by Susan King
“An entertaining Highland tale and no more,” James said. “Just a local legend that Miss MacArthur was explaining. Isn’t that so?” Elspeth nodded, eyes wide.
“The painting has fairies in it. Look! I never noticed that when we visited before.” Fiona pointed to Niall’s painting.
Charlotte shoved between James and Elspeth to gaze up at the picture. “Very pretty, though I think it is more suited to a bedroom than this room. Perhaps you could have it moved, James, if I find a better spot for it upstairs?”
“I like it here,” he answered. “Grandmother was very fond of it. By the way, Miss MacArthur’s father was the artist.”
“Your father?” Charlotte looked at Elspeth with surprise. “Then your family may want to purchase the picture when James sells Struan House.”
“Sell the house?” Elspeth turned gray eyes up to him, her distress clear.
“Not yet,” he said, frowning.
“He wants to be rid of the place, and one can hardly blame him, a drafty old house like this, so far away from home.” Charlotte tucked her hand in his elbow in a proprietary way that made him stiffen cautiously. Elspeth looked away.
“It is not so far. Many come up to the Highlands from the city,” he only said.
“But you have so many responsibilities in Edinburgh, and this house and estate will require attention, unless we—er, you—wish to spend a good part of the year in the Highlands.”
“I may indeed do that.” With a polite smile, he disengaged his arm and stepped away. Charlotte smiled. She could be deliberately oblivious to whatever disagreed with her goal. And he was clearly the goal.
“Lord Struan, what is this? Would you sell this grand old place?” Sir Philip asked in a jovial tone as he came toward them, escorting Lady Rankin on his arm.
“I am considering all options,” James replied, nodding a greeting to both.
“Why then, I might purchase it myself,” Sir Philip said with a hearty laugh.
“Dear Philip! And Lady Rankin. I hope you feel more rested,” Charlotte cooed.
“I am. Did we miss tea?” Lady Rankin kissed his cheek, then sat while Fiona poured tea for her and Sir Philip. “Miss MacArthur, how nice to see you again,” Lady Rankin said after a moment—a pause meant to put the girl in a secondary place, James noted, certainly of less importance than Charlotte. “You live nearby, I recall?”
“I do, my lady. My grandfather and I live down the glen.”
“I believe your grandfather is a weaver? Kilcrennan’s?” Sir Philip asked.
“Aye, sir,” Elspeth replied.
“I have Kilcrennan tartan in my own wardrobe. Fine stuff!”
“Weaving! I hope you do not employ small children in your factory,” Charlotte said.
“Only myself when I was small,” Elspeth said, mischief glinting in her eyes.
“You weave cloth in a factory? How unusual,” Lady Rankin said.
“It is not a factory. But I am a weaver, aye,” Elspeth confirmed, even as Lady Rankin and Charlotte raised their eyebrows. “We use handlooms and practice the old ways of the craft. My grandfather, and his father and grandfather before him, grandmothers too, were all weavers in this glen. It is an old family tradition here.”
“Mr. MacArthur is an old-school artisan,” Struan added. “Miss MacArthur is very skilled too. Admirably so.”
“Highland weaving is an ancient craft,” Fiona said. “It is nearly an art form in the Highlands. Here in the north, factories and workshops do not exist as they might in the south. Handwoven tartan is very popular now, so I imagine Kilcrennan weavers must be very busy. We can thank Sir Walter Scott for that—his popular books have helped to restore a sense of national identity and heritage to Scotland. After the king’s visit, everyone wants plaid, indeed anything so-called ‘Scotch.’”
“Aye, it seems so.” James silently blessed his sister for her defense of weaving, and the Highlands—and indeed Elspeth and Kilcrennan.
“You have an appreciation for the Highlands, Miss MacCarran,” Elspeth said.
“I love it up here,” Fiona said. “James and I spent some wonderful holidays at Struan House as children.”
“My sister dedicates her time to a Highland society, and travels about teaching English to native Gaelic speakers,” James added.
“You were both here as children? It is a wonder we did not meet sooner,” Elspeth said.
I wish we had, he nearly said. His life might have taken a happier course far sooner. “We were here for only a fortnight at a time, and not so often, though we wandered the hills with our grandfather and met some locals. We must have met your grandfather when we were children, as he knew Lord and Lady Struan. But I imagine you were too young to play with us at the time.”
He smiled. His whole heart went out to her, and he wondered if she saw it.
She laughed softly. “I may have been too young, nor did my grandfather bring me to Struan House when I was small. I met Lady Struan later. A lovely woman.” She turned to Fiona. “How good of you to teach English to Highland children. Some families speak both languages, as ours did, but it varies among homes, particularly among the crofters and such.”
Fiona nodded agreement, just as Mrs. MacKimmie entered the room, busying herself clearing the tea table. James handed her his empty cup with quiet thanks.
“Philip tells me the gardens here are spectacular, even in autumn,” Lady Rankin said, gazing out the window. “I would love to see them, and I’m sure Charlotte would too. Your manservant told Philip that there are fairies out in your garden. How quaint! We must go look for them. Little statues, I suppose he means.”
“Och, Mr. MacKimmie likely spoke of our real fairies,” Mrs. MacKimmie said as she cleared the tea things. Lady Rankin gasped, and James smiled—like Charlotte, his great-aunt was not used to household staff joining a conversation. Nor did she believe in fairies.
“Oh aye, the Fey are said to live in the hills nearby,” Elspeth said.
James lifted his brow, quite enjoying the stunned silence. He rather thought Elspeth had said so for Charlotte’s benefit, for that young woman simply gaped.
“The charming folderol of the Highlands,” he said lightly. “I did not believe it myself when I came here.” He saw Elspeth glance at him quickly. “But one begins to consider it after a while. Some of the stories are more than a little eerie.”
“Fascinating!” Fiona turned. “Has anyone seen real fairies here at Struan?”
“Some claimed to have seen them on the grounds and in the glen,” Elspeth said. “Traditionally, the fairies are said to visit Struan House at this time every year. It is said that they ride across Struan lands over a few nights. Lord Struan and I might have seen them one night.”
Now that went a bit far, James thought wryly, as the others turned to stare at Elspeth. Was she intent on shocking Charlotte in particular, or all of them? She was not aggressive, but she was frank by nature. Likely she saw the wisdom in saying something before rumors were heard. Sooner or later, he would marry the girl. His family would learn her outspokenness, and come to accept that some local traditions might seem too fantastic to believe.
“You…and Miss MacArthur…did what?” Charlotte squeaked.
“Saw the fairies at midnight,” Elspeth said. “Or at least what looked like them.”
“You and Struan were together at midnight?” Charlotte squeaked out.
“James,” Lady Rankin said. “I did not know you had entertained while here.”
“He did not. It was just me, and it could not be helped,” Elspeth said. “We were outside on the grounds, and saw something...quite eerie, as Lord Struan said.”
“Alone?” Charlotte asked.
James drew a breath, blew it out. “As a matter of fact, we were. Miss MacArthur was in a bit of a predicament that evening. I came to her assistance,” he explained. “I cannot vouch for seeing fairies. It was probably mist. But the rest, aye, that is true.”
“Lord Struan kindly offered
me help when I was caught in a storm,” Elspeth said. “And that night we saw the fairies riding through. Or perhaps just I saw them.”
“Good God,” Philip said. “I was just out there, and saw nothing nearly as good!”
“Alone,” Charlotte persisted. “Here. At night.”
“And you saw fairies?” Fiona asked, head tilted.
“It was just a very thick mist,” James reassured her.
“Och, and what a puir night that was,” Mrs. MacKimmie said, holding the tea tray, in no hurry to depart. “A fierce storm, rain for days. The roads flooded and the bridge broke. How kind of Lord Struan to rescue Elspeth MacArthur.”
“Are you quite finished, Mrs. MacKimmie?” Lady Rankin asked.
“Then you were here, too, Mrs. MacKimmie,” Fiona said.
“Struan House is my home, Miss MacCarran,” the housekeeper answered. “I am always here.” She smiled almost beatifically.
Breathing out in relief and gratitude, James nodded to her. Her eyes twinkled as she made her way to the door, tray clattering.
“James, do enlighten us,” Lady Rankin said. “I am confused.”
“Miss MacArthur was stranded by a devilish Highland gale. She had to accept hospitality at Struan House until she could get home to Kilcrennan.”
“I see,” Charlotte said coldly.
“I suppose it could not be helped,” Lady Rankin decided, “and you had a capable chaperone in Mrs. MacKimmie, even if her manners are forward.”
“She is a most excellent housekeeper,” James replied. “A treasure.”
“A kind woman,” Elspeth said. “I have known her all my life.”
“What of the fairies?” Patrick asked. “You saw them?”
“So beautiful,” Elspeth said. “Lord Struan thinks it was a fancy of my imagination, but I believe I saw them as clear as I see you now.”
Fiona touched Elspeth’s shoulder. “My dear, this is wonderful! What did they look like? How does one see them?”
Elspeth turned with a smile, opened her mouth to speak, a peculiar twinkle in her eyes. James nearly groaned aloud, seeing what was to come. “Miss MacCarran, you will see them yourself one day,” Elspeth said. “But…oh, do be careful if you should decide to paint them.”
“Paint them!” Fiona looked at James. “Does she know what I do?”
“She does not,” James answered.
“The fairy ilk dislike having their picture made,” Elspeth went on. “You may very well see them one day, Miss MacCarran, but if you try to sketch them, they will cause you mischief.” She paused. “Oh! A vow! Did you make a vow…and Struan as well, a promise to Lady Struan?” She glanced at James, her brow furrowed.
“I promised to finish her book, as you know, Miss MacArthur,” he said calmly. He had not told her much about the conditions of his grandmother’s will. And now, when he thought Elspeth could no longer surprise him, she did so again.
He owed her a full explanation. Especially with those gray eyes, usually sparkling and yet so serious now, watching him. She knew there was far more to it.
“Miss MacArthur, do you have the Highland Sight?” Fiona asked. “Sir Walter thought so when he met you in Edinburgh.” She beamed at Elspeth, then at James, her pleasure clear. His twin sister had reason to be thrilled. He sighed.
“This is all very silly,” Charlotte said. Her angry glower made her look harsh, James noticed. He knew she wanted his affection, particularly now that he stood to inherit, although she did not know the details. He could offer friendship, but he could not love her. Suddenly he felt sorry for her. Loving someone in her possessive and superior manner must be hard—but to her, that did mean love.
Now he noticed Sir Philip Rankin looking attentively at Charlotte, and standing close to her. Philip was short, plain, and balding, but he was clever, possessed a good income, and was clearly smitten. James had not seen it before, but he felt pleased. Charlotte needed someone who would adore her, someone simple enough to overlook her flaws. Those two might be a reasonable match, James speculated.
“Not so silly, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “Fairy lore is very much part of the Highland culture. While reading my grandmother’s work, I have come to realize that there are many things in heaven and earth that we cannot understand, as the Bard said.” His own skepticism had lessened quite a lot, he admitted silently.
“Miss MacCarran, remember to ask permission of the fairies when you make sketches in the Highlands,” Elspeth was telling Fiona. “Or they may try to steal you away. That happened to—oh!” She gasped, turning to James. “My father painted them, and fell in love with one of them, and—oh, what if he was taken because of the picture!”
“Who took him? Highland savages?” Lady Rankin put a hand to her bosom.
“Fairies, Aunt,” Patrick said. “They are said to steal people away to their world.”
“What!” Lady Rankin grew pale. “How can that be?”
“If the Fey are angered, they may do anything out of revenge,” Elspeth said.
“So they say.” James wanted to take her attention away from this subject. He had seen that curious glaze in her eyes before, the frankness that overcame her and encouraged her to speak freely, too honestly, of unbelievable matters. He would do his best to protect her from the others’ skepticism because he loved her.
He did love her. His heart seemed to expand, his spirit fill, with the warmth and grandness of the feeling. Taking her elbow, he turned her toward his study.
“Miss MacArthur is quite the expert in fairy lore,” he said over his shoulder, guiding Elspeth to the door. “And I am reminded that she visited today because she has kindly offered to advise me on local folklore. So if you will excuse us, we have some work to attend to.” He ushered Elspeth into the room, hearing Charlotte’s outraged gasp behind him.
He had not meant to be rude, but it had been necessary to remove Elspeth from further questioning. For propriety’s sake, he left the study door partly open. Then he drew her into the shadows behind it.
“Leave it open,” Elspeth said. “Charlotte might knock it down otherwise.”
“Let her,” James said abruptly. “Now tell me what you were going on about back there. The painting. The fairies.”
“Your aunt looked as if she would fall over in a faint when you dragged me away like that.”
“It seemed wise to remove you before you predicted something dire, or revealed all your fairy secrets, or invited the blasted fairies into the blasted room!” He said the last too loudly, and pushed the door nearly shut, leaving a gap.
“Which fairy secrets are those? Best open that more, or they will be after us.”
“Let them. Your grandfather’s peculiar weaving habits. Your father’s fate. The very fairies plotting to kidnap you, my lass.”
“So you do believe!” She looked pleased. Hopeful.
“Hardly. But I accept that what is unusual to others seems normal for you. Will that do?”
She tilted her head. “For now.” Her eyes were like aquamarine lit with silver. But he would not tell her that. It was too damn poetic. Too vulnerable. “What were you saying about your father and the painting?”
“I think I just discovered what happened to my father.” She touched his arm in her excitement, fingers strong and supple from the weaving. He admired her skill, admired the woman, wanted to take her into his arms and show her how very much.
Instead, he kept very still. “Tell me, then.”
“I think he was out in the hills, saw the Síth and sketched them, and went home to paint them. And they took him in forfeit. I must tell Grandda,” she added, turning.
“What in thunderation—preposterous. Wait,” he said, taking her arm. He did not want her to leave. He did not want to talk about fairies.
“Lord Struan, your language deteriorates when you are upset.”
“A casualty of the war, my vocabulary,” he said. “Go on.”
“When I looked at the painting, I saw here”—she tapped her
forehead—“what happened to my father. I knew he made the painting and fell in love with one of the Fey, and they came one night and took him with them.”
He shook his head, huffed a laugh, surrendering. He nearly believed this, though it shook the foundations of reason. At the least, he had to give credence to her own belief and acceptance, because he respected her, and loved her.
And he was more lost than he had ever thought possible. Reaching out, he traced his fingers over her soft hair, cupped her chin. His body throbbed even at that simple touch. “I see. So you just knew, in your way. Go on.”
“And I saw, in my mind, your sister walking in the hills carrying a sketchbook. Does she have a habit of that?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I saw her being watched by fairies. She must take care to avoid a bad fate.”
“Fiona is far too pragmatic to see fairies, and if she ever did, they would have a devil of a time taking her away. You do not know her yet, but you will. She seems calm and biddable, but she would give the fairies such a fuss they would be glad to escape with their own lives. If they exist,” he added.
“What promise did you and Fiona make to your grandmother?”
“Just when,” he said, resigned, “did that revelation come to you?”
“When I was talking to Fiona. Did you make a promise to Lady Struan?”
“The book. She requested that in her will.”
“Aye. What else?”
He exhaled. Eventually, this must be said. Honesty was important for both of them if they were to continue together. “My grandmother set the condition that in order to inherit, I must find a Highland bride. To be specific, a fairy bride.”
“A fairy bride,” she repeated. She crossed her arms. Tilted her head.
“Otherwise there will be little inheritance. But she set an impossible condition.”
“Did she.” She watched him. “And then you met me.”
“Elspeth, listen. It was not that way, but—”
“You knew this all along, yet kept silent!” She nearly hissed that.
“We both have our secrets.”
