Ruination and compromise? Elspeth covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. And she spoke of visions, death, and battle too? Either the whisky had loosened her tongue, or the Sight, or both. Struan would think her a madwoman or a hussy—or both.
Fairy gifts, her grandfather said, came with a price. Her gift of Sight asked a good deal for the privilege. Too often she impulsively blurted out whatever came to mind—she had done that Sir Walter Scott himself, and now Lord Struan. No wonder the latter thought her fortune hunter. She should leave, and soon. But when would she find another chance to search the grounds for her grandfather’s stone?
By now, Donal MacArthur had probably promised her hand to MacDowell in Edinburgh in his determination to marry her off. She might well be standing with the tailor before a parson soon; her twenty-first birthday was three weeks away.
If a few hours alone with Lord Struan could compromise her reputation, she could escape marriage to the tailor. If Struan offered, she did not have to accept. She could be just as determined as her grandfather. And she wanted to find the missing crystal—and find a way to remain at Kilcrennan, even as a spinster, for life.
She stood, hopping on her good foot to spare her ankle. The rain continued, the darkness increased. Sitting by the fire scarcely warmed her, for her things were still that damp. Draping her muddied plaid to dry by the fire, she drew the woolen lap robe about her shoulders and limped out into the dark hallway. Seeing a glow from the back staircase, she went toward it, supporting herself with a hand on the wall.
A faint, unsettling moan echoed distantly in the house—the banshee of Struan House. Once, she had come here with Grandda for tea with Lady Struan, and heard the eerie cry then, mentioning it to Lady Straun, who had been delighted that the girl had heard it. Now, chills ran down her spine as she hurried along.
Lord Struan had carried her this way earlier, bravely and kindly, and she had not been appreciative, causing only trouble. Limping down a few steps and into a slate-floored hallway, she headed toward what must be the kitchen, where light glowed through an open door.
The large gray wolfhound emerged from the shadows, shoving his head under her hand, pressing close as if offering his tall shoulder to help support her. He led her to the doorway as if it was his own intention. She peered inside, seeing a long worktable. Struan stood there, arranging bread and cheese on a plate.
She entered with the dog. The scrubbed pine table held a bowl of apples, a blue-and-white porcelain teapot, delicate teacups and saucers. In the huge kitchen hearth, a steaming iron teakettle hung from a hook. A second hook held a wide-mouthed kettle, contents bubbling.
“Soup,” Elspeth said, sniffing the seasoned air. “It smells delicious.”
Struan turned. “Miss MacArthur. The housekeeper left soup for my supper. We can share if you are hungry. It’s late enough for a hearty tea.”
“Thank you, I would love a high tea. No need to take it upstairs,” she added as he reached for a tray. “We could eat in here. There is no one about to say against it.”
He nodded. She went to stand beside him, helping to arrange things on the tray. He set the teapot there while she handed him teacups and saucers, and found spoons and a little bowl of sugar already grated from the cone.
Slicing thick brown bread while Struan went to the hearth to ladle soup into bowls, Elspeth felt the earlier tension dissipate in favor of cooperation. Struan carried the tray to a smaller table beneath a wide window, and pulled up two wooden chairs. He held one out for her and she sat, drawing the plaid over her shoulders again. Setting a bowl of soup before her and another for himself, he sat across from her.
“You’re shivering,” he observed.
“My things are still damp,” she replied. And she had just one boot on, the other foot wrapped in his neckcloth. Her toes were cold. She noticed that Struan was in his shirtsleeves, with a brocaded gray waistcoat but no cravat. She could see the long line of his strong neck, the dusting of dark hair from chin to throat. Stifling a sigh—truly he was a handsome lad for a lass to sigh over, but she would have to ignore that. He did not want compromise, and after all that was for the best. Reaching out to pour the tea into the two cups, she watched as he stirred a bit of sugar into the steaming liquid in his cup.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have offered you dry clothing, but I am not familiar with what might be stored in the house. We could have a look if you like.”
She shook her head. “My things will dry.” She sipped tea, and noticed that he was not eating, that he waited courteously for her to begin. She took a little bread, buttered it, and tried the soup. It was excellent, savory, thickened after sitting in the kettle, but only to its benefit.
As they ate, rain pattered the windows beside the table and gusts rattled the panes. Elspeth glanced at the dark sky. “Will anyone return to the house tonight?”
“I doubt it. The roads will be muddy and unsafe in the dark. Likely they will arrive early tomorrow. Here, you girls. Good lassies.” He set his nearly empty bowl on the floor, and the two terriers, who had been waiting patiently, rushed for it, nosing at each other. Elspeth set hers on the floor too, and the wolfhound came over to lick it politely.
Struan sat back. “I know you would prefer to go home, but it is unthinkable to walk, and it might be dangerous to ride out by cart or horse in the night, for the sake of the horses more than ourselves. This sort of rain brings flooding unexpectedly. Miss MacArthur, I fear you may have to stay the night.”
“I know.” Her heart gave a little fillip. She reached for the teapot and poured a bit more tea into both cups. They sipped in silence. Then he set his cup down.
“I must ask—why were you in the garden?”
Hot tea, swallowed too quickly, made her cough. “I was looking for something my grandfather lost there a while ago. He knew Lady Struan. We were invited here sometimes,” she explained. “He is Mr. Donal MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
“I know the name. What did he lose?”
“A stone, one very special to him. It was lost when the grotto was finished.”
He sat forward. “A valuable stone?”
“Crystal and agate, I think he mentioned.”
“Agate? What color is this stone you want to find?”
“Blue,” she said.
“Truly! Agate is a bit unusual in this region of Scotland, and the blue sort is rare anywhere. Did your grandfather find this stone nearby?”
She nodded. “On the hill behind the house, before the gardens were altered.”
“A long while ago?”
“The property belonged to the MacArthurs when my grandfather was a young man. He kept the stone here, among the rocks, but...it all looks different there now. He left it, but would like to find it, and keep it if is agreeable to you.”
“Of course, if it holds sentimental value for him. We will find it if we can. On my walks around the estate, I have seen massive beds of sedimentary rock, granite and sandstone with crystalline deposits. But agate is mostly found in volcanic rock.”
“Volcanic?” She looked surprised. “There are no volcanoes here.”
“Not currently, but there may have been thousands of years ago. My own research addresses that question. Layers of volcanic rock imply tremendous heat long ago in the terrestrial past. Geologists are only beginning to investigate Scotland’s mountains, and indeed much of Europe, for signs of the history of the earth.”
“Oh,” she said, impressed by his knowledge. But he was a professor of such things. She nodded. “I did not realize there was such history to rocks. I suppose I never thought of it, though of course, it makes sense.”
“It is a newer field of study. I find it quite fascinating. My sister is also studying the formation of rock beds in Scotland. Miss MacArthur, why did you come back here today to look for it?” he asked quickly.
“My grandfather mentioned the stone. I wanted to find it. To surprise him.” She could hardly explain that Grandda needed the thing to open a gate to the fairy world.
“I see. So Struan House once belonged to your family?”
She sipped her tea, then nodded. “The estate and much of the glen belonged to my great-grandfather. When Grandda was young, he spent much of his time here. The grotto in your garden was once part of a large hill with a precipice.”
“I know my grandfather had the stone wall extended up the slope for the grotto. Unfortunately, he died, and my grandmother did not live to enjoy it for long either. But why not come to the door and just ask about your missing stone?”
“I thought no one was here. It is the time of the fairy riding.”
“Ah. So you believe in the legend too?”
“It is a local tradition.” She shrugged. “I thought to look for myself and be quick about it. I did not count on the rain. I did not mean to disturb you, Lord Struan.”
He waved a hand to dismiss her concern, and sipped his tea. The cup looked small and delicate cradled in his hand. She imagined those long, nimble fingers turning a beautiful rock over, holding it up to sunlight… then imagined his hands on her, warm and agile and caressing. She shivered, but not from chill.
“You are writing a book about volcanic rock,” she blurted. A strange word sounded clearly in her head. “Geo…nosey. What is that?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Geognosy? It means earth knowledge—the study of the earth as a complete structure, interior and exterior. I did not realize that you were familiar with the work of Werner, who coined the term.”
“I never heard of him. It just came to me.”
He stared at her, cup halfway to his lips. “Good God, how do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Echo my thoughts. I am working on a book about geognostic science. A few years ago I studied in Freiburg with Abraham Werner, who developed the theory of geognosy, which looks at the earth as a whole. Either someone told you, or—”
“Or I just knew,” she explained softly.
He seemed about to say something, but poured more tea, and added to her cup. “While I’m here, I want to explore the rock formations in these hills. If your grandfather found agate nearby, that could be meaningful for my work.”
“If you wander these hills, be careful. You may encounter the Daoine Síth.”
“The dowin-shee?” He looked puzzled.
“The people of peace, in Gaelic. The fairy folk. The caves and hills in this glen are their special territory. Do geologists take into account otherworldly creatures who might inhabit the subterranean earth?” She smiled.
“Not if they value their reputations.” He sat forward. “I suppose I should mention that I have agreed to work on my grandmother’s book about fairy lore. Perhaps—I wonder if you could help me better understand her work.”
She shrugged. The thought excited her, but she did not let on. “Your study of rocks here might surprise you. Fairies are everywhere on Struan lands.” She felt a bit mischievous. And sitting before you, she thought, if family lore is to be believed.
“I do not believe such nonsense, but I promised to work on her final book, and I will honor it. What can you tell me about this fairy riding custom?”
“They ride out at this time of year especially. They may also be seen at the time-between-times, when the curtain between our world and theirs is very thin—dawn, twilight, midnight, mist, and so on.”
He tapped his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “At times when visibility is poor enough to allow for tricks of the eye and mind. I see.”
“I think you do not see,” she murmured. “But you could if you wanted to.”
He quirked a brow. “Well, the custom has frightened the living wits out of my staff. Between the banshee in the foyer, the ghosts in the house, the fairies in the garden, two new maidservants packed up in haste and left for Edinburgh. They could not get away fast enough.”
“Southrons.” She laughed. “Highlanders do not mind such things.”
“The Highland staff has left too. I understand they all avoid Struan House and the glen this time of year.”
“No one wants to be taken by the Fey. They ride through these lands around the same time each year. You and I should not be here either.” She glanced at him.
“I am not intimidated by such fancies.” He smiled, so warm and genuine that she felt herself relax. “I suppose you are an expert on this, being part fairy yourself.”
Elspeth nearly spit out her tea. “What do you mean?”
“One of the housemaids must have seen you in the garden this afternoon, because she claimed she saw a fairy there. She departed in a hurry.”
“Me? I was not there then, unless the housemaid looked just before you came outside. Perhaps it was one of the Struan fairies.” She frowned. Was it possible?
“It must have been you, or someone else. Such stories are part and parcel of folklore, but there is often an explanation. By the way, Lady Struan mentioned your grandfather in her notes. She respected his knowledge of local traditions. I thought it would be useful to speak with him myself.”
“About your grandmother’s book, or about the fact that I spent a night at Struan House?” She twisted her mouth awry.
He huffed a laugh. “Perhaps both, Miss MacArthur.”
Elspeth laughed too. Sitting here with him so peacefully, sharing a meal while the rain lashed the windows, she felt good. She liked him, she realized. Quite a bit, in fact. His intelligence, his wit, even his stubbornness and skepticism were intriguing.
She stood, feeling herself begin to blush again. “The dishes need cleaning. I will do it.” She carried her bowl to the worktable, limping, while Struan stood and brought the rest over. He limped a bit too, but neither of them remarked on it.
As he fetched water from a kettle for the washbowl, Elspeth began to clean the tea things. Struan did his best to help, although she suspected he had rarely done such chores before. Soon the dishes were cleaned and set away, and Struan took the lamp from the pine table.
“I’d best close up the house. There are no servants here to attend to it.”
“A Highland laird sees to the shutting of his own house, regardless of servants. Even in fine Highland houses, it is the laird’s responsibility to bolt the doors.”
“Then I am being a good Highland laird tonight. I hope locking up is custom rather than necessity in this glen.”
“We have not had cattle raiders or feuding clans for two generations or more. There are whisky smugglers in the hills, but they stay to themselves even while they bring their goods along the lochs and rivers to the sea.”
“And we all benefit from their work by cover of night, I suspect.”
She smiled briefly, then paused. “What disturbs the peace of any house in this glen is not locked out by bolts, unless they be of iron.”
“Iron keeps the fairies away.” He nodded. “Or so I have read.”
“Unless there is iron, if the wildfolk want to come in, they will find a way.”
He chuckled softly. She knew he thought all of this harmless superstition, and she found his practical approach interesting, wholly masculine, and a bit of a challenge. She tilted her head, wondering. Standing in that cozy kitchen within arm’s reach of him, she felt again a sense of ease and comfort. She did not want this night to end.
Then she recalled tender kisses shared months earlier, and she could almost feel his hands upon her again, warm and strong and welcome. An urge to be in his arms, to feel the kisses, the passion, the cherishing that came with that, made her yearn suddenly, deeply.
Love, the thought came to her then: love feels like this.
He tilted his head to question her silence. “Miss MacArthur?”
“Where—where shall I sleep, Lord Struan?” she asked hastily.
“You may have your pick of the guest rooms. This way.” Holding a lantern, he led the way, looking back to offer a hand to her elbow as she limped behind. He limped too, without his cane, but his focus was solicitously for her.
A thrill went through her like small lightning. The man had a restrained sort of power, masculine and protective, tempered by courtesy and patience. She found it compelling. She walked unevenly beside him, his hand touching her elbow now and again. Her heart surged within her.
The wolfhound followed, nudging after them, setting Elspeth off balance so that she stumbled against Struan, a hand to his chest. He put his arm around her. The plaid slid from her shoulders, and he caught it. She stopped, and for a moment looked into his eyes, dark in the lamplight. Through his clothing, his heartbeat under her hand felt strong and hard.
“You’ve made a friend in Osgar.” His voice was gruff.
“His breed is called fairy hound. They take readily to anyone with fairy blood, so it is said. And he has definitely taken to you,” she told Struan as he reached down to pet the dog’s head and Osgar lolled in pleasure. “Do you have fairy heritage?”
“My grandmother claimed there was a fairy ancestor far back among the Struan MacCarrans. She was not of that blood herself, but was fascinated that it might have been in her husband, and therefore her children and grandchildren. She was the only one of us to believe it. Actually, I was about to ask the same of you. Do you have...fairy blood?”
“Oh,” she said, shrugging. “There are legends in our family too. It is not uncommon in the Highlands. My grandfather says my mother…had fairy blood. I did not know her myself.”
“And so you wanted to believe a fanciful tale. Certainly it is easy to believe that she could have given you that heritage. It is in your eyes, I think, in their beauty,” he murmured, as he drew the plaid about her shoulders. He brushed back her hair where it sifted over her brow. Every part of her was aware of his touch. Wonderful shivers coursed through her. His hand dropped away. “But it is all lovely bits of legend and fancy.”
“I heard about the Struan MacCarrans, long ago. I see you disdain it.”
“There is a legend. Family lore holds that long ago, a MacCarran ancestor saved a fairy woman from drowning, and they were married. Supposedly her blood runs through descendants of the main branch, which includes myself and my siblings. Apparently, some MacCarrans have strange abilities because of this mythical ancestor, but I have never seen evidence of it. Come along, you lot,” he called back, as all three dogs followed. Struan took Elspeth’s elbow to help her up the steps.
“Saved a fairy woman?” she asked, keenly interested.
“Charming Highland hogwash,” he said, and smiled.