“Some guest rooms are on this level,” James said as they walked along the upper corridor. “And some the next floor up, but no need to climb more stairs.”
For either of them, he thought. He knew well the concessions needed for a weak limb. He was glad to offer her support, but his body was responding a bit too keenly to her nearness. A strong feeling best ignored.
He would show her to a guest room, and in the morning, take her home. Until then, he would shut himself away from her—no matter what she had said earlier about willing to be ruined. He would not ruin her reputation, or his own, with heady passion that could be easily controlled with a little willpower and cool reason.
“The rooms are all freshened for use. Mrs. MacKimmie saw to it, with guests expected next week.”
“But I am unexpected,” she said.
“And welcome to stay.” He opened a door and stood back. The lantern light spilled into the room as Elspeth stepped inside. “The hearth is cold in here. Let me.” James followed her, while the three dogs plopped down to arrange themselves in and around the doorway.
Limping, he wished he had gone back to the garden to find his cane, for he was clearly feeling an ache in his leg. He knelt by the fireplace, finding peat bricks already stacked, and lit a match from the burning lamp Elspeth MacArthur held out for him. He coaxed the peats to catch, tried again.
“I can do it, sir. There is a knack to it.”
“I have it. There. The room will warm soon.”
“Thank you.” She held her hands before the small flames. James stood up beside her. His gaze flickered along her body, lush curves beneath a damp gown, cloth still translucent in places. She glanced up. He grew still, seeing compassion in her eyes. Not pity. Understanding.
“You should rest your leg.”
“And you, more to the point, should rest that foot.” This girl, he thought—who was she? How did she know his past without being told, as she claimed? That had shaken him—she had shaken him. Nor could he ever forget those lightning kisses in Edinburgh. Though it had been part of a public and acceptable flirtation that day, he had felt a deeper impact then, and remembered it now.
“I remember the first time we met,” she said, echoing his thoughts in that damnable way she had. She tipped her head. “We kissed.” Soft words, like a caress.
“We did. All part of that merry company.” An arm’s length separated them. He could easily move to kiss her again. Was she inviting it? Her mix of innocence and coyness confounded him. “I must go,” he said. “I have work to do in the study. I had planned to work through the evening.”
“On the fairy lore? I could help.”
“Some other time, perhaps. The less time we spend together now, the better.”
“If we are discovered alone here, it will not matter what we did, or did not do, in the end. Others will make assumptions. But we will know the truth.”
“We will know, aye. That is more important than the rest of it.”
She sighed. “I was being honest with you, Lord Struan. Even a slight compromise will be enough for me. I will hold you to nothing, I promise.”
“It is not in my character to ruin a young woman and abandon her.”
“Only the hint of it will be enough. No need to feel an obligation.”
He huffed. “Why would you be satisfied a hint of scandal?”
“I have my reasons.”
He frowned. What was this? Another part of a ruse? “Few men would respect the terms of such an offer.”
“You would.”
“You,” he murmured, “cannot know what I would do.”
“I do.” Her eyes crinkled. “I know.”
“You seem like an innocent. A blithe and bonny girl,” he added, and impulsively took a step, bent down, and kissed her. Swift and powerful, surprising himself. The responding touch of her lips, deepening the kiss, fed a sudden flame in him.
Sliding his fingers into the silken mass of her curling, damp, night-dark hair, he cradled her head in his hand; slanting his mouth over hers, he felt her buckle against him, heard and felt her sigh. Her lips opened to his, and he grazed his tongue over her lower lip. That touch shuddered through him.
He had not intended this. A moment only, a warning to show her the risk she invited. Then he would remove himself from the situation. Yet he felt overwhelmed quickly, as if he had taken hold of a flame, daring to be burned. He forced himself to pull away. Her eyes were closed, her lips full and rosy, cheeks flushed.
“Lovely,” she said in a dreamy voice. Her eyes opened. They sparkled.
“Oh no, you lass,” he said, his hands still on her shoulders. “This is no foolery. There are consequences.”
“You think I want to trick you because you are a wealthy man? I do not.”
“Anyone might assume so. You are a charmer, Miss MacArthur. This would be an adequate compromise, since you insist.” He stepped back. “Something happened between us while we were alone. I admit my guilt. Will that suffice?”
If she truly wanted to walk away, it might do for her. If they had to marry, it could work to his advantage, certainly. He felt the urge to take her into his arms again, wanting marriage, wanting as much as she would be willing to give.
Instead, he stepped back, cautious, sensing himself on a precipice.
Elspeth hopped about on one foot, grabbed the fireplace mantel. “I did not plot this to trap you, though you seem to think it. But the kissing was very nice.”
He blinked. No face-slapping, no huffing or hysterics, no attempt to invite more and entrap him. What was she about? “Just…nice?”
“Wonderful,” she said softly. “But you need not marry me for it.”
“Why not insist on marriage now, to gain the, ah, willing compromise you wanted? Or will that come later, once the fish is well and truly caught?”
She frowned. “I would rather be a ruined and disgraced spinster, never marrying,” she said, “than marry as my grandfather wishes for me.”
“Ah, is that it? A fellow you dislike? I imagine your grandfather is only thinking of your future.” Unless the old fellow had sent her here to intentionally snare a supposedly wealthy, titled husband.
“He insists that I marry a Lowlander.” She wrinkled her nose.
“What in thunder is wrong with a Lowland man? I am one.”
“Nothing, really. But I want to stay in the Highlands. I do not want to marry the tailor who only wants to have my grandfather’s business one day. If my disgrace will send away that suitor, I will be content.” She lifted her chin. It was a lovely chin, above a slim and elegant throat.
“Content to never marry, never be happy? No one would believe that.”
She looked down. “Of course I want to be happy. But I would rather live in the Highlands and be lonely than go to the Lowlands and lose—my life here. Yet Grandda says I must leave. I cannot explain why, but I will not do it. I suppose you think this is all play-acting. I suppose you scoff at me, and suspect me as false.”
“You do not know what I think of you, Miss MacArthur,” he murmured.
She glanced up. There was a pure clarity in her eyes, somehow, as if she did know exactly what he thought. “May I ask—”
“Aye?” Would entrapment be next? How much the fool was he?
She plucked at her damp sleeve. “May I borrow something for the night?”
“Of course. Let us try this chest.” Flustered, he went to a tall wardrobe and opened its doors. Inside were shelves of folded garments, and a few gowns hanging on hooks. “There might be something here.”
She limped to join him. James drew out a lightweight, translucent, lacy chemise. He felt his face burn red. “Er, perhaps you should look for yourself.”
Elspeth touched a folded white garment on a shelf, lifting its lace-trimmed sleeve and high-necked bodice. “A very fine nightrail. Whose things are these? Oh dear, did these belong to your grandmother?”
James regarded the white, billowy thing, which would no doubt swallow the girl. His grandmother had been a tall woman. “Possibly.”
“I should not borrow these.”
Elspeth wearing his grandmother’s nightrail—that would make the girl less appealing, James thought. Good. He thrust the softness toward her. “Take it. I insist.”
She held it up, unwittingly defining the globes of her breasts beneath his grandmother’s delicates. An excellent deterrent. “Should I?”
“Absolutely. Goodnight, Miss MacArthur.”
In shadow and firelight, her eyes were wide and silvery, innocent yet wanton. However wrong it was to be alone with her, some men would take advantage of it, and her. He would never—yet, despite his grandmother’s nightgown, he wanted her in that moment. He backed away hastily and went to the door in uneven strides. The dogs turned around him as he crossed the threshold.
“Goodnight,” he said again, then fled down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. The terriers came with him, while the wolfhound stayed behind.
Fairy hounds knew their kind, James remembered. Osgar had chosen her.
His usual reserve should be enough to keep him aloof and controlled in any situation. Yet this fey and fetching creature asked blithely to be compromised, and he had nearly done just that, acting the fool—and instead hurried away in a panic.
Downstairs, he snatched up a lamp he had left on a side table and went to the study. With a loud, exasperated sigh, he sank into the leather chair. He had set down his work hours ago. Before his life had changed. An odd notion quickly dismissed.
Soon established at the desk again, he tried to keep his mind on his grandmother’s papers. Thoughts of a delectable girl in a quaint nightrail distracted him. Tapping his fingers on unread pages, he gazed through the window into darkness as the rain pattered forcefully against the glass.
He was not wary of women. He enjoyed them—their character and differences as much as their softness and allure—and he did not care a whit for society's opinions. But he would not satisfy his urges in blatantly ungentlemanly ways. He had kept a mistress a few years earlier, had dallied with women before and after that, and for two years he had been neatly avoiding, with good reason he thought, Miss Sinclair’s expectations. Nor would he fully compromise the Highland girl, no matter how willing she seemed.
He thought of the others. His Belgian mistress had been the widow of an esteemed geologist, a man he had corresponded with and planned to meet, but the man had died by the time James had a chance to visit the area, traveling with his regiment. The scholar’s young widow had allowed James to look over her husband’s scientific papers whenever he was on leave from the Black Watch—and soon she gave him access to her person as well. Young, hungry for passion, knowledge, adventure, and fearful that he would enter battle soon, James had let the dalliance continue. They had both been lonely, and they had met, loved, and parted without regret, friends more than lovers.
Only his first love, when he was not yet twenty and studying at the University of Edinburgh, had stirred deep feelings in him—and he never intended to feel that much hurt again. The red-haired daughter of a wealthy merchant, she was interested in botanical sketching and often wandered the hills above the town. James met her while he was collecting rock samples. Soon they met by arrangement, helping each other’s efforts. Then they began to play sweetly, privately, in the grass and met elsewhere when they could.
She took a chill that winter, and by the time James called at her house, she was seriously ill, with her family still unaware she had a beau. Turned away, he had not spoken up, thinking he would hear from her soon. The next time he saw her, she was in a coffin in a funeral carriage. He regretted not revealing himself to her family. A few of her drawings were tucked away in his Edinburgh townhome. He would always treasure them.
The wind whipped past the house then, with such strength that for a moment James heard a faint shrieking above. The storm, he thought. Or that pestering banshee again, he thought wryly.
Wondering if the groans and creaks of the old house would alarm the girl upstairs, he sighed, rowing fingers through his hair. No, she was a hearty Highland sort, used to such things. Setting aside an urge to go upstairs to see if all was well, he took up a stack of handwritten pages and resumed reading. The pages were covered in his grandmother’s small, careful handwritten script.
A local weaver, Mr. Donal MacArthur, is an abundant source of history and traditional tales for this account, his grandmother had written. He claims that in his youth he was abducted by the fairies. However, the gentleman refuses to elaborate on the details of his experience. He believes the fairies show their wrath to those who speak too intimately of them and reveal their secrets. It is this author’s fervent hope that the weaver will share his fascinating story of fairy abduction with the world someday. His granddaughter, he claims, is part of that story too.
James sat up, reading the passage again.
The wolfhound was growling.
Elspeth woke, quick and alert, hearing Osgar’s low rumble. The hour must be very late, she thought, the darkness quiet and deep. The sounds of the storm had faded. “What is it, Osgar?” she asked.
The dog padded to the side of the bed to stare at her through the darkness. He sat back on his haunches, whimpering. She reached out to pat his head, then lay down and tried to find sleep again.
The bed was soft, the pillows plump, the linens cool and fresh, she was exceedingly comfortable, yet she could not sleep. A sound, faint through the walls, sounded like her name. Sitting up, she saw the room lit only by sparse light of the peat fire, flickering blue-gold, all else in shadow. Had Lord Struan called her first name, or knocked? It made no sense.
Eilidh...
The sound was soft, echoing slightly. Eilidh....
Osgar whimpered again and began to pace impatiently around the room. Gasping, Elspeth drew her knees to her chest, still and silent. In a corner of the room, she saw flitting lights—a pale green glow, a shimmering blue, a streak of violet. Sitting up, she thought the fire’s reflection danced on some surface. Then she saw a cluster of shapes form in that same corner—tall, graceful contours, heads and shoulders, long draped robes.
Shivers rose along her neck, arms. “Who is there?” she called.
Eilidh... The shadows and lights moved closer.
Ghosts? She felt chilled all over.
Glow and blur coalesced, and she saw a hand reaching toward her. She scrambled off the bed, leaping away. Pain stabbed through her ankle and she cried out, leaning on the edge of the bed, staring toward the corner.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. Turning, she snatched up the plaid from a chair and went to the door, heart pounding. The dog bumped against her, as hasty as she to get out of the room. She gripped his collar and looked back.
The light had vanished. She sighed. But she did not want to get back in the bed and opened the door instead.
Thunder rolled and mingled with a distant patter of hoofbeats. The riding? She shuddered.
Osgar gave a loud woof and stood tall, ears pricking. Elspeth heard the name again—Eilidh in soft chorus—and feared they had come for her, as Grandda said.
“Leave me be!” she gasped, and ran, limping, into the dark corridor. She only knew she must escape that room. Remembering with relief that she was not alone, she limped along the hall, wondering which door belonged to Lord Struan. Finding a set of double doors, she knocked.
No answer. She knocked again. A crash of thunder shook the walls, and she shrieked, opening the door and stepping inside. In firelight and darkness, the room was empty, the bed undisturbed. Osgar bumped against her hip as she turned and ran out.
Holding the dog’s collar, she hobbled along the shadowy corridor toward the main staircase. Perhaps Struan was working in his study. She had to find him, not only because she could not bear to be alone, but because he could be under threat as well if what her grandfather said was true.
How could she explain to Struan that the wildfolk had appeared in her room, that she had heard the pounding of horses’ hooves outside the walls? The Fey rode tonight. They knew she was here, inside Struan House. How could she say that—or even believe it herself?
She stopped, gasping. Either she was going a little mad in the middle of the night, hearing just thunder and rain, or her grandfather’s tales were true.
Deep down, she knew this was not her own madness. Were the locks made of true iron, just in case? Had Struan shut the house as he had promised? She went down the stairs as quickly as her ankle would allow. Her heart was slamming.
Eilidh…Soft as a whisper of wind.
That was her fairy name, the one her grandfather said she must never use herself, for the power of it. A crack of lightning came so suddenly that she leaped, shrieked. A blue-white light filled the stairway. The dog hastened ahead of her, whining, to reach the main floor first.
She heard her name whispered again. She froze, then hurried on, not daring to glance over her shoulder.
Never look behind you in a fairy-held place, her grandfather had said, for at that moment they will have you.
The light flared again, lengthened to human shape. She screamed.