other—” He nodded toward Elspeth.

  She shook her hea
d to silence her grandfather.

  “Miss MacArthur was searching for a stone in the garden at Struan,” James said. “Later she found a blue agate in the library case and thought that might be it.”

  “You found the blue stone?” MacArthur leaned toward her.

  “There is a pretty blue stone at Struan House,” Elspeth said. “But I do not know if it is the same one. But any sort of key is useless if we do not know where the treasure lies. We have nothing to unlock until that day.”

  “A bit of ancient gold and silver, a few gems—treasure surfaces now and again in the Highlands, lost or buried by early cultures,” James said. “It could easily be seen as fairy gold. Legends grow that way sometimes.”

  “This is real, I told you,” Donal said abruptly.

  “Even if you found gold, how would you know it was, ah, fairy gold? And how would it be returned? Left out on a hillside? It could be taken, but not by the Fey.”

  “I know how to return it. Do not worry about that, sir.”

  Elspeth listened, hoping the men would let this go. But her grandfather had imbibed too much whisky, and would keep on about the fairies. “Grandda—”

  “I am fine,” he grumbled.

  “Since this MacArthur fellow was your ancestor, perhaps there are clues in family lore or local legends. Is there anything in writing?” James asked.

  “My ancestor was a farmer, not a poet. I have told you what we know,” Donal said. “The treasure is here somewhere, and we know how to open it if we can find it. Without their treasure, the fairies lack their full power, which means they need our help, human assistance, to find their missing gold. An ancient MacArthur nearly outwitted them—and they will never allow us contentment until that is avenged.”

  “Why does their power depend on it? They are fairies. That is, if they exist,” James added.

  “The gold came out of their own hill, and so it holds power for them,” Donal explained. “Without it they are not as strong. They are not at ease.”

  “A fairy’s aim in life is to be happy, in harmony with nature and the earth,” Elspeth added. “Living is an art to them, pleasure and delight and enchantment. They cannot be happy if they are uneasy over something stolen from them.”

  “A very pretty legend,” James said.

  “They are a temperamental lot,” Donal said. “They do not forget. We call them the Good Neighbors, but they would be better neighbors if they had all their gold.”

  “Over the years, people must have looked for this treasure,” James said.

  “Some, aye, out of greed instead of a belief in the fairy ilk. But the wrath of the Daoine Sìth falls on all, especially MacArthurs.”

  “Truly an interesting tale. I would like to note it in my grandmother’s book.”

  “Perhaps you should not include all the details in your book,” Elspeth said, glancing at her grandfather.

  “Local legends are the point of the book,” James answered.

  “The legend of the lost fairy gold is common knowledge here,” Donal MacArthur said. “But Elspeth is right, you must not write down all we know. Some parts must be kept back. The fairies will be angry if all their secrets are told.”

  “Grandda, I think our guest does not believe in all of this.”

  “On the contrary, I find it fascinating,” James countered.

  “But you do not believe it,” Elspeth answered softly.

  “I believe,” he replied, “what is proven to me.”

  “He will believe it soon enough. He is writing the fairy book, he is drinking the fairy brew,” Donal said. “And he is taken with you, lass. The glamourie has him now.”

  “The glamourie?” James asked. “My grandmother wrote of it.”

  “Aye,” Elspeth said. “It is a fairy enchantment that changes our perception of the world so that we see the Fey as clearly as anyone.”

  “Something like that,” James said, and his gaze fixed hers.

  “Aye, sir,” Donal said. “And yon lassie has the knack of it.”

  James inclined his head. “That she does.”

  Chapter 15

  Stirring in the night, still a bit groggy from the whisky, James was unsure what had woken him. He had not dreamed, exactly, yet had sensed voices, moving shadows around him. He needed fresh air to clear his head—the so-called fairy brew had been stronger than he thought.

  Dressing quickly in trousers and shirt, he shrugged into the borrowed frock coat, leaving cravat and waistcoat aside. In the wee hours, no one would see him.

  Slipping out of the house, he decided on a brisk walk, following the long earthen lane that led toward the weaving cottages perched between hills and a stretch of meadow. The night was cool and misty, and moonlight sliced through overhead clouds. James noticed translucent rings around the bright moon. The sky was clearing after days of rain.

  His footfalls echoed quietly, but soon he was surprised to hear the clacking rhythm of a loom. Light glowed in the window of one of the weaving cottages. Was Elspeth unable to sleep too? The loom clicked the fast cadence of a weaver passionate about the work.

  Approaching the door, about to knock, he realized this cottage was not the one Elspeth had been in earlier. Moving to the small window, he glanced inside.

  Donal MacArthur sat at a large loom in the light of a single lantern, the rest of the room in shadow. He worked quickly, shifting and moving with power, speed, and certainty.

  James frowned, then gaped in astonishment. MacArthur worked so fast that his hands, the shuttle and colored threads, the loom itself were simply a blur. The red tartan pattern gathered rapidly on the roller, faster than seemed humanly possible.

  James blinked, rubbed his fingers over his eyelids, looked again. The loom whirred, clicked, and shuddered while the weaver sped through his work like a demon. The incredible pace seemed beyond what a man could do.

  Had the whisky had been that strong? Was he dreaming after all?

  “Come away!” A hand touched his arm. James turned to see Elspeth, who pulled on his sleeve. “James, please.”

  He reached out, drew her close so that she could peer through the window. “Look. What is going on? How is he doing that?”

  “Hush,” she whispered. He looked down, and the silk of her hair, loosely braided for the night, caressed his chin as she pressed close. He drew her aside, away from the window.

  “Why are you out here? You must have been sleeping,” he said, noticing that she wore a dark plaid shawl over a night rail, the fabric pale in the moonlight. “Did the infernal noise of his weaving wake you?”

  “I woke suddenly and knew you were out here. So I came.”

  “Woke and just knew,” he said.

  “Just knew. I feel you, in a way,” she whispered. “Sometimes I just know where you are, as if you were...part of me.” She touched his arm.

  Part of her. Somehow he knew what she meant. He felt it too. He and his twin had a tie between them, and this was strangely similar. But how—he stopped. Was it possible to feel a bond with someone so quickly, trust so completely, love so immediately? And how, at this moment, was Donal MacArthur doing that unearthly weaving? His mind whirled.

  “Come away,” Elspeth said softly. “We should not be here.”

  “Wait.” He bent his head, mouth beside her ear. He felt her catch her breath. “I want to sort this out, whatever this is. I want to understand what is happening.” In the weaving cottage, he thought—and in his own heart.

  “You must not watch my grandfather. Come away,” she insisted.

  “He works the loom like the devil himself. Why?”

  “It is a secret of the Kilcrennan weavers. Grandda’s own secret to guard. We must not look. Please, come away with me.” She tugged at his arm.

  “That inhuman pace—how does he keep it up?” He glanced through the window. In a whirlwind of the weaving, Donal never looked up, snatching the roll of tartan from the loom and setting the frame again, absorbed in his work, all at a steady and astonishing sp
eed. “I saw you today at the loom—such skill and grace. But what he is doing in there is unearthly.”

  “It is not of this earth, what he does.”

  A chill slid down his spine. “Please explain.”

  She looked up at him, so beautiful in the moonlight, so solemn. “It is the fairy gift upon him. I should not tell you—but listen, now. Years ago, Donal MacArthur was given the fairy gift of weaving a month of work in an evening.”

  “Fairy gift?”

  “An ability bestowed on him by the fairies. A kind of spell.”

  “Away wi’ you,” James murmured gently. “I did not have that much whisky.”

  She was sincere, eyes wide and earnest. “It is due to the fairy whisky that you are able to see his pace tonight.”

  “I am nae fou—well, nae that fou,” he jested softly. She shook her head.

  “They say the fairy brew allows some, only certain people, to see the fairy magic at work. Without sipping the brew, you would see only a man at his weaving.”

  He frowned, remembering that her grandfather had hinted something similar. “Donal mentioned the gift of the fairies. I thought he meant the Highland Sight.”

  “That as well is a gift. Some are blessed by the fairies at birth.”

  “You truly believe this?” Everything in him wanted to deny what she was telling him.

  She shrugged, then nodded. “I have grown up with these beliefs and tales. Some I wonder about—others I do believe are true. There is no other explanation unless we are all truly mad.”

  The small hairs lifted on his arms, his neck. He felt a strange and dreadful sense growing—what if fairies were real? “How do you explain Donal’s weaving ability? Can you always see it, or only with the whisky?”

  “I see it,” she said simply. “I am a fast weaver, and I can make a good length of tartan in a few days. When the magic comes over my grandfather like this, he can weave dozens of plaids over a single long night,” she said.

  “I—do not know what to say,” he breathed, glancing back toward the window, where the light spilled, and the wild clacking of the loom sounded.