Even as she stood beside Struan, even as Eldin still held her hand in introduction, Elspeth saw another scene—a ghostly image of both men. They wore red jackets and dark tartan kilts, the uniform of the Highland Black Watch. Both held guns and were enveloped in a smoky haze. Yet at the same time, both men stood watching her now, looking puzzled. James began to look alarmed. She felt frozen, scarcely able to move or speak as the images played out in her mind.
“Elspeth—Miss MacArthur,” Struan murmured.
She stared at him almost blankly, still watching the strange dual scene. He wore a gray frock coat and buff trousers now, the privileged gentleman, yet a flickering image beside him showed James dressed as a Highland officer. Beside him, Lord Eldin, tall and severely handsome in black, narrowed his eyes. His ghostly double was with him, wearing the Highland uniform.
James as a soldier had soot on his face, a bloody gash at his knee, a bayoneted gun upright in his hand. Eldin held a bayoneted firearm at the ready. He fired it, threw it to the ground—
The strange images vanished. The two men stood staring at her.
“Miss MacArthur, are you ill? She is very pale,” Eldin added to James.
She pulled her fingers from Eldin’s grip. “You—” she said hoarsely. “You were there! You saw him take a wound, and watched the other die!”
“Elspeth,” Struan said firmly, taking her arm. “Come inside.”
“What is this?” Eldin asked sharply. “Do you have Da Shealladh?” The two sights—Second Sight. His use of Gaelic surprised her.
“Come away.” Struan set his arm around her to lead her into the house.
“What is it?” Patrick MacCarran asked, going up the steps with them.
“Miss MacArthur is feeling faint. She must sit down,” Struan answered. “Tell her grandfather she is fine, and only needs a moment to rest.” Patrick nodded and turned away. Behind her, she heard her grandfather asking what had happened.
The warm, solid pressure of James’s arm around her felt safe and good. It was all she needed, with her thoughts scrambled for the moment. She let herself lean into his strength as he led her inside and into the library. The others, murmuring, questioning, followed more slowly.
“Sit here. What the devil happened?” He guided her to a wing chair by the fireplace, his hands patient, his voice urgent, private.
“I do not feel faint. I am fine.”
“I could hardly explain that you were having one of your fairy spells, could I.” He dropped to his haunches, frowning at her. “Tell me what happened.”
“I saw you and Lord Eldin together, in uniform, out on a battlefield—your knee was injured. You were standing, leaning on a long gun. Lord Eldin had a gun too. He fired it, set it down. You wore red coats and the kilts of the Black Watch.”
“My God.” He took her hand. “You are shaking like an aspen. I do not understand this, but it is clear that something happened. Would you like some whisky? Or tea?”
“Not whisky,” she said with a half-laugh. “I do not need anything.”
“Mrs. MacKimmie is preparing tea. You will stay. Mrs. MacKimmie!” he called over his shoulder. “Drat. All of them will be here in a moment. Do not get up,” he said, touching her shoulder. “I will be right back.”
“James, please.” But he was gone. She leaned back in the wing chair uneasily. Hearing footsteps, she turned to see Eldin crossing the library.
“Miss MacArthur.” He came closer. “Are you well? We were quite concerned. You seemed overcome.”
“I am fine. It was nothing.” She rose to her feet.
“So you have the Sight,” he said flatly.
She folded her hands warily. “Why do you say that?”
“I know something of it.” He inclined his head, closed his eyes. “Ah. Fairy-held Sight,” he murmured. “Interesting.”
“That’s madness, sir.” But she felt something odd about Eldin, that he understood more than he would reveal, that he was some kind of threat to James. Puzzled, she watched him. “Who are you?”
He laughed and turned as James strode into across the room, his limp echoing unevenly on wooden floor and thick Oriental carpet. That rhythm was dear and familiar to her, and she was glad when he stood by her chair almost protectively. At the same time, others began to enter the room.
“Cousin Nick,” James said brusquely, quietly. “You were just leaving. I believe Mr. MacKimmie is bringing your barouche round just now.”
“Excellent.” Eldin smiled at Elspeth. “I regret I cannot linger to take tea with you, Miss MacArthur. Do take care.”
“Sir,” she replied, and sensed the tension in Struan, still standing by her.
Eldin left the library just as Mrs. MacKimmie and a housemaid entered, carrying trays with a porcelain teapot, cups, plates of food. They set the trays down as the guests came into the room to gather near the fireplace and near Elspeth. They murmured their concern and good wishes, to Elspeth’s embarrassment.
“Truly it was nothing.” She felt heat rising in her cheeks.
“You seem fine now,” Fiona said gently. “Perhaps it was the chilly air.”
“We are having cold autumn winds after so much rain,” Mrs. MacKimmie said, as she set out the tea things. “The wind may have blown into her, such a delicate wee lass she is.”
“I am fine, and grateful for your kindness,” Elspeth said. Her grandfather had come into the room with the others. He lifted his fingers to his brow briefly, and she realized that he was asking if it was the Sight. She nodded and turned away.
Fiona sat in the wing chair opposite to pour out the tea, and Elspeth accepted a steaming cup, as did the others. Once her cousin John Graham felt reassured of her health, he said his farewells, and he and Eldin left in the barouche. Tea and conversation continued in the library. To Elspeth’s relief, the incident seemed quickly forgotten.
“What a substantial tea this is,” Charlotte remarked of the generous spread Mrs. MacKimmie had provided, which included cold beef, sausage rolls, sweet and plain biscuits, a fruit compote, lemon cake, and plenty of strong, hot tea.
“A Highland tea, Miss,” Mrs. MacKimmie said. “Near enough to a supper, this.”
“Oh!” Charlotte Sinclair looked startled, and Elspeth realized that she had not expected the housekeeper to answer her directly. Hiding her smile, Elspeth felt a little fillip of satisfaction as Mrs. MacKimmie continued.
“The laird often takes his tea this way now, with a small supper late in the evening. I will have soup ready later if that suits. Lady Rankin requested an informal meal for everyone as they arrived. I know you must be tired from the long journey up from the south.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacKimmie,” Fiona said. Elspeth noted that neither Fiona nor her brothers seemed to expect the housekeeper to be the retiring sort, although Miss Sinclair was still pursing her mouth over it. “A quiet evening would be just the thing before our early outing tomorrow. This is an excellent spread, well done. And thank you.”
While the housekeeper beamed in response and answered as Fiona asked about her recipe for lemon cake, Elspeth glanced at Struan. He had remained standing beside her chair, cup and saucer cradled in his hand.
“All is well?” he murmured softly.
“Aye, though I am mortified,” she whispered.
“It is forgotten. Thankfully my great-aunt is napping and Sir Philip is strolling the gardens, or there would have been far more drama.”
“My grandfather and I must go.” She set her cup on a small table. “We only came by so that, ah, I could offer to help with your work—since you had asked.”
“Did you? Good.” He leaned an elbow on the wing of her chair, looking down at her, and she gazed into his eyes—sincere blue, wonderful eyes. She knew deeply that he was a good man, and her breath caught, for she wished now that she could stay longer, stay forever. Yet she was not sure of her status among these people who were important in Struan’s life. She glanced away, feeling very much an outsider.
“Struan,” Charlotte said then, her voice lilting. “Tell us about your beautiful house. Perhaps you could start by explaining the pretty curiosities in these display cases. Come here, do!” She flashed him a brilliant smile.
“My sister can tell you more about the rocks and things in there,” he said, smiling back, staying where he stood.
Charlotte gave a quick, displeased frown. But Fiona took the girl’s arm and turned with her, beginning to explain about the stones in the display case.
“I should have remembered you were expecting guests,” Elspeth said quietly to Struan. “You are too busy to do any work today. Perhaps we could talk about your grandmother’s book later.” She stood, smoothing her skirts. “Thank you for your hospitality. May I apologize—for everything,” she added softly.
“Stay,” he said. “I want you to stay. You must at least finish your tea.”
Donal MacArthur, who had walked over to the fireplace to study the painting hanging above the mantel, glanced at them over his shoulder. He held a teacup in one hand and a small plate with a slice of cake in the other. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Struan,” he boomed. “I have some errands to tend to this afternoon. See the reverend and such. Perhaps my granddaughter could wait here until I can return for her. So she would not become too tired going about with me, hey?”
“She may stay here as long as she likes,” Struan said. Donal smiled in clear satisfaction and turned back to his son’s painting.
I want to stay forever, she thought. But with Charlotte Sinclair was here, perhaps Struan felt differently about marrying a Highland girl, especially one who had adamantly refused him, when Charlotte was so eager to accommodate.
And with his guests about, Elspeth knew she could find no good chance for a private discussion—and perhaps that was best. Charlotte Sinclair, being so possessive of Lord Struan, would no doubt cling to his side as long as Elspeth was there. He would soon forget his impulsive offer of marriage, she thought.
The very thought of that hurt. What had she done? She turned. “Grandfather, I think I would like to come with you. Lord Struan has guests. I will not intrude.”
“If he does not mind it, then we do not,” her grandfather answered. “I will be back soon. You will have a little time to begin helping with Struan’s paperwork, as you promised.”
“I—suppose I could,” she said, glancing hesitantly at Struan.
“Good, then.” He took her elbow to accompany her as she walked with her grandfather to the library door. He limped slightly without his cane, and Elspeth lent discreet support by walking close should he need to lean, though she knew his pride would prevent it. Charlotte hurried over.
“Oh, you’re leaving, Miss MacArthur, but how nice to see you again,” Charlotte told Elspeth, slipping her arm into the crook of Struan’s other elbow. “Dear Struan, do be careful without your cane, sir. Come with me, you must tell me more about the pretty blue stone in the case. It is quite my favorite. It would make handsome jewelry pieces if we could have slices of it.” She tugged on his arm, nearly throwing him off balance.
Almost without thinking, Elspeth pressed close to help Struan right himself as Charlotte tugged. Slice the blue stone? She nearly gasped aloud.
“That is a blue agate, quite rare. I would never allow it to be cut into baubles,” Struan said. “Do give me a moment. I am saying farewell to Mr. MacArthur. And I believe Miss MacArthur will be here with us for the afternoon, or so we can hope.”
“But James,” Charlotte protested in a loud whisper, pouting.
“Please, do not mind us, go ahead.” Elspeth stepped away, not wanting to encourage Charlotte Sinclair’s petty drama.
With a lightning frown toward Elspeth, Struan nodded, bid a polite farewell to Donal MacArthur, and turned away with Charlotte. Taking her grandfather’s arm, Elspeth walked with him to the entrance.
He leaned down. “That lass has an angel’s face and the manners of a magpie.”
Elspeth laughed ruefully. “And now I really must stay, to make sure the magpie does not claim your blue stone.”
“Aye, do that. I looked at it during the tea. That is exactly the one, and we must have it back. Do you think you can manage it?”
“I will find a way, even with the magpie’s eye upon it.”
“And on you as well. Stay here as your right. You and Struan have an agreement, even if it is a secret.” He whispered this a little too loudly.
“I doubt we have an agreement now. And I will not squabble over him with another woman,” she returned in a fierce whisper. “It will be a relief to live at Kilcrennan all my life, with none of this to bother over.” She lifted her chin.
“A relief? Stubborn lass,” he drawled.
She sighed. “Grandda, before you go, let me tell you—” She explained the vision she had seen earlier, which had near knocked her off her feet. “Afterward, Lord Eldin asked me if I had a fairy gift. How strange!”
“Indeed, there is something odd about the man, I admit.”
“I feel certain he and Struan were enemies once and may yet be. He wants something, but I do not know what it is.”
“Well, he is gone now, and good riddance. I will be back soon, lass. While you are here, look closely at Niall’s painting. There is something you must see.”
“Struan noticed that a woman in the painting looks like me. I am hoping it could be a likeness of my mother.”
“Perhaps. But look again.” He touched her chin. “There is something else there for you to see.”
“Very well,” she said, puzzled, and reached up to kiss his cheek quickly. As he left, she returned to the library.
Struan stood with the others by the display case. For an instant, Elspeth remembered being alone with him just there, blissfully, passionately alone. Now Charlotte Sinclair pressed her shoulder to his arm, her blond hair shining in the sunlight beside the chestnut-and-gold gleam of his hair. They were a beautifully matched pair, Elspeth thought. Surely everyone expected them to wed one day.
She turned away quickly went to the fireplace. Gazing at her father’s painting, admiring the masterful technique, the large composition with its delicate details that showed the moorland rinsed in moonbeams, the forested hillside, the misty hints of fairy riders among the trees. Then she noticed a new detail in the landscape.
Frowning, she raised on tiptoe for a closer look. She did not remember seeing this before. To one side of the composition, a wall of dark rock rose up, and the detail of the brushwork revealed the narrow mouth of a cave there. Inside the shadowed crevice, she could see the painterly glimmer of jewels and gold, tiny dabs and dots of color. A cache of gold and treasure? Her heart leaped.
She angled to one side and craned her neck for a better perspective, and nearly stumbled into Struan, who came up behind her. He steadied her arm, and she turned, touching his sleeve. “Look,” she whispered urgently. “There, to the right. What do you see there?”
He studied the painting, and after a moment nodded. “Interesting. There is a cave—and is that a chest of gold and things, like a pirate’s treasure? I had not noticed it before.”
“My father had a fine hand for detail, and that does look like treasure. James,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “What if he deliberately left clues?”
“All these details are legends that are well known in the glen. Your father put them in the picture.”
“This is more than that. I know it.” She tilted her head. “That rocky cliff looks familiar. It is nearby—I have seen it. Let me think,” she said, drawing her brow together. “Surely it is in the glen, or not far from there.”
He leaned his head down. “If we find the cave and the treasure, your fairies will have to dance at our wedding.” He sounded amused.
“Our wedding?” Her heartbeat quickened, leaped.
“If you like,” he murmured.
A breath. Another. He had not given up on her. But she could not think about it here and now. “I thought you did not believe in fairy nonsense.”
“For a charming fairy lass, you are too serious sometimes,” he whispered.
“I wish...you would trust that this treasure exists, and is no joke. Nor is—the rest of this amusing.”
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I do not trust tales of fairies and lost treasure.”
“Please, we must talk,” she said softly. “But not here.”
“Fairies and treasure! How exciting! Do tell us,” Charlotte said, coming near.
There was just no blasted privacy in this place, James thought, turning as Charlotte approached. How much had she heard of their murmured conversation? He felt hounded by the girl, but she seemed to take no notice of his disinterest.
He desperately wanted—needed—time alone with Elspeth, though his guests would not depart on their Highland tour until tomorrow. But somehow, even with Charlotte tracking his every move, he must find time to speak with not just Elspeth, but his siblings too. He wanted to explain about Elspeth, and his desire to marry her.
Seeing her today, he knew that he was not yet done with this, despite her refusals, despite his impatience and disappointment. He knew now that he would never give up on her.
“What is this about fairies and treasure?” Patrick asked, coming closer too. “Fairies are such a fascinating topic. Fiona loves them too, don’t you?” His sister, walking beside him, nodded and smiled, her cheeks betraying a deep blush.
“James, have you found fairies at Struan House?” she asked.
“Just in Grandmother’s manuscript,” he said irritably.
“Lost treasure is so adventurous,” Charlotte said. “Perhaps we could find it!”
“An entertaining Highland tale and no more,” James said. “Just a local legend that Miss MacArthur was explaining. Isn’t that so?” Elspeth nodded, eyes wide.
“The painting has fairies in it. Look! I never noticed that when we visited before.” Fiona pointed to Niall’s painting.
Charlotte shoved between James and Elspeth to gaze up at the picture. “Very pretty, though I think it is more suited to a bedroom than this room. Perhaps you could have it moved, James, if I find a better spot for it upstairs?”
“I like it here,” he answered. “Grandmother was very fond of it. By the way, Miss MacArthur’s father was the artist.”
“Your father?” Charlotte looked at Elspeth with surprise. “Then your family may want to purchase the picture when James sells Struan House.”
“Sell the house?” Elspeth turned gray eyes up to him, her distress clear.
“Not yet,” he said, frowning.
“He wants to be rid of the place, and one can hardly blame him, a drafty old house like this, so far away from home.” Charlotte tucked her hand in his elbow in a proprietary way that made him stiffen cautiously. Elspeth looked away.
“It is not so far. Many come up to the Highlands from the city,” he only said.
“But you have so many responsibilities in Edinburgh, and this house and estate will require attention, unless we—er, you—wish to spend a good part of the year in the Highlands.”
“I may indeed do that.” With a polite smile, he disengaged his arm and stepped away. Charlotte smiled. She could be deliberately oblivious to whatever disagreed with her goal. And he was clearly the goal.
“Lord Struan, what is this? Would you sell this grand old place?” Sir Philip asked in a jovial tone as he came toward them, escorting Lady Rankin on his arm.
“I am considering all options,” James replied, nodding a greeting to both.
“Why then, I might purchase it myself,” Sir Philip said with a hearty laugh.
“Dear Philip! And Lady Rankin. I hope you feel more rested,” Charlotte cooed.
“I am. Did we miss tea?” Lady Rankin kissed his cheek, then sat while Fiona poured tea for her and Sir Philip. “Miss MacArthur, how nice to see you again,” Lady Rankin said after a moment—a pause meant to put the girl in a secondary place, James noted, certainly of less importance than Charlotte. “You live nearby, I recall?”
“I do, my lady. My grandfather and I live down the glen.”
“I believe your grandfather is a weaver? Kilcrennan’s?” Sir Philip asked.
“Aye, sir,” Elspeth replied.
“I have Kilcrennan tartan in my own wardrobe. Fine stuff!”
“Weaving! I hope you do not employ small children in your factory,” Charlotte said.
“Only myself when I was small,” Elspeth said, mischief glinting in her eyes.
“You weave cloth in a factory? How unusual,” Lady Rankin said.
“It is not a factory. But I am a weaver, aye,” Elspeth confirmed, even as Lady Rankin and Charlotte raised their eyebrows. “We use handlooms and practice the old ways of the craft. My grandfather, and his father and grandfather before him, grandmothers too, were all weavers in this glen. It is an old family tradition here.”
“Mr. MacArthur is an old-school artisan,” Struan added. “Miss MacArthur is very skilled too. Admirably so.”
“Highland weaving is an ancient craft,” Fiona said. “It is nearly an art form in the Highlands. Here in the north, factories and workshops do not exist as they might in the south. Handwoven tartan is very popular now, so I imagine Kilcrennan weavers must be very busy. We can thank Sir Walter Scott for that—his popular books have helped to restore a sense of national identity and heritage to Scotland. After the king’s visit, everyone wants plaid, indeed anything so-called ‘Scotch.’”
“Aye, it seems so.” James silently blessed his sister for her defense of weaving, and the Highlands—and indeed Elspeth and Kilcrennan.
“You have an appreciation for the Highlands, Miss MacCarran,” Elspeth said.
“I love it up here,” Fiona said. “James and I spent some wonderful holidays at Struan House as children.”
“My sister dedicates her time to a Highland society, and travels about teaching English to native Gaelic speakers,” James added.
“You were both here as children? It is a wonder we did not meet sooner,” Elspeth said.
I wish we had, he nearly said. His life might have taken a happier course far sooner. “We were here for only a fortnight at a time, and not so often, though we wandered the hills with our grandfather and met some locals. We must have met your grandfather when we were children, as he knew Lord and Lady Struan. But I imagine you were too young to play with us at the time.”
He smiled. His whole heart went out to her, and he wondered if she saw it.
She laughed softly. “I may have been too young, nor did my grandfather bring me to Struan House when I was small. I met Lady Struan later. A lovely woman.” She turned to Fiona. “How good of you to teach English to Highland children. Some families speak both languages, as ours did, but it varies among homes, particularly among the crofters and such.”
Fiona nodded agreement, just as Mrs. MacKimmie entered the room, busying herself clearing the tea table. James handed her his empty cup with quiet thanks.
“Philip tells me the gardens here are spectacular, even in autumn,” Lady Rankin said, gazing out the window. “I would love to see them, and I’m sure Charlotte would too. Your manservant told Philip that there are fairies out in your garden. How quaint! We must go look for them. Little statues, I suppose he means.”
“Och, Mr. MacKimmie likely spoke of our real fairies,” Mrs. MacKimmie said as she cleared the tea things. Lady Rankin gasped, and James smiled—like Charlotte, his great-aunt was not used to household staff joining a conversation. Nor did she believe in fairies.
“Oh aye, the Fey are said to live in the hills nearby,” Elspeth said.
James lifted his brow, quite enjoying the stunned silence. He rather thought Elspeth had said so for Charlotte’s benefit, for that young woman simply gaped.
“The charming folderol of the Highlands,” he said lightly. “I did not believe it myself when I came here.” He saw Elspeth glance at him quickly. “But one begins to consider it after a while. Some of the stories are more than a little eerie.”
“Fascinating!” Fiona turned. “Has anyone seen real fairies here at Struan?”
“Some claimed to have seen them on the grounds and in the glen,” Elspeth said. “Traditionally, the fairies are said to visit Struan House at this time every year. It is said that they ride across Struan lands over a few nights. Lord Struan and I might have seen them one night.”
Now that went a bit far, James thought wryly, as the others turned to stare at Elspeth. Was she intent on shocking Charlotte in particular, or all of them? She was not aggressive, but she was frank by nature. Likely she saw the wisdom in saying something before rumors were heard. Sooner or later, he would marry the girl. His family would learn her outspokenness, and come to accept that some local traditions might seem too fantastic to believe.
“You…and Miss MacArthur…did what?” Charlotte squeaked.
“Saw the fairies at midnight,” Elspeth said. “Or at least what looked like them.”
“You and Struan were together at midnight?” Charlotte squeaked out.
“James,” Lady Rankin said. “I did not know you had entertained while here.”
“He did not. It was just me, and it could not be helped,” Elspeth said. “We were outside on the grounds, and saw something...quite eerie, as Lord Struan said.”
“Alone?” Charlotte asked.
James drew a breath, blew it out. “As a matter of fact, we were. Miss MacArthur was in a bit of a predicament that evening. I came to her assistance,” he explained. “I cannot vouch for seeing fairies. It was probably mist. But the rest, aye, that is true.”
“Lord Struan kindly offered me help when I was caught in a storm,” Elspeth said. “And that night we saw the fairies riding through. Or perhaps just I saw them.”
“Good God,” Philip said. “I was just out there, and saw nothing nearly as good!”
“Alone,” Charlotte persisted. “Here. At night.”
“And you saw fairies?” Fiona asked, head tilted.
“It was just a very thick mist,” James reassured her.
“Och, and what a puir night that was,” Mrs. MacKimmie said, holding the tea tray, in no hurry to depart. “A fierce storm, rain for days. The roads flooded and the bridge broke. How kind of Lord Struan to rescue Elspeth MacArthur.”
“Are you quite finished, Mrs. MacKimmie?” Lady Rankin asked.
“Then you were here, too, Mrs. MacKimmie,” Fiona said.
“Struan House is my home, Miss MacCarran,” the housekeeper answered. “I am always here.” She smiled almost beatifically.
Breathing out in relief and gratitude, James nodded to her. Her eyes twinkled as she made her way to the door, tray clattering.
“James, do enlighten us,” Lady Rankin said. “I am confused.”
“Miss MacArthur was stranded by a devilish Highland gale. She had to accept hospitality at Struan House until she could get home to Kilcrennan.”
“I see,” Charlotte said coldly.
“I suppose it could not be helped,” Lady Rankin decided, “and you had a capable chaperone in Mrs. MacKimmie, even if her manners are forward.”
“She is a most excellent housekeeper,” James replied. “A treasure.”
“A kind woman,” Elspeth said. “I have known her all my life.”
“What of the fairies?” Patrick asked. “You saw them?”
“So beautiful,” Elspeth said. “Lord Struan thinks it was a fancy of my imagination, but I believe I saw them as clear as I see you now.”
Fiona touched Elspeth’s shoulder. “My dear, this is wonderful! What did they look like? How does one see them?”
Elspeth turned with a smile, opened her mouth to speak, a peculiar twinkle in her eyes. James nearly groaned aloud, seeing what was to come. “Miss MacCarran, you will see them yourself one day,” Elspeth said. “But…oh, do be careful if you should decide to paint them.”
“Paint them!” Fiona looked at James. “Does she know what I do?”
“She does not,” James answered.
“The fairy ilk dislike having their picture made,” Elspeth went on. “You may very well see them one day, Miss MacCarran, but if you try to sketch them, they will cause you mischief.” She paused. “Oh! A vow! Did you make a vow…and Struan as well, a promise to Lady Struan?” She glanced at James, her brow furrowed.
“I promised to finish her book, as you know, Miss MacArthur,” he said calmly. He had not told her much about the conditions of his grandmother’s will. And now, when he thought Elspeth could no longer surprise him, she did so again.
He owed her a full explanation. Especially with those gray eyes, usually sparkling and yet so serious now, watching him. She knew there was far more to it.
“Miss MacArthur, do you have the Highland Sight?” Fiona asked. “Sir Walter thought so when he met you in Edinburgh.” She beamed at Elspeth, then at James, her pleasure clear. His twin sister had reason to be thrilled. He sighed.
“This is all very silly,” Charlotte said. Her angry glower made her look harsh, James noticed. He knew she wanted his affection, particularly now that he stood to inherit, although she did not know the details. He could offer friendship, but he could not love her. Suddenly he felt sorry for her. Loving someone in her possessive and superior manner must be hard—but to her, that did mean love.
Now he noticed Sir Philip Rankin looking attentively at Charlotte, and standing close to her. Philip was short, plain, and balding, but he was clever, possessed a good income, and was clearly smitten. James had not seen it before, but he felt pleased. Charlotte needed someone who would adore her, someone simple enough to overlook her flaws. Those two might be a reasonable match, James speculated.
“Not so silly, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “Fairy lore is very much part of the Highland culture. While reading my grandmother’s work, I have come to realize that there are many things in heaven and earth that we cannot understand, as the Bard said.” His own skepticism had lessened quite a lot, he admitted silently.
“Miss MacCarran, remember to ask permission of the fairies when you make sketches in the Highlands,” Elspeth was telling Fiona. “Or they may try to steal you away. That happened to—oh!” She gasped, turning to James. “My father painted them, and fell in love with one of them, and—oh, what if he was taken because of the picture!”
“Who took him? Highland savages?” Lady Rankin put a hand to her bosom.
“Fairies, Aunt,” Patrick said. “They are said to steal people away to their world.”
“What!” Lady Rankin grew pale. “How can that be?”
“If the Fey are angered, they may do anything out of revenge,” Elspeth said.
“So they say.” James wanted to take her attention away from this subject. He had seen that curious glaze in her eyes before, the frankness that overcame her and encouraged her to speak freely, too honestly, of unbelievable matters. He would do his best to protect her from the others’ skepticism because he loved her.
He did love her. His heart seemed to expand, his spirit fill, with the warmth and grandness of the feeling. Taking her elbow, he turned her toward his study.
“Miss MacArthur is quite the expert in fairy lore,” he said over his shoulder, guiding Elspeth to the door. “And I am reminded that she visited today because she has kindly offered to advise me on local folklore. So if you will excuse us, we have some work to attend to.” He ushered Elspeth into the room, hearing Charlotte’s outraged gasp behind him.
He had not meant to be rude, but it had been necessary to remove Elspeth from further questioning. For propriety’s sake, he left the study door partly open. Then he drew her into the shadows behind it.
“Leave it open,” Elspeth said. “Charlotte might knock it down otherwise.”
“Let her,” James said abruptly. “Now tell me what you were going on about back there. The painting. The fairies.”
“Your aunt looked as if she would fall over in a faint when you dragged me away like that.”
“It seemed wise to remove you before you predicted something dire, or revealed all your fairy secrets, or invited the blasted fairies into the blasted room!” He said the last too loudly, and pushed the door nearly shut, leaving a gap.
“Which fairy secrets are those? Best open that more, or they will be after us.”
“Let them. Your grandfather’s peculiar weaving habits. Your father’s fate. The very fairies plotting to kidnap you, my lass.”
“So you do believe!” She looked pleased. Hopeful.
“Hardly. But I accept that what is unusual to others seems normal for you. Will that do?”
She tilted her head. “For now.” Her eyes were like aquamarine lit with silver. But he would not tell her that. It was too damn poetic. Too vulnerable. “What were you saying about your father and the painting?”
“I think I just discovered what happened to my father.” She touched his arm in her excitement, fingers strong and supple from the weaving. He admired her skill, admired the woman, wanted to take her into his arms and show her how very much.
Instead, he kept very still. “Tell me, then.”
“I think he was out in the hills, saw the Síth and sketched them, and went home to paint them. And they took him in forfeit. I must tell Grandda,” she added, turning.
“What in thunderation—preposterous. Wait,” he said, taking her arm. He did not want her to leave. He did not want to talk about fairies.
“Lord Struan, your language deteriorates when you are upset.”
“A casualty of the war, my vocabulary,” he said. “Go on.”
“When I looked at the painting, I saw here”—she tapped her forehead—“what happened to my father. I knew he made the painting and fell in love with one of the Fey, and they came one night and took him with them.”
He shook his head, huffed a laugh, surrendering. He nearly believed this, though it shook the foundations of reason. At the least, he had to give credence to her own belief and acceptance, because he respected her, and loved her.
And he was more lost than he had ever thought possible. Reaching out, he traced his fingers over her soft hair, cupped her chin. His body throbbed even at that simple touch. “I see. So you just knew, in your way. Go on.”
“And I saw, in my mind, your sister walking in the hills carrying a sketchbook. Does she have a habit of that?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I saw her being watched by fairies. She must take care to avoid a bad fate.”
“Fiona is far too pragmatic to see fairies, and if she ever did, they would have a devil of a time taking her away. You do not know her yet, but you will. She seems calm and biddable, but she would give the fairies such a fuss they would be glad to escape with their own lives. If they exist,” he added.
“What promise did you and Fiona make to your grandmother?”
“Just when,” he said, resigned, “did that revelation come to you?”
“When I was talking to Fiona. Did you make a promise to Lady Struan?”
“The book. She requested that in her will.”
“Aye. What else?”
He exhaled. Eventually, this must be said. Honesty was important for both of them if they were to continue together. “My grandmother set the condition that in order to inherit, I must find a Highland bride. To be specific, a fairy bride.”
“A fairy bride,” she repeated. She crossed her arms. Tilted her head.
“Otherwise there will be little inheritance. But she set an impossible condition.”
“Did she.” She watched him. “And then you met me.”
“Elspeth, listen. It was not that way, but—”
“You knew this all along, yet kept silent!” She nearly hissed that.
“We both have our secrets.”