Taking a full roller of tartan off the loom, the result of several days’ work, Elspeth set down the heavy bolt, set an unused roller on the loom. Then she took a little time to remove the last yarn sett from the loom, winding the spare yarns into bundles as she thought ahead to the next design. She had planned to make another arisaid pattern after completing the last commissioned tartan. Instead, she decided to make a gift plaid for Struan.
She was not sure when—or if—she would see him again, but she wanted to give him a length of yarn that she had made herself—then some part of her would be with him.
In the past fortnight, she had let her work possess her as she sat at the loom for hours night and day. Her grandfather’s work was otherworldly, but she could keep a fast enough pace and lose herself in the creation of the cloth without hint of the glamourie.
A few other weavers in the glen worked hand-looms for Kilcrennan too, and Elspeth regularly visited their cottages to collect goods and pay them for their work. She had learned the art from her grandfather, and some from these folk, including her cousin Margaret. Donal had tutored Margaret and her husband Robbie, in the weaving arts, but they did not know the secret that allowed Donal MacArthur to work so quickly. Only Elspeth, Peggy Graham, and now Struan himself knew that.
Lately, busy with her weaving tasks, Elspeth had neatly avoided her grandfather’s attempts to talk about Struan, and marriage, and her future. She also tried not to think about it much, though the matter burdened her heart and soul. Even stepping inside her cottage brought back memories of being there alone with the man she knew she had come to love.
Now, she stepped outside, took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, and headed to the storage house where yarns and supplies were kept. Inside, soft sunbeams poured through cracks in the shutters, and motes floated on the light. From a shelf, she took a copy of Wilson’s Key Pattern Book and sat at the worktable turning the pages.
Published by an Edinburgh tailor years earlier, the book contained hundreds of tartan designs, each assigned to particular clans. Some were based on old, accepted clan traditions, while many, she knew, had been invented more recently. The tartan patterns and clan associations were part of the current craze for Highland culture. The desire for plaid cloth had greatly benefitted the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan and other weavers too.
Studying the meticulous hand-colored tartans in the book, she hardly noticed a knock. As the door opened and sunlight poured over the table, she glanced up to see a young woman enter.
“Margaret!” Elspeth slid from her stool to embrace her cousin. “I did not expect to see you today!”
Margaret Lamont smiled, round face beaming, brown eyes sparkling. Her red hair was tucked in a thick braid wrapped and pinned over the crown of her head, making her seem even taller, her full figure due to her fourth babe on the way. A brawny lass, Donal MacArthur fondly called his niece, who worked with raw wools and dye baths as well as weaving. “Reverend Buchanan kindly brought me here on his way elsewhere,” Margaret answered.
“Dear Margaret! You look so healthy,” Elspeth said. “I hope you are feeling well, and not working the dye baths too often. It is not good for your back now, and the smell of it could make you ill.”
“Rob has others doing the dyeing now, while I do the spinning and combing. Today I had some free time, with my mother watching the children, so I came out to get some fresh air and visit you. And I would love to see what bonny cloths you and Uncle Donal have been weaving with my yarns.”
“Your yarns make the best weavings,” Elspeth said. “I have finished several tartans lately—I will show you. Just now I am here searching for a new pattern.”
Margaret peered at the pages spread open on the table. “What a great book it is,” she said, speaking in Gaelic, as she and Elspeth often did. “Tartan is in such demand now that even the king is interested in wearing it. And Kilcrennan weavers are doing well because of it. The demand will keep us all busy for a while to come, so I hope.”
“It is good,” Elspeth said. “Grandda is most content when he is busy at the weaving.”
“What sett will you choose?” Margaret turned a page or two.
“I was looking for MacCarran.”
“Lord Struan’s plaid?” Margaret asked. “You met him at Struan House, I heard. Reverend Buchanan told me, and Uncle Donal said so too, for I saw him outside now when I arrived. He and Peggy Graham told me...something interesting might have happened between you and Struan, is it?”
Elspeth felt a blush heating her cheeks. “Grandda cannot always keep a secret for long.”
“He has your best interest at heart.”
“I know.” Elspeth sighed and turned another page. “I thought to weave a cloth for Lord Struan so that he could have a kilt made up in Edinburgh.”
“Would this be your wedding gift?”
“Och, Grandda has indeed been chatty! Of course it is not.”
“Uncle Donal seems to think otherwise. It is Highland custom for the bride to make her husband a tartan of his clan, if she has the skill for it. I did that for my Robbie Lamont when we married.”
“This would be more a parting gift,” Elspeth murmured.
“Would it, now?”
“It is more likely that than what Grandda thinks, I promise you.”
“Peggy Graham and your grandfather love you so much,” Margaret said quietly. “And they fret over you. Whatever may have happened between you and Lord Struan, your family does not want you to be hurt. They worry it might discourage some other man offering for your hand if he hears of it. Those Buchanans have been spreading some gossip.” Margaret sighed, touched Elspeth’s shoulder. “Peggy and Uncle Donal wish you would accept the laird’s offer of marriage.”
“So they told you that. I was going to confide in you, but I have made my decision. They are simply not happy about it.”
“If he has offered, you would be wise to marry him. Do you care for him?”
Turning another page, Elspeth did not answer directly. “It is all my doing, this kerfuffle. I asked him to ruin me, Margaret,” she admitted.
“Asked him?” Margaret half laughed in surprise.
“I wanted to escape the Lowland marriage that Grandda was about to arrange for me. As it turned out, that will not happen anyway. And I never thought—well, it is no matter.” She had nearly blurted that indeed, she did have feelings for Struan.
“You told your grandfather you did not prefer the tailor?”
“He scarcely listened. He is so determined to find me a Lowland suitor that he will keep looking. Now his mind is set on Lord Struan.”
“An improvement over any suitor, I think. I hear the viscount is a bonny man.”
Elspeth felt her blush deepen, and knew that Margaret saw it. “Grandda wants my happiness, true. And I need to stay here at Kilcrennan. I do not want to go south to follow a husband, be it Lord Struan or anyone. I thought if I were compromised, no one would want to marry me, and that would settle the matter. But Struan...offered, and feels obligated, although it was all my doing.”
“All yours?”
“Well. Mostly mine. I did not—say him nay.”
Margaret’s lips quirked. “It takes two, love, but both have a choice. Will you not change your mind?”
Elspeth shook her head. “I cannot.”
“Peggy says he is a lovely braw man, with a good heart and a good head.”
“Oh, aye,” she said quickly.
“Did he? Ruin you, I mean?”
“Not entirely, if that is what you ask. He was a gentleman, refused to—” Her breath quickened. “But I never expected that I might—well.” Her voice caught.
“That you might fall in love?” Margaret asked quietly.
“I—it is all so confusing.” Elspeth flipped pages frantically. “I cannot find the pattern I want.”
“The MacCarrans are a small clan,” Margaret said. “It may not be in the book.”
“Grandda has notebooks with all the patterns that Kilcrennan weavers have made over generations. It may be there.” Elspeth turned, relieved for the distraction, and took a black leather notebook from the shelf, very worn, with slips of paper stuck among its tattered pages. She opened it to page through, and stopped, spreading the book open. “Here it is!”
They leaned together to study two pages filled with ink sketches and charts of weaving patterns. “‘The MacCarrans are a sept of the MacDonalds of the Isles,’” Margaret read aloud. “Here, this one is the MacCarran plaid.”
“My great-great-grandfather wrote these notes,” Elspeth said.
“It says Kilcrennan weavers made that tartan pattern for a laird of the MacCarran clan in the years of peace,” Margaret said. “That would have been a long while ago, before the Jacobites. Not all the old clan tartans are included in Wilson’s pattern book, so it is a blessing to have these old notes. The ancient plaid designs were not specific to a clan, certainly not in the way the new pattern books would have us believe. Rather they varied from glen to glen, changing with local weavers and the setts they favored and the dyes they made from local plants.”
“So this tartan would be authentic to the local MacCarrans, made especially for them by my own ancestors,” Elspeth said. She studied the design and the color notes and numbered lines. “Twenty warp threads of deep blue, twenty warp of forest green, ten weft threads of red, five weft in white,” she read. When stretched crosswise on the loom in the warp and weft directions, the yarns would create one repeat, or sett, of the pattern, which would carry through the entire width and length of the plaid. “This would be a very handsome tartan.”
“I have heard of the MacCarrans,” Margaret said thoughtfully. “A small clan with an interesting history. Do you know their clan motto?”
Elspeth shook her head. “Lord Struan mentioned that family tradition claims a fairy ancestor, but he says many clans have similar legends. He thinks such things are just fancy, without truth to them.”
“He should spend more time in this glen, and with you lot at Kilcrennan,” Margaret said wryly. “He might change his mind. Next time you see him, ask your braw viscount about the MacCarran motto.”
“He is not my viscount.” Elspeth took a scrap of paper and a lead pencil from a box on the table and began to copy the sett instructions. “I may not see him before he leaves for Edinburgh. I may never see him again,” she added firmly. “But I will make a length of MacCarran tartan according to this sett, and send it on to the city as a gift from the Kilcrennan weavers. He can take it to a tailor and have it made up.”
“Perhaps he will take it to the tailor Uncle Donal knows,” Margaret said.
“I do not care what he does with it.” Elspeth focused on copying the pattern.
“It will be a fine gift. But you should deliver it yourself.”
She shook her head. “I have no need to go to Edinburgh.”
Margaret sat in the nearest chair, arching and stretching her back. “Let me tell you what I have heard of the MacCarrans.”
“If you like.” Elspeth shrugged, pencil in hand, but waited, listening.
“The MacCarrans had a golden cup in their castle seat that was given to their clan long and long ago by a fairy ancestor. Around its base a motto was engraved.” Margaret paused. “‘Love makes its own magic,’ were the words.”
“That is beautiful.” She felt tears sting her eyes.
“I thought you might like that.”
“Oh, Margaret.” Elspeth sighed. “What have I done?”
“I am sure it can be sorted if both of you care, and I think you do,” Margaret answered. “If you love this man, I say marry him. Whatever the obstacle may be—and the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan have some secrets that even their close kin are wise not to ask about—just follow your heart, and all will be well.”
“This situation is all my doing, and I am not sure how to undo it. I want to stay here. Grandda needs me. And yet—I want to be with Struan, as well.”
“Things can often be sorted out more easily than we think, Elspeth.”
“I do feel that he cares for me. A little, at least.”
“Listen to me,” Margaret said gently. “If you love him and he loves you, do what you feel is best. All will be well.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“Sometimes it seems complicated, but love is a simple, beautiful thing.” Margaret smiled. “Tell him how you feel. Give the man, and his good intentions, a chance.”
Leaving the table, silent and thoughtful, Elspeth went to the shelves holding yarns. While she plucked colorful skeins for the MacCarran plaid, her thoughts tumbled. Suddenly she stopped, arms full—she wanted to weep, wanted to run out of the cottage and over the hills to Struan House, wanted to find him before he left the glen forever.
And find him, she realized, before she turned twenty-one by month’s end. Her grandfather had always said that on that day, according to the fairy bargain, she must return to the realm where she was born. She had never quite believed it. But what if it was true—what if she risked her dreams by dismissing Donal’s tale?
Margaret joined her, reaching out to choose other yarns. “Your grandfather told me that he needs more of this deep red, here, and some of this onion yellow, for his work.” She handed them to Elspeth, who cradled several skeins. “Take these to him. Go on—there are things that must be said between you and Donal. Start there. I am going up to the house to visit with Peggy.”
Elspeth dropped the skeins into an empty basket and hugged Margaret quickly. Heart thumping, she left the storage house to head to Donal’s weaving cottage. Seeing him inside, loom clacking at its regular pace, she knocked, entered.
Donal glanced up as she set the yarns on a table, and she saw immediately that he needed no more colors; ample skeins were piled on the table already. But Margaret was right. Some things needed to be said.
“Grandfather,” she began.
“Aye then,” he said, stopping his work, hands folding. “What is it, lass?”
“Kilcrennan Weavers is a flourishing business, in part because of your ability to weave tartan so quickly, by virtue of your skill. And your secret.”
He nodded. “When the magic is upon me, aye. Go on.”
“We can meet orders for tartan faster than many other weavers because you work so fast. Otherwise, we would need several weavers to fill our orders, not just two. Someday Margaret’s Robbie could join us, which might help replace some of the work you do when the magic, as you say, is upon you.”
“I have been meaning to speak to Robbie about that very thing. I will not be here forever at Kilcrennan. What is on your mind, lass?”
“You will be here a long while,” Elspeth insisted, ignoring his last question. “And I will help you. We could train new weavers. With the tartan madness upon the city folk and so many orders coming to us, the business is thriving. You have put your heart and soul into Kilcrennan weaving.”
“We can thank the goodwill of the fairy ilk for some of that,” he said. “Our cloth casts a bit of a spell. Kilcrennan plaid brings happiness to the wearer.” He smiled. “All is well. But you seem concerned about something, lass.”
“Grandda, listen. You said that if I ever fell in love, the fairy spells would end.”
“Love, is it,” he murmured, smiling. “And have you fallen in love?”
“I cannot,” she said. “I never can. All of this would end.” She swept a hand wide.
“You would be happy. And that blessing is worth any price to me.”
“I am happy here. I love Kilcrennan. I love my work.”
“That may be enough for now. But it is not enough for all your life.”
She sighed. “When I was fourteen, you took me to the place in the hills where the fairy portal is hidden and told me about the fairies of the glen. Do you remember? You said if I ever found true love, all binding agreements would be broken. You said that love is the—” She stopped, her throat constricting.
“Love is the greatest magic humans possess,” he finished. “It is more powerful than fairy magic. It can undo any spell, satisfy any bargain.”
Love makes its own magic. The motto of the MacCarrans. Her heart beat faster. “But I cannot risk bringing ill fortune to Kilcrennan.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake to tell you this when you were too young to understand. Your happiness is all I have ever wanted.”
“What about your happiness? You would lose your gift, and your right to visit the fairy realm every seven years. To be honest, I have never known whether to believe all of it, but I will not ruin what you believe in and treasure.”
“Is that why you refused Struan?” Donal folded his arms. “Because of my gifts?”
She nodded. “Because I must stay in Kilcrennan.”
“Your happiness is what matters to me,” he said stubbornly.
“What of the lost fairy treasure, and what you said of my coming birthday? I do not know what to believe. I have no magic myself. It only seems to come to you.”
“The Sight is your gift, and it is magical in itself.”
She shook her head, yet remembered visions—Struan in battle, and how that was true. A host of the Fey riding horses through mist and moonlight—was that true? The stories of childhood seemed to unreal to believe, as Struan said. Yet no one believed these things more deeply than her own grandfather.
“Whatever is true, I know I only want to live here, in my own home. I do not want to go to Edinburgh, or—or with the fairies when my birthday arrives, as you have told me might happen. Were they all stories?”
He frowned. “When you turn twenty-one, something may indeed happen. I have been told so, and I believe it. Have you had no inkling yourself? No dreams?”
She hesitated. “I...saw something in the Struan gardens one night. Riders on horses, coming through the mist. It looked...like fog. Or ghosts. Or the Seelie Court riding past. I can see how people might think it.” Should she believe Struan, or Donal MacArthur—or her own eyes and inner knowing? It had seemed so real.
“Just as I told you. The Fey. You were lucky to escape.”
She pushed a hand through her hair, tendrils slipping from neat braiding. “Truly, I do not know what to believe. Or what to do.”
“Your gift,” he said. “The Sight was granted to you by the fairy queen when you were an infant. You can see what cannot be seen. Use it to protect yourself.”
“Sometimes I do have the Sight, but it is common enough in the Highlands. It is not very useful. Time goes by with nothing, and then I may see and know things, but it is so unreliable.”
“Like the fairies,” he said. “Capricious. Charming. Like you. And now you are in love, and your thoughts are spinning around. It is normal.” He smiled as if delighted.
“Grandda,” she said impatiently. “I want to stay here at Kilcrennan. I want to be here to help you. Everything would be so complicated if I fell in love. And so I will never do that.”
“Too late,” Donal said, watching her. “You already have.”
His inked pen scratched over paper as James sat at the desk recording his latest geological observations of the local hills near Struan. He would need to deliver a new series of lectures after the new year, and though it was only October, he was never one to fall behind. He glanced across the room, where golden afternoon sun slanted through the windows. The rocks that he had lately collected were arranged neatly on a small table, each one tied with a string attached to a paper tag. He was particularly excited about a few of those samples, which supported his theories.
The Earth is still evolving into its present and future states, he wrote. Lava, volcanoes, floods and tidal waves, earthquakes and other catastrophes caused massive shifts of land and sea. Earthly documents exist in rock and stone, in the rippled patterns of rocks found along the shore, in cracks formed in mud that once dried in hot sun, in the imprints of waves, raindrops, and trickles of water, and in the fossil remains of marine shells, plants, mammals and reptiles...
Osgar, napping beside his desk, sat up, whining a bit. James glanced at the wolfhound. “Ever since the Greeks,” he lectured to the dog, who tipped his head as if fascinated, “man has noted the evidence of a long-ago sea that surged as high as the mountains. Did you know that entire continents once lay under water? So we think, for rock preserves a record of the secrets of the earth. Astute investigation can interpret and reveal the truth. The present is the key to the past.”
He wrote that down, adding, “And the past is the key to both present and future.” The dog seemed to lose interest, settling down for the rest of his nap.
Suddenly James wondered what Elspeth might say about his lecture. He felt a sharp longing, wanting to discuss it with her. She was never far from his thoughts. Never far enough, he added. Sanding the ink, blowing gently, he set the paper aside.
Then he reached for his grandmother’s manuscript, a thick stack of pages still left to read. He reminded himself that he had to finish this fairy business and move on, leave Struan House and the glen, and return to Edinburgh.
A knock at the door made Osgar leap to his feet, ears alert. James opened the door to find Eldin looking grim. James sighed.
“Come in, Eldin. May I send for coffee or tea?”
“Thank you, no. Sir John and I will be departing shortly. What a handsome animal,” his cousin said, stretching a hand to pet Osgar. “A proud and ancient breed.”
“Aye.” James hoped Osgar would growl ominously enemy, but the wolfhound merely nudged his head under Eldin’s hand. Greedy beast.
“I will take only a moment of your time. I understand through Mr. Browne that you are thinking of selling this house. If so, I am prepared to make an offer.”
James frowned. “I have not entirely decided.” Regardless, he did not want to sell to Eldin.
“I should make it clear that Lady Struan’s decision regarding my role in her will was her own doing. I did not influence her.”
His cousin knew what James might assume, of course—anyone knowing Eldin would consider that conclusion. “Lady Struan corresponded with you often over some business dealings, I understand,” he said calmly. “Perhaps the two of you discussed her wishes for the will.”
“I assure you we did not. In the last few years, she had invested some capital in certain enterprises—jute, herrings, salt—to support Scottish industries and make a little in repayment. I assisted her in those transactions. She invested wisely and made a good profit. She also made a little assisting in some illicit trading as well, mostly whisky and salt.”
“Did she! I was not aware,” James said, more amused than shocked. “I know she believed that Highlanders had suffered enough already from being cleared out of their homes and lands with the sale of their landlord’s properties. She mentioned more than once that it was unfair that they should pay exorbitant tax duties on necessary items such as whisky and salt.”
“She did. And so I helped her arrange some patronage of those enterprises.” He cleared his throat. “She earned extra funds by doing so. And so perhaps she thought we worked well together and included me in her will as a sort of...contingency if things did not go according to her plans and wishes.”
“I take it you know the unusual conditions of the will.”
“I do. I can only wish you luck in your endeavor.” His dark blue eyes were intense, a cool and almost hawkish expression.
“To be honest, sir, my siblings are convinced that you exerted some influence over Lady Struan. Whatever the case, there is little to be done about it now.”
“Very little,” Eldin responded. “Nor can we change other bygones.”
“Oh, that you watched our cousin die on a bloody battlefield, and did nothing to help him?” James tried to stay calm, his fingers flexing tightly on the doorknob. “That is not something that is easy to forget.”
Eldin glanced at James’s leg. “Some situations cannot be helped.”
“Especially if one chooses to save himself while a kinsman suffers.”
“Interpretation is in the realm of the observer. As a scientist, you realize that.”
“Indeed,” James said, fuming. Beside him, Osgar pricked his ears, trotting to a large window that overlooked the trees and lawn at the front of the house. The dog stood tall enough to rest his chin on the windowsill. He whimpered, tail wagging. Glancing that way, James saw a gig through the trees that then turned toward the house. The dog woofed quietly.
“Down,” James said. The approaching vehicle carried an older man and a young woman. She wore a plaid shawl and her bonnet partly covered dark hair. His heart bounded. Elspeth and Donal MacArthur.
“Visitors,” Eldin said. “Would this be your Highland bride, by chance?”
James was silent. Osgar nudged his leg, and he patted the great, rough head.
“I believe Lady Rankin has it in mind for you to wed Miss Charlotte Sinclair.”
“I am aware,” James drawled.
“You should consider it. Miss Sinclair is a handsome young woman, and moneyed as well, which could relieve your current state. But I will not take up your time any longer. I wished only to extend my offer of purchase.”
James slowly fisted, flexed his hand. “Which you have done. Good day.”
“This is a fine estate. You should do all in your power to hold on to it.”
“Or you will have it?”
Eldin smiled flatly and left the room. After a moment, calling Osgar to follow, James walked out into the corridor. He heard a faint, unexpected sound as a shriek echoed somewhere overhead. Just as he glanced around, Mrs. MacKimmie hurried around the corner.
“Och, what is our banshee wanting to tell us?” she said. “The laird is here. Who else important would be arriving? Just the weaver and his granddaughter, is all.”
The laird’s bride has arrived, James thought. Could that be it? He inclined his head and waved a hand toward the door. “Let us welcome them, Mrs. MacKimmie.”
“Grandda, what are you doing?” Elspeth asked. “We only took Margaret home and headed back to Kilcrennan. But this is not the way!” Her grandfather had already turned onto the earthen road that led to Struan House. The manor sat just ahead, pale stone elegance set amid bright autumn hills under a blue sky.
“The glen road is in poor condition after the flooding. We’ll go this way.”
“There is no reason to go this close to Struan House.”
“I forgot to answer the laird, who sent us a dinner invitation.”
“Send our refusal by post or messenger. Stop, please. I do not want to see Lord Struan now. Not yet,” she added miserably.
“The viscount asked that you work with him in his library. You will have to give him your answer.”
“I do not want to see him.”
“Here we are,” he announced, almost gleeful, as they came near the house.
“You are a good man,” she said, “except when you do not listen. Please, turn the gig around.”
“When I was a young man and first met the queen of the fairies,” he said, “I fell under her glamourie. I went into that hill for what I thought was a few hours. But when I came out, a fortnight had passed.”
“And the fairies gave you the gift of weaving. I know. And your son met them too and stayed with his true love, and so I was born, and you promised to take care of me. I know it all. And now you may turn the gig around and take us home.” She snatched at the reins, but he leaned away.
“I did not tell you all the truth.”
“Tell me the truth later. Go that way.” She pointed. He ignored her.
“I made a wicked bargain when I went into that hill,” he said. “I traded myself to her, to the queen. I did it to further my business. And I did it for my family, for your grandmother and your father, for the wealth it would bring us. She gave me the gift of the weaving in barter for my companionship. I was lured in by her charms, and believed it a fair trade. Earthly riches through my own efforts, with a little help from magic. But I was wrong. And I pay for it every seven years.”
She looked over at him. “What are you telling me?”
“I became the queen’s lover,” he explained, “and she calls me back to her.”
“You should not tell me that much,” she said uneasily.
“I should, so you will understand what a danger their kind can be, especially for those who dismiss their power. I am bound to the queen by a spell that I cannot break. For years I have been held by the glamourie she put on me. It is a wicked trap. I betrayed my dear wife for that bargain. She died knowing I was caught in the thrall of a fairy lover.” He glanced at Elspeth. “I would give anything to be free of that. To be forgiven for what I have done.”
“And free of the weaving, and all you have worked to accomplish?”
He stopped the vehicle, the house looming just beyond. “I would give up all of it,” he said firmly, “and never visit the Fey again, never see my son again. I would give up all of it for your happiness, Elspeth. And to make my own love happy today. Peggy Graham,” he said softly.
“Peggy!” Elspeth caught her breath. “Oh, Grandda, I hoped so. Does she know?”
“Not all of it. I am an old man, older than most think. Who knows how many years I have left. Peggy is a fine soul and accepts my past and does not bother about whether or not it is true. She loves me, I think. Aye, well.” He lifted the reins again. “I wanted you to know all of it. I want to stop you from making a mistake too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do not give up your happiness and stay at Kilcrennan just for me. Do not sacrifice your future so I can weave in the strange manner that I do, and visit the Fey on my appointed day. Do not. Because I would rather be quit of it.”
“And the weaving?”
“The madness of it, aye.”
She nodded slowly. “If I found love, it might break the spell?”
“Let it break. We cannot live in fear of the fairies. Accept Struan’s proposal.”
“Even so, he would want to live in the Lowlands, while I want to be in the Highlands. I love this place. And you, and Peggy.”
“It is a problem,” he admitted. “But there is a solution, and you must find it. Go on. Go inside and tell your laird you love him. He will be happy to know it.”
Hope bubbled up. Part of her wanted to leap out of the gig and run to the house, but she sat twisting her gloved hands in her lap. “If I did this, and the spell broke over you, as you say, what would happen to your work?”
“A weaver is what I am. I would just be slower.” He chuckled, but she saw a glimmer of both sadness and courage.
“What of the fairy treasure that you wanted to find?”
“I cannot find it. I might bargain with them again. They do love to bargain,” he said wryly.
“If this is all true,” she said, “what would happen to you, Grandda?”
“Do you still not believe it? You have questioned it since you were a wee lass. What would convince you, when I weave like a lunatic some nights, and when you saw the Fey yourself with your own eyes not long ago?”
“It could be the whisky upon me, and you.”
“Why do you think my MacGregor cousins call it fairy brew? Stubborn lass,” he grumbled. “I can think of another reason for you to marry Struan.”
Her breath caught. “What is that?”
“He saw me at the weaving that night, did he not?”
She glanced away, aware of what else had happened that night with Struan. “He did notice you were weaving rather quickly,” she answered carefully.
“The secret must stay with us. So he must become part of the family.”
Elspeth gasped. “You gave him the fairy brew deliberately, to spin his head around, and then you went to your weaving. I wondered—but I am sure of it now.”
Donal chuckled. Her own head was spinning. She had never fully believed all that her grandfather had told her, even though she had seen evidence of it.
But all of that would have to wait. Her grandfather drove quickly toward the house, about to stop at the entrance steps. Elspeth hastily smoothed her skirt, glad she had worn her pretty dark blue gown today, and she tugged at her shawl, another of her own weavings in soft green and sky blue. As the gig rolled closer, she saw Angus MacKimmie walking toward them.
“Greetings, Angus! Go on, Elspeth,” Donal said quietly. “Go find your bonny laird. Tell him,” he murmured, “that you are ready to become the new Lady Struan.”
She was not sure she could do that, exactly. But she might say something to him to give him—and herself—new hope. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“The truth,” he reminded her. “It is time.”
Wondering how she could ever explain the whole truth, she moved to step from the gig and saw Struan striding toward them. As he reached out to help her, she rested her hands on his arms, accepting. “Good afternoon, Lord Struan.”
“Miss MacArthur,” he said rather formally. He lifted her down, and at the pressure of his hands at her waist, she felt a thrill to her bones. “What a surprise.”
She looked at him, hesitating, sensing an odd tension. He stepped away, and she turned to see others coming toward them. Some were familiar faces—Sir John Graham and Fiona MacCarran. “Cousin John!” she said, smiling. “And Miss MacCarran. I beg pardon, Lord Struan. My grandfather and I did not mean to interrupt. We were not aware that you have guests.”
“Indeed,” he replied. He sounded cool. Cautious. Her heart sank.
“How good to see you again, Miss MacArthur,” Fiona MacCarran said, taking Elspeth’s hand briefly.
“Cousin Elspeth, how nice,” John Graham said, kissing her cheek. “I came north on business and was not sure I would have time to visit Kilcrennan. Cousin Donal! Excellent to see you!” He walked around the gig.
Struan touched her elbow. “Miss MacArthur, you have not met my youngest brother, Patrick MacCarran. Patrick, Miss MacArthur lives in the glen here.”
“Hello.” Elspeth smiled up a young man who resembled the viscount, though his hair was darker, his eyes golden brown, his smile impish. Two others came down the steps then, and Elspeth felt her heart pound when she recognized the blond woman who was walking with a tall, dark gentleman.
“You remember Miss Sinclair,” Struan said quietly.
“I do.” Elspeth smiled politely and held out her hand in greeting. Charlotte Sinclair gave her a smug, tight little smile, and stood so close to Struan that her shoulder pressed his arm. Jolted to see that, thinking with dread that she should never have come, Elspeth kept a tight smile in place. “How do you do, Miss Sinclair. What brings you to the Highlands?”
“We came with Lady Rankin to visit James—Lord Struan—and to tour the Highlands.” Charlotte turned her smile up like a lamp as she looked at Struan. “I’m determined to lure him away from his books and into the mountains with us tomorrow.”
“Lord Eldin,” Struan said abruptly, “may I introduce Miss MacArthur of Kilcrennan.” Elspeth turned almost gratefully toward the stranger.
“A true Highland girl! I am charmed.” Eldin inclined his head. At first glance, he looked like a dark, beautiful avenging angel, imposing and stern. He was almost flawlessly handsome, his physique as taut and perfect as his finely tailored black clothing. As compelling as he seemed, Elspeth felt something unsettling about him. She frowned. He extended his hand, and she rested her gloved fingers in his.
The world went dizzy around her, shadowy with a smoky haze, and she could scarce breathe. James, she thought, James—she reached out for him, grabbing his coat sleeve almost blindly.