Surveying the daunting pile of papers and books on his untidy desk, James sighed, then resumed reading his grandmother’s manuscript. The distraction of Elspeth, to put it mildly, had brought respite from the work, but the task remained. Soon he needed to finish the manuscript and produce a bride with fairy blood—or one claiming to have it—for the solicitor’s approval.
Elspeth MacArthur would meet or exceed any standard in a wife, fanciful or not, if only he could convince her to marry him. Yet she remained stubborn. Soon he would drive her home, and make certain to meet her grandfather and do his best to court her. If she continued to refuse him, he and his siblings could lose everything.
A terrible reason to marry someone, he knew, especially when he was becoming fond of the lass. He drew a breath at the thought. But Lady Struan’s will had left him and his siblings little choice in the matter of their marriages and actions, at least until the terms were satisfied and funds dispersed. He felt miserly and deceptive and did not like it. Somehow, someday, he would explain it to Elspeth.
Shaking his head in silent frustration, he turned another page in the manuscript. He had nearly finished reading and had made inroads with research and notes. Fairy lore puzzled him, to be sure, but the interviews Lady Struan had conducted, mostly to do with fairies and the supernatural, were quite entertaining.
Certainly, he would rather study ancient rock formations than fairies. Each day he was slipping behind on his own research. Science, vying with fancy here at Struan House, was losing.
Despite Elspeth’s claim about fairies in the garden that night, he had noticed nothing beyond the fierce weather. Her insistence about the fairies somewhat concerned him, but he was realizing how deeply embedded local traditions were in this glen. Elspeth had learned these tales, and this way of thinking, in childhood.
Rain pattered against the windows. Chair creaking, he reached to set the well-thumbed handwritten manuscript aside. The work was challenging, but nothing was as crucial just now as coaxing Elspeth MacArthur to marry him.
Time was a factor. Before he journeyed to Struan House, he had decided to offer the estate for sale, the most practical solution to the multitude of problems facing him and his siblings. The house was his, outside of the mad conditions of marriage and fairy whatnot that tied up the funds. Accordingly, he had written to the advocate, Mr. Browne, asking him to begin searching for a buyer.
A reply, however unexpected, had come within a week. James took the letter from a desk drawer and read it again. The Right Hon. The Viscount Struan, it began. My Lord, Rec’d your inquiry and yr request is understood. Of course this is within yr private right. I can recommend two parties, a Scottish lord and an English gentleman. Both might be interested and could generously satisfy any requirements of the sale. Pls advise, Yrs, Geo. Browne, Esq.
If the place sold, James could divide funds among his siblings, rescuing their finances as well as his own, saving all their dreams. His own dream was a modest one; he just wanted the freedom to pursue his geological research, which incurred expenses enough, particularly on a professor’s income. But lately, another dream was growing—finding a bride. Or, having found one, convincing her.
That possibility would change the need to sell. Giving up Struan House would be more difficult than anticipated, for he was entranced by the place, increasingly fond of its eccentricities, its hominess, its atmosphere, and its remoteness too. And the last two days had shifted his thinking and his circumstances dramatically.
Putting the letter away, he returned to reading. Soon, though, he heard the click of dog paws on the wooden floor in the library and the swish of skirts. Glancing through the adjoining library doorway, he saw Elspeth there, perusing the bookshelves, while Osgar plopped down at her feet. Rising, James went to the door.
She turned. “I did not mean to disturb your work. I hoped to read a little until the rain finally stops.” She held up a book. “May I? I found an interesting volume on fairy stories.” Her soft tone was a bit formal.
“You are welcome to read anything here, and borrow away any you like.”
“Thank you. But it may not be prudent to borrow. The rain is lessening,” she added, glancing toward a window overlooking the lawn.
“Will you not come back even to return a book?” he asked quietly. She did not reply, moving away. He noticed that she grasped a chair for support as she went past. “You should be off your feet,” he remarked, and stepped forward.
“I am fine, Lord Struan. I can manage.” She held up a hand.
Were they on such formal terms now? He wanted to help her. Wanted to take her into his arms, more. He was not done with this matter of compromise and marriage, although she seemed to be. As she crossed the long room, the space seemed so far, as if he had lost her already. He did not want to let go of the dream.
“It’s a handsome room, the library,” he said, trying for conversation, strolling closer, despite her coolness.
“It is,” she agreed.
“I have been wondering how many books are in the collection,” he ventured. “I should look through my grandmother’s papers to see if a count was made.” He looked up at the soaring bookshelves, separated by tall windows. An Oriental carpet spanned the distance between him and Elspeth. She turned.
“The library, indeed the house, is a place to protect and preserve. You and your kin must be proud of it.”
“Aye.” He wondered again if selling was the wrong thing to do after all.
“It is a place to keep forever in a family.”
“Indeed.” She was doing it again, following his thoughts.
She paused by a glass display cabinet. “Do you know much about these stones?”
Glad of the excuse to be near her, he came close to peer over her shoulder. He had noticed the stones earlier but had not paid much attention. He should have appreciated them more, as she was doing. “They are the sort commonly found in this area. Mostly quartz. That one is a very nice cairngorm, and this one, here, a good chunk of red jasper.”
“Why are they here? Did your grandmother collect pretty stones?”
“My grandfather collected stones and odd objects he found on the grounds, and had this case made to display them. I remember playing with some of the stones when I was a lad and collecting bits when I went for walks with my grandfather. Outings with him made my sister and I want to study nature. So I became interested in rocks, and my sister now studies fossils particularly, imprints in the rock of shells and so on from ancient ages. Harder to discover than rocks,” he added with a smile.
“And this one?” She pointed at a large blue stone.
“Interesting. I have not seen that before.” The stone was a sliced specimen of rock with interior crystals, this one cut to reveal a circular pattern of wavy lines in tones of blue. “They call it a Scotch pebble—agate, it is. This is a beautiful specimen. We think agates formed when pockets of gases and liquids dried and hardened, forming rings of colored crystals. Most often they are found alongside quartz, embedded in volcanic rock. I have not heard of many agates found in the central Highlands here, so it is interesting indeed if this one is local. Blue agate is quite rare,” he added thoughtfully. Something tapped at his memory.
“The blue almost glows,” she said.
“It has extraordinary luminosity, I will say. I wonder if it came from Struan grounds or elsewhere. I wonder when it was added to the collection.”
“Could we look at it more closely?”
He rattled the glass lid, which had a bronze latch. “I do not know where Mrs. MacKimmie keeps the key. When she returns, we can open it.”
“I will not be here then,” she said. There was a little tension in her shoulders, in the nape of her neck. He wanted to ease it away, flexed his fingers, went still.
“Then you must return for a visit,” he replied. “Bring Mr. MacArthur, of course.” Then he recalled what she had said. “Your grandfather lost a valuable stone here. Could it be this one?”
“It could be. I would like to look at it more closely.”
As she leaned toward the glass, he did too, his arm brushing her shoulder, the pressure warm and pleasant. He glanced at her, savoring the purity of her profile, the blush along her cheek, her lips. She glanced up, gray eyes clear under a little frown.
“Tell me more about the stone. About Scotch pebbles.”
“To my knowledge, Scottish agates are usually found in the Midlands, in Perthshire, in the Isles, and a few other places. It is a type of chalcedony or quartz,” he went on, “probably formed by cooling gases during times of tremendous heat in the formation of the Earth. They can appear in beds of sedimentary rock, granite, under red sandstone layers, which indicate very ancient eras when there was the stupendous amount of heat—volcanic—required to create such deposits. But agates are not generally found near the Trossachs, at least so far as scientists know.”
“I have seen others like this in the hills.”
“Truly! That would be a fascinating discovery. Could you show me where?”
“I have seen small ones in the glen, and in the hills beside Loch Katrine, northwest of here. I also saw a stone very much like this larger one, years ago. It was in the hillside at the top of your garden, before it was—improved, as they say.”
“Are you certain?”
“I remember stones striated like this one. And I remember seeing the blue one on Struan lands. These hills once belonged to the fairies, they say.” She looked up at him. “They say there is a gateway to the fairy realm on this estate, up in the hills.”
“I imagine many fairy legends are based on natural phenomena. Some geological notes might be a good addition to my grandmother’s book, and to my own geological work. I wonder,” he mused. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to assist me with some of that. You have excellent knowledge of the local area and legends.”
“My grandfather knows more than I do. I learned from him.”
“I would speak to him too, of course.” He was eager to meet Donal MacArthur.
She tilted her head. “You are not interested in proving the truth of fairies, although your grandmother wanted to do that.”
He shrugged to admit it. “I prefer truth to fancy. You are sure you saw such agates in the hills above this house?”
“I believe so. I was young then. Years ago I went with my grandfather. This property used to belong to the MacArthurs before your grandfather acquired it. There was no wall or grotto then on the hillside. I saw a beautiful blue stone,” she murmured, “that Grandda left there because he felt it should stay in its own place. It is poor manners to take what belongs to the fairies, so they say,” she added.
“This place is rife with fairy magic. It is hard to avoid it, I think.”
“There are many tales in this glen. One tradition says that it is disrespectful to alter a fairy site with building or digging, and wrong to take away something that belongs to them. You must have come across such legends in your own work if you study natural sites and must dig about.”
“Of course I know, like most Scots, that fairies are associated with hills, water bodies, stone circles, caves, and so on. One wonders what is not a fairy site.”
“Scoff if you like, sir,” she said, but smiled a little. “The hill behind Struan House was altered, and it is lovely—but I assure you the fairy ilk are displeased.”
“They have not made much fuss about it so far.”
“They have a very long memory for a grudge. If they put your kin under a curse for changing their fairy hill, your kin might have lost lands or fortunes, have sudden deaths in the family, and no children born to continue the line, and so on.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Oh, aye.” She gave him a wise, certain nod.
“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.