Sarah Gabriel (11 page)

She walked into the library, clutching her damp green plaid around her shoulders, and stood by the fireplace there, drawn by the warm, glowing hearth. Holding out her hands, she glanced around. Rain sheeted against the tall, darkened windows, and the low fire shed a little light. The room was lined with soaring shelves containing thousands of books neatly stored; at the room’s center was a long table, and two sets of wing chairs upholstered in red brocade flanked the fireplace. Beneath the bookshelves were arranged various small tables, chairs, and a few glass-fronted cases that displayed small items.

The warmth felt good, and the lawn of her night rail was so fine that it dried quickly, while she outlasted the impulse to knock on the study door. Breathing a sigh, she turned to leave the library, glancing at the glass case nearest the fireplace as she walked past it.

She stopped short.

The shelves held crystalline stones. She leaned closer, and even in the low firelight, she could see the beautiful color striations. One stone, on the middle of the topmost shelf, glinted blue in the darkness. Turning, she found a candlestick and holder on a table, lit the wick at the hearth, and returned.

The size of her palm, the round, crusty stone was split down its center to reveal the rich layers of color and concentric pattern at its heart. On a small gilded stand, its luminous range of cool blues ran from rich indigo to pale mist, with a multipoint crystalline formation in the center.

She could not be certain, but she thought it could be the beautiful blue stone she had come to Struan House to find. Bending close, she examined it in the candlelight. Years ago, she had seen a rock like this one on the day she had turned fourteen years old, the day her grandfather had brought her to the hills and had explained his own ties to the fairy realm. He had shown her a stone that he had plucked from a hiding place somewhere in a rock crevice. That one had been a unique and beautiful thing, its blues ranging from pale to deep.

She jiggled the little bronze handle of the case, but it was locked, with no key in sight. Other pieces on the shelves looked valuable and antique—stones, buttons, arrowheads, a range of stone specimens. If she could hold the beautiful blue stone in her hands, and then try it in the rock wall above the garden, she would know. The stone she sought was like a live thing, full of unique power, so her grandfather had told her.

Perhaps Struan would let her have the stone inside the case. Her grandfather’s future visits with the fair
ies—which she knew he treasured—depended in part on the magic of the stone entrusted to him. The fairy gold that he had promised to find for them, stolen so long ago, was also tied somehow to the mysterious blue stone. Once her grandfather fulfilled the bargain, the
daoine sìth
would be satisfied.

The stone had to come back to the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan.

F
irelight flickered on the curtains of the old-fashioned canopy bed as James lay on the covers, still dressed but for coat and boots. Arms crossed behind his head, he lay sleepless, staring at the embroidered canopy overhead, where vines, flowers, and bees had been intricately worked long ago. He hardly noticed the design.

He had not seen any blasted fairies out in that storm, he thought, and he was beginning to wonder if he should doubt her sanity—or his own. He had walked into Struan House and stepped knee-deep into fairies and whatnot—from the banshee in the foyer to Grandmother’s fairy lore, to a fetching, wanton girl who saw kidnapping fairies riding horses. All he had seen were trees whipping in the wind, and a strange mist that took on anthropomorphic shapes. What sort of a place was this—and how much had his grandmother known of it when she had sent him here via her will?

For now he had more immediate concerns. From the moment he had encountered Elspeth in the garden at the bottom of the muddy hill, he had thought of
little else—in fact, she had entered his dreams to stay months ago, after he had met her at Holyroodhouse. That was the day he had thought her a lovely, intriguing Highland girl who had played an odd trick on Sir Walter; he had kissed her behind the potted plants in a flirtation, and had been thoroughly caught.

This evening he had nearly taken her on the lawn in the midst of a storm. However blithely she wanted compromise, she could hardly have meant like that.

And now he was irrevocably obligated to her. Staring at the needlework pattern on the old satin canopy, he thought about the knotwork of circumstances in which he found himself. Sighing again, he rubbed a hand over his eyes. His only choice was to marry the girl, and soon.

Well, he had come to Struan to finish the manuscript and find a Highland fairy bride, of all impossibilities. Elspeth was a Highland girl with a decidedly fey nature, and marriage now seemed inevitable, practical, and necessary. He would speak to her about it in the morning.

Though the question seemed settled, he could not sleep. After tossing for a while, he finally rose from bed, still in shirtsleeves and trousers, deciding to go downstairs and read for a while. Fairy lore was a sure soporific, he told himself.

Heading down the hall past the guest chamber where Elspeth presumably slept, he heard her cough lightly. Pausing at her door, he heard soft footsteps in a pacing rhythm. He was not alone on this strange, restless night.

He tapped on the door. “Miss MacArthur.” No answer. Knocked again.

“Go away,” she answered.

“You need not open the door. Only listen to me,” he replied.

“Say what you will.” Now her voice sounded close.

Resting his head against the jamb, he composed his words. “What happened tonight has consequences. I am willing to make compensation for them.”

“Unnecessary,” she replied, quick and cool.

“Miss MacArthur,” he said, huffing in exasperation, “I am offering to marry you.” His heart slammed. Until this moment, he never thought to say those words without courting, without careful consideration of merit and need. But fate, and his strong male nature—and some wild magic he did not understand—had put him here. Oddly, he felt more certain of this than of other steps he had taken in his life. He felt a deep urge to do this, as if the emotion and intuition he had long stifled had trumped his forte of logic.

“Elspeth.” Flattening a hand on the door, he tapped again. A raw need, more of the heart than the body, roiled in him, but he drew back from its brink. “It is what must be done in such situations,” he finally said. “We ought to consider it.”

“Must be done,” she repeated, with a wry twist to her voice. “Ought to be. What a pretty statement of romantic devotion.” A taut silence followed, and James wondered why he had not saved the matter for morning and a clearer head.

“I understand you need time to consider. We will discuss it further tomorrow.” Yes, he sounded heartless, but he could hardly tell her that he had to meet the conditions of Lady Struan’s will. That news would be even colder than the gentlemanly obligation he genuinely felt.

“You need not feel a gentlemanly obligation,” she said, in that odd way she had of saying the words that went through his head—only his twin, Fiona, did that.

“But I do,” he said.

“I do not regret what happened. Your offer is appreciated. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. I fully intend to compensate for…your compromising.”

“It will be our secret. Good night, sir.”

Our secret.
The words sent a sudden plunge of desire straight through him. “Wait,” he said. He could not allow himself to say what he felt—it was far too jumbled and incomprehensible to him, and against his personal code of keeping himself close, and others safely apart. Yet whatever compelled him was powerful. “Elspeth—ah—a clear conscience demands an honorable solution.”

“Clear conscience? What good union could come of such a beginning? It’s best forgotten. A little ruination suits me. Marriage does not.”

“You said you would rather be ruined than marry the man your grandfather has chosen for you.” The notion of her with another man made him close up his fist. “I offer you a better solution than disgrace, or marriage to some ogre.”

“He is not an ogre. He is a reputable tailor with a fine income, and a country estate outside Edinburgh.” Through the thick wood of the door, her voice had a soft intimacy. James leaned close to listen.

“Then what the devil is wrong with the fellow?” He felt annoyed. Jealous.

“Nothing. But he does not love me, nor I him. And he lives in the city, while I want to stay in the High
lands. Besides, I think he is more interested in my grandfather’s weaving manufacture than in having me for a wife.”

“Then he is a fool.” James closed his eyes.

“He is not…the one for me.”

“And who,” he said softly, “is that one?”

“Well, no one now that I am ruined,” she said crisply. “That is the point.”

“You are not ruined, not while I am here to make it otherwise,” he said in exasperation. “You could be the new Lady Struan.” The more he insisted, the more he craved this marriage. Hope, like some silly, storybook feeling, dawned in him. If he could convince her, his life would be better. So much better. Hers as well, he thought. “This would benefit both of us. I…have need of a wife.”

“I am sure there are several ladies who would be glad to know that.”

“I am not asking any of them to marry me.”

“Perhaps you should. They will be happy to keep to the city with you.”

“Is that the root of this infernal stubbornness? I have to stay in the city, Elspeth. I am a lecturer at the university. We could spend our summers here,” he offered.

Silence. “I cannot leave this glen,” she finally said.

“Listen to me. I am a viscount,” he said, and began to tick off on his fingers. “I own this fine estate. I have a respectable yearly income, or may have. I have a town house in Edinburgh and a prestigious position at the university. I’m not unpleasant to look at, despite a bad leg, and I have written a volume on geology that weighs nearly as much as you do.” He stopped, surprised by his fervor. He was not one to tout him
self or reveal his feelings or needs. And he had never courted any girl with the insistence he was applying to one resistant Highland lass. “Surely that counts for something.”

“I am impressed. You have very nice qualities. You will have no difficulty finding a bride when you return to Edinburgh.”

Shoving a hand through his hair, he exhaled. “It’s more difficult than you know.”

“Marrying me will not solve your problems,” she said. “Legal…problems? What does that mean?”

If one factor discouraged him from having Elspeth for a wife, it was her uncanny ability to ferret out his private thoughts. How in blazes she did it, he had no idea. “Marry me and I will tell you the whole of it.”

“No.”

“Elspeth, I will not beg. Consider it.” He leaned his head on the door. “I am not good at this confounded courting business.”

“Better than you know,” she said. “I am flattered. You are Viscount Struan, and quite pleasant to look at…and I do not mind at all the bad leg. I have a bad ankle at the moment myself. In fact, I must rest it now. So good night.”

“You know why we must marry. What in blazes is your true objection?”

“You swear too much. It is a plague in your personality.”

“Elspeth,” he growled.

“Very well. I told you that I want to—I must—stay in the Highlands, but you are a Lowland man. In fact, you cannot wait to be away from here to go south again.”

“I never said so.” Not in her hearing, at any rate. “You would have a comfortable life in the city with me.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But let us be done with this, now. It is late.”

The more she denied him, the more appealing the prospect grew. She was interesting. Intriguing. Fascinating. “Tell me this, then.” He leaned to the door, speaking low. “Do you refuse to marry because you wait for someone else? Perhaps a man who lives in this glen?”

“I wish he did,” she whispered. “He is a fine man. We tumbled sweetly, once, with the fairy magic upon us, and he won my heart. But not all of it,” she added firmly. “He does not even believe me most of the time.”

James went still, heart thumping. He closed his eyes, aware of a sense of passion, excitement—and a lightning strike of hope. “Is he the one for you?”

“So he thinks. Go on, James MacCarran,” she said. “Away with you, now.”

A moment later, he knew she no longer stood by the door. Still he lingered, a hand on the wall, head bowed. He felt touched deep in a way he could not define. Finally he stepped back and walked down the dark corridor. He felt strangely different, not the man who had knocked on that door a quarter hour earlier, yet not sure how he was changed.

Elspeth smoothed her skirts and straightened her green jacket, her garments dry now, having been draped by the hearth fire while she slept; she had been able to brush away most of the dried mud, though the
stained gown was beyond saving. She hurried now, aware that it was well into the morning; she was determined to leave for home soon. Outside, a fine rain pattered the window glass again.

Truly she wanted to stay. Struan’s marriage proposal still echoed in her mind; the intimate tone of his deep voice, his words and their meaning had sent quiet thrills all through her. Though she had no choice but to refuse, and could hardly tell him why, she regretted it deeply. Perhaps she always would.

Glancing into the mirror over the chest of drawers, she combed her fingers through her tousled hair and plaited it in a single braid, tied with a ribbon slipped from her bonnet. Her favorite straw hat, like her dress, would never be the same again. She grabbed her green tartan shawl and tossed it over her shoulders. In more serious ways than her gown and bonnet, she knew she would never be the same again.

She went to the door, with a glance for the window, where the landscape was dreary, brown, and sodden. If it was impractical to walk home, she would have to ask James to drive her. He had not returned to her door last night, and it was just as well, she thought, for she might have relented and agreed to marriage, even knowing he only felt obligated. She had no need to marry him, or anyone, she told herself.

What she wanted was to remain at Kilcrennan with her grandfather; perhaps she might never wed. But the real difficulty, she realized, was that she was falling in love. It had not begun last night—though she had enough reason—but on the August afternoon she had first met James in Edinburgh.

If she surrendered to love, that could nullify the
fairy magic that made her grandfather happy and fed his dreams. She could not leave Kilcrennan, not yet.

After last night, she understood the real power of the fairy sort. Donal had tried to warn her, having lost a son to the Fey, and having fallen to their thrall himself. After spending seven years with them as a young man, his own bargain brought him into the fairy world for a few nights every seven years. That had given him a great gift for weaving, but he feared to lose his granddaughter as he had lost his son. Elspeth could not bear for him to endure that again. Her grandfather and Kilcrennan, this glen and those she loved in it, were all that she knew. She would not be the cause of destroying what she held dear. Even love—even marriage to Lord Struan—seemed a selfish choice if it ruined the happiness of others.

She left the room carrying her bedraggled straw bonnet. Taking the stairs, she found that her ankle, though it ached, was better, hurting only with a good deal of pressure. Glad of the improvement, she took the steps cautiously.

James did not seem to be in the house—she had peered into library, study, and parlor, and then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Encountering the three dogs in the corridor near the door leading out to the garden, she fussed a little over them, and saw through the kitchen windows a fine, steady downpour. Beyond that, she could see the sodden lawn where she and James had fallen to the grass with wild kisses and lush tenderness, while the fairy court rode by.

Drawing a breath at the pull of that memory, she looked around the deserted kitchen, and noticed a tray
on the scrubbed pine table. A silver pot and a single china cup and saucer, with a folded note of creamy paper, had been set there not long ago, for steam twirled up from the spout of the pot, with the delicious fragrance of cocoa.

She had not seen his handwriting before. The script was strong and slightly spiked, with a hint of roundness in the vowel like a secret tenderness. The note held only her name, underlined. She traced a finger over the ink. Pouring chocolate from the pot, she filled the cup and sipped, watching the rain, wondering where James had gone. Then Osgar came forward to nudge at her hand, urging her toward the door.

“Very well,” she said, and followed. He scratched at the back door with a paw, and the terriers trotted up, watching curiously as she tied on her bonnet and opened the door.

Pulling the plaid over her head against the wetness, she stepped out, limping slightly, lifting her skirt’s hems out of the mud. Once again, Osgar butted against her to offer support, and she patted his shoulder. “Good dog,” she said. “My loyal friend.”