Sarah Gabriel (22 page)

“Please, we must talk,” she said. “About the lost treasure, and the rest.”

“I am listening,” he murmured. “Go on.”

“Fairies and treasure! How exciting! Tell us all,” Charlotte said as she came toward them.

His attention centered on Elspeth, James had not noticed the others coming to join them. He wanted—needed—time alone with Elspeth, but there was no blasted privacy to be found just now. He would have gladly sent the lot of them off on their Highland tour, but he also wanted time to confide in Fiona and Patrick; his siblings deserved to know that he wanted to marry Elspeth.

Despite her refusals, and his impatience with her the last time they had parted, he knew he was not done with this. He would never give up on her. Yet with guests at Struan, he would not soon find a chance to tell her so—and to tell her that he loved her.

“What about lost treasure?” Patrick asked. “We overheard you, so do not deny it. Fairies,” he went on, “are such an interesting topic. Fiona loves them.” He glanced at his sister, who nodded, tucking her arm in Patrick’s.

“Have you discovered any fairies at Struan?” Fiona asked, smiling.

“Indeed,” Charlotte said. “That might be the most interesting thing about this place. Missing treasure sounds so adventurous. Perhaps we could find it.”

“It’s only a local legend of a fairy treasure lost long ago,” James said. “They say the fairies want their gold back, or some such. It’s an entertaining Highland tale.”

“There are fairies in that painting over the mantel,” Fiona pointed out.

Charlotte moved forward, gliding between Elspeth and James to look at the painting. “What a pretty picture. Though it would be better in one of the bedrooms. With half-clothed frolicking sprites, it’s not proper for a stately public room like this one.”

“I like it where it is,” James answered. “Miss MacArthur’s father painted it, and the picture was also a favorite of my grandmother’s.”

“Your father?” Charlotte looked at Elspeth with surprise. “Then perhaps your family will want the picture back when James sells Struan House.”

“Sells?” In Elspeth’s glance, James saw a poignant
depth, vulnerable and distressed. He frowned, unhappy with Charlotte for speaking out.

“Yes, he has decided to be rid of it,” Charlotte said, tucking her hand in his elbow with not-so-subtle propriety. “We all agree it is for the best. James has responsibilities in Edinburgh, and a house like this requires so much upkeep, and we—I mean, Lord Struan—will not spend much time in the Highlands.”

“I have not yet decided what I’ll do.” James stepped away to make the point with Charlotte, who only smiled. She could be oblivious to the truth once she set her mind on something, and he was her renewed goal.

“Lord Struan, you neatly evaded a near marriage proposal there,” Sir Philip said in a jovial tone as he came toward them, escorting Lady Rankin on his arm.

“Philip!” Charlotte blushed. “Only you could be so bold. Lady Rankin, I hope you are feeling more rested now.”

“I am. Did we miss tea?” James’s aunt came to kiss his cheek, and went toward the tea table while Fiona poured cups for her and Philip. “Miss MacArthur, how nice to see you again,” Lady Rankin said, turning. “I heard you were visiting today. You live nearby, as I recall?”

“I do,” Elspeth said. “My home is at the other end of the glen.”

“Aye, Kilcrennan. I recall that your grandfather is a weaver,” Sir Philip said.

“How kind of you to remember,” Elspeth murmured.

“Not at all, I have some Kilcrennan tartan in my own wardrobe.” Philip nodded.

“Weaving! I hope small children are not employed in your family’s textile factory,” Charlotte Sinclair said.

“Only myself when I was small,” Elspeth said, mischief glinting in her eyes.

“You weave cloth in a factory? How…startling,” Lady Rankin said.

“I am a weaver,” Elspeth confirmed, while some of the others raised their eyebrows. “But I use a hand loom in the old style. Kilcrennan is not a factory. My grandfather and his grandfathers before him were weavers in this glen.”

“Mr. MacArthur is a fine artisan,” Fiona said. “The Highland weavers are gifted and dedicated to their craft. Weaving is near an art form in the Highlands,” she added. “In the North, there are no factories such as exist in the Lowland cities. Tartan has become very popular now, thanks to Sir Walter Scott’s devotion to restoring the national identity and cultural integrity of Scotland. And after the king’s visit, everyone is mad for tartan plaid, indeed for anything Scotch.” She smiled warmly at Elspeth, who returned it. James blessed his sister silently, and exchanged a quick nod with her.

“You have a true appreciation for the Highlands, Miss MacCarran,” Elspeth said.

“My sister has always loved the Highlands, where we spent time as children,” James said. “Now she gives her time to a Highland society, and travels about teaching English to native Gaelic speakers.”

“How good of you to involve yourself in such important work,” Elspeth said. “I have heard it called the Celtification of Scotland, this new interest in our country’s culture. My grandfather, as a born High
lander, laments it, but he is grateful to those who are willing to help the less fortunate Scottish people affected by so much change. And he does admit that his weaving business has benefited greatly from Southron interest.”

“Kilcrennan will continue to reap rewards, given the enthusiasm for tartan and all things Scottish,” James remarked.

Mrs. MacKimmie entered the room again, coming forward to clear the tea table quietly and efficiently. James nodded his thanks when she took his empty cup from him.

“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 meant actual fairies,” Mrs. MacKimmie said, looking up. Lady Rankin gasped; James knew his great-aunt was not used to household staff joining in a conversation. He, on the other hand, liked the sense of ease he had encountered between servants and residents in the Highlands.

“Mrs. MacKimmie is right. Fairies are abundant on this estate,” Elspeth said.

At the stunned silence, James smiled a little and folded his arms. “I suspect you all will find Highland fairies just charming folderol, as I did…when I first came here.” Elspeth looked up at him quickly.

“How fascinating,” Fiona said. “Have you truly seen fairies at Struan House?”

“On the grounds, and in the glen,” Elspeth said. “The fairies always visit Struan House around this time every year. It is tradition. If you go out in the gardens at midnight, you may see them riding through…as Lord Struan and I did.”

Now that had gone a bit too far
, James thought wryly, as the others stared at Elspeth. But he knew it was best to get this over with; perhaps Elspeth, too, had realized there was wisdom in it. Sooner or later, after all, he intended to marry the girl, and so his family would have to accustom themselves to her outspoken, slightly fantastical, views.

“You…and Miss MacArthur…did what?” Charlotte asked.

“Saw the fairies,” Elspeth said.

“At midnight…when you and Lord Struan were together,” Charlotte went on.

“Dear heavens,” Lady Rankin said. “You were alone with Miss MacArthur so late in the evening?”

“As a matter of fact we were,” he said. “Miss MacArthur found herself in a bit of a predicament one evening, and I came to her aid,” James said. “Though I cannot vouch for seeing fairies, I will not dispute the young lady’s claim.”

“He had kindly offered me a place to stay in an awful storm,” Elspeth said. “And late that night we saw the fairies riding through the garden. Or at least, I did,” she added.

“Good God,” Philip said. “I was just there. I saw nothing near as good as that!”

“Alone,” Charlotte repeated. “Here. In the gardens, after midnight.”

“Och, and what a night it was,” Mrs. MacKim
mie said, holding the tea tray in her hands. “A fierce storm, rain for days, the roads flooded and the bridge broken. ’Twas good of Lord Struan to rescue Miss MacArthur.”

“Then you were here, too, Mrs. MacKimmie,” Fiona said.

“Struan House is my home, Miss MacCarran,” she answered without flinching.

In silent gratitude, James inclined his head toward the housekeeper, who left the room smiling, tea tray in her hands.

“James, please enlighten us further,” Lady Rankin said. “I am confused.”

“Gladly. Miss MacArthur was stranded by a devilish Highland gale. Traveling through the glen would have been risky, so she accepted hospitality at Struan House.”

“I see,” Charlotte said coldly.

“I suppose that couldn’t 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.”

“The fairies?” Patrick asked. “You saw them on the grounds?”

“A beautiful sight,” Elspeth said. “Lord Struan says it was a figment of my imagination, but I saw them as well as I see you.” She clearly saw Charlotte frowning.

Fiona took Elspeth’s hand. “My dear, this is astonishing and…well, wonderful. What did they look like? Does it take a special power to see them?”

Touching Fiona’s hand, Elspeth felt a quick dizzi
ness, and then the knowing. “You will see them yourself,” she said. “Very soon. But…oh, you must be careful if you decide to draw or paint them.”

“Paint them!” Fiona looked at James. “Does she know—”

“She does not,” James said, frowning.

“The fairy ilk dislike having their images captured,” Elspeth went on. “I think you will see them, but they may try to cause mischief for you if you sketch them.” She paused. “You made a vow to your family…Lord Struan did so as well. A promise to Lady Struan.” She glanced at James, her brow furrowed. “Other than finishing the book.”

He watched her calmly, astonished. Though he had not mentioned the specific conditions of the will to her—and had planned to do so—he had thought that Elspeth MacArthur could no longer surprise him, even with her gift. Yet once again she had.

“Miss MacArthur, you
do
have the Highland Sight, just as Sir Walter said.” Fiona beamed at Elspeth, and then at James.

“This is all rather silly,” Charlotte murmured. James saw that her angry glower made her beauty harsh. She was edging toward spinster, he realized; he knew she hoped to regain his affection, especially since his inheritance had changed her mind. But while he could offer her friendship, he could never offer her love. He felt sorry for her then, realizing that Charlotte did love him in her way—possessive and superior, but to her, that was love. Even now Sir Philip Rankin stood close to Charlotte, his gaze drinking in her pretty charms. Philip was short, plain, and balding, but he was clever and entertaining, he had a good income, and he was
smitten with Charlotte. She needed someone to adore her who was just thick enough to overlook her flaws. A reasonable match might be found there, James thought.

“Not so silly, Miss Sinclair,” he said then. “Fairy lore is very much part of the Highlands.” He was a bit surprised at his own lessening skepticism.

“Ask permission of the fairies before you sketch what you see,” Elspeth was telling Fiona. “Otherwise they might try to steal you away. That happened to my father when he—oh!” She gasped, turning to James. “My father painted them, and fell in love with one—and they took him because of the picture!”

“Who took him? Highland savages?” Lady Rankin put a hand to her bosom.

“Fairies, Aunt,” Patrick said. “They steal people away to their world.”

“What?” Lady Rankin grew pale. “Are they out there in the garden now?”

“If the fairies become angry, they may take humans away out of revenge,” Elspeth said. “And sometimes they—”

James grabbed her arm, knowing he had to remove her before she could say more. He had seen that glaze before in her eyes, the one that overcame her when she began talking too freely, mostly of the unbelievable variety. Genuine or lunatic, he would spare her a further predicament, because he loved her.

He loved her.
He had no time for that revelation now, though his heart bounded with it. Grasping her elbow, he turned her firmly toward the door of his study.

“As you can see, Miss MacArthur is quite the expert,” he told the others, while he guided Elspeth be
side him. “I am reminded that she kindly offered to advise me on local folklore before her grandfather returns. If you will excuse us—we will not be long.” He ushered Elspeth through the open study door and closed it behind them.

“B
est leave it open,” Elspeth said. “Charlotte will knock it down in a moment.”

“Let her,” he said. “Tell me what you were going on about back there.”

“First tell me why you dragged me out of the library so rudely. Lady Rankin looked as if she would fall over in a faint at our hasty exit.”

“More likely she was afraid the fairies would come get her. I thought it wise to get you out of there before you told all your fairy secrets, or predicted something dire, or invited the damned fairies into the blasted room,” he ended emphatically, leaning forward.

“Which fairy secrets might those be?” She leaned toward him as well.

“Your grandfather’s peculiar weaving habits. Your father’s fate. And more.”

“So you believe me!” She smiled.

“I would not say that. I will admit that what is normal for others is perhaps not the norm for you. Will that do?”

She tilted her head. “For now.”

Her eyes, just then, were the color of clear aquama
rine, lit with silver. But he would not tell her that. It was too damn poetic to tell her that. “What were you saying about your father and the painting?” he asked instead.

“I think I know what happened to my father.” She reached for his arm, and he took her hand instead, her supple fingers strong from years of weaving. He admired her skill, and the woman, and he wanted to take her into his arms and show her how very much he admired all of her. But he kept still, listening. “He was out in the hills, saw the
daoine sìth
and sketched them, then went home to paint them into his canvas. And they took him in forfeit. I know it now. I must tell Grandda,” she added.

“How in thunderation do you know these things?” he asked, losing patience. This, after all, was not what he wanted to talk about.

She sighed. “Your language deteriorates so when you are upset.”

“Casualty of the war, my vocabulary,” he said. “Go on.”

“You know how I know. Stop asking me as if the answer will change to something you like better. I saw it here”—she tapped her forehead—“and I just knew it.”

James shook his head slightly, then huffed a laugh, affectionate and accepting. Despite his reluctance and initial resistance, he was indeed beginning to believe her. Though it shook the foundations of reason, he wanted to give credence to what she said, what she believed—because she meant so very much to him.

Dear God, he was more smitten than he had ever thought possible. Reaching out, he traced his fingers
over the softness of her hair, cupped her chin. His body throbbed even at that simple touch. “Beg pardon. So you just knew, in your way.”

“I saw, in my mind, your sister walking in the hills carrying a sketchbook, and I saw her discovering some fairies. She must take care to avoid my father’s fate.”

“Fiona is too pragmatic to see fairies, and if she ever did, they would have a devil of a time getting her to go anywhere with them. You do not know my sister yet, but you will. She seems serene, but she would give them such a fuss, they would be glad to escape.” Was he talking about fairies as if they were genuine?

“I hope you are right. James, what promise did you and Fiona make to your grandmother?” she asked.

“And just when,” he said with a resigned sigh, “did that revelation come to you?”

“When I was talking to Fiona.
Did
you make a promise to Lady Struan?”

He exhaled. “By the conditions of my grandmother’s will, in order to inherit, I must find a Highland bride. To be specific, a fairy bride.”

“A fairy bride.” Scowling, she crossed her arms.

“So the will states. Without that condition, there is precious little inheritance.”

“Ah.” She watched him, standing so close, the warmth of her body penetrating his own. She was so much a part of him now, in ways he could not easily define, and his body remembered other moments, standing so close to her.

“Elspeth.” Not waiting for an answer, he bent his head to kiss her.

She shoved him away, pushed him so hard that he knocked a shoulder against the door. When she lifted a hand as if to smack his face, he caught it.

“You!” She was breathing hard. “You knew this all along, yet said nothing!”

“I suppose we both have our secrets,” he murmured.

Breath heaving, she glared up at him. “Secrets! I may not have told you everything about me, nor did I expect it of you—but I have not deceived you!”

“Nor have I, you.” He still had hold of her wrist, and drew her close, and she let him, though her temper fumed. She felt confused, betrayed. When he touched her she could scarcely think—when he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, a host of thoughts and feelings collided within her, and wanting to be in his arms won out. She leaned toward him as if entranced.

“But you knew this, and asked me to marry you—”

“I did,” he agreed, drawing close. “And I would again.”

“But—but not from a gentlemanly obligation, as you claimed. It was really because you wanted your inheritance. I was convenient to your needs.”

“I wanted to marry you,” he said, placing a hand on the doorjamb beside her head, so that he trapped her against the door. “I still do.”

“Because I am Highland, and know more about fairies than most.”

“That did come to mind,” he admitted.

“Why did you not tell me?” And why had her senses not told her? She was befuddled with love for him—she had not sensed the truth.

“First of all, I would not know a fairy woman from a fishwife,” he said. “And since you adamantly refused my offer, no explanation seemed necessary.”

“I told you, I have my reasons for not marrying,” she said, looking away.

“And I have mine for asking,” he whispered, so that Elspeth tilted back her head, aware that he meant to kiss her, and that she would not resist—could not. When he touched his lips to hers, she sank into what was a stirring kiss, her hand curling in his, her knees gone crazily weak. Yet she summoned control again, and pushed him away.

“I suppose I cannot trust you now,” she said.

“Fair enough,” he said. “But I would trust you with my life. Ellie”—he hesitated, sighed out—“I am falling in love with you.”

Her breath caught. She wanted him to know that she felt the same, and she wanted to step into his arms—but she had to tell him the truth, and take that risk, as her grandfather and Margaret had urged. “Oh, James,” she said, moving closer. “I do—I do love you. But before you say more, there is so much you must know. To begin with, my mother was a fairy.”

“Good God,” he said.

A knock sounded on the door behind her, and Elspeth leaped, startled. James scowled, his hand still propped on the doorjamb. “Who is it?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“Fiona. Patrick is with me. Let us in.”

Sighing, he straightened, and Elspeth stepped free, smoothing her dark blue gown and shawl, tucking the hair strands that had slipped loose from the simple knot at the back of her head. James opened the door to admit his sister and brother, closing it again.

“Now then,” Patrick said. “What’s the kerfuffle? Aunt Rankin thinks vindictive fairies are lying in wait for her outside, and Charlotte took off in a huff, drag
ging Philip to the garden. And the two of you have been closeted alone in here far too long.”

“Miss MacArthur, this may sound ridiculous,” Fiona said then, “but do you have any ties to the fairies? Any fairy blood among your ancestors?”

Elspeth lifted her chin. “My grandfather claims that I have some fairy blood.”

“Quite a bit, from what I understand,” James drawled, arms crossed.

“Excellent,” Fiona said. “James, you’ve found her!”

“I have.” Struan leaned against the large desk behind him, arms still crossed. “But she is not happy with me over Grandmother’s fairy scheme. And when fairies are angered—”

“Oh, hush. What do you mean, ‘fairy scheme’?” Elspeth asked.

“Our grandmother’s will requires something of each of us,” Fiona said, “in order to restore the fairy legacy to the MacCarran clan.”

“Or none of us can inherit,” Patrick said.

Stunned by the scope of this, Elspeth regarded them, trying to sort it through. “Perhaps Lady Struan wanted to change your minds about the
daoine sìth
,” she said, “knowing you might not believe unless you had true proof.”

“The
dow-in-shee
?” Patrick asked.

“The fairies,” Fiona translated. “The peaceful ones.”

“Not so peaceful when crossed,” Elspeth added. “Your grandmother knew that. She knew that if James—Lord Struan—was to reside here, he would need to understand the fairies of this glen.”

Patrick nodded. “She knew more about fairy lore than most, and she may have regarded all of us as
too practical, and sore in need of lessons in…well, fancy.”

“Elspeth,” James murmured then. “Are you the proof we seek?”

Hands clasped, Elspeth hesitated. They watched her, all three. She met James’s eyes, like a tidepool drawing her in. “It depends on what you are willing to believe.”

“When we met here at Struan House,” James told his siblings, “circumstances were such that I offered to marry Elspeth for the sake of her reputation. As it happened, the prospect suited Grandmother’s scheme.”

“And I have refused him,” Elspeth said. “I cannot marry…just now.”

“Oh dear,” Fiona said. “I hope you will change your mind.”

“Miss MacArthur, at the risk of intruding,” Patrick said, “if you have some trace of fairy blood, you would do our whole clan a ser vice by marrying our brother.”

“You will not convince her. She’s as stubborn a lass as ever lived,” James said.

A movement beyond the window caught her attention, and Elspeth looked out to see her grandfather’s gig advancing along the road toward Struan. He was returning already. She had to make a decision to either tell all the truth and take the risk, or keep the rest of her secrets forever—and lose her chance at happiness.

Her birthday was but a few days away, and with that would come a crucial turning in her life. Donal MacArthur had been right, after all—Elspeth was already in love. It was too late. The fairy hold would break—but unless the treasure was found, she and her grandfather remained in danger.

She faced James. “I have fairy blood through my mother,” she said. “I have seen the Fey, and so has my grandfather. I know you do not really believe it, James MacCarran. But for me and mine, it is so. I hope you can accept that.”

“I can,” James said quietly. Behind her, Elspeth heard Fiona sob out and smother it with a hand to her lips, a hand on her chest. Patrick beamed, watching them.

Elspeth nodded slowly. “Then I will marry you on one condition.”

“A condition. My grandmother would approve of that.” James took her hand, his fingers snug over hers, safe, warm, compelling. A fierce urge to be in his arms overwhelmed her. “Go on,” he said.

She straightened her spine, tall as she could, heart beating fast, for she was keenly aware of the risk she was taking. It was as if she perched on a crumbling cliff edge, and only their clasped hands, their joined will, their combined love, could save her.

“I will marry you,” she said, “if we find the lost fairy treasure tomorrow.”

He huffed in surprise. “Tomorrow! That sounds like a refusal to me, my girl. More gentle than before, but a pitfall nonetheless.”

Glancing at Fiona and Patrick, Elspeth shook her head. “I do want to marry you, but I cannot unless that treasure is found. Not for riches—not to marry a wealthy lord, or to bring a dowry of my own. Please trust me.”

“Elspeth, we can marry and spend our leisure time looking for treasure in these hills. Why the hurry?”

“Because I do not know how long we have together,” she blurted. “A lifetime, or only days. The
treasure must be found, or a bargain that my grandfather made with the Fey may cause terrible mischief for all of us.”

He stood, taking her hands in his, and dipped his head. “If we had only days, Elspeth MacArthur,” he said, “I would marry you. If we have a lifetime, I would marry you, wealth or none between us. In that, you must trust me.”

“I do,” she whispered. “And I believe you can find the missing treasure. My father left us a clue, if we can only decipher it. I feel it is so, with all my heart.”

“Whatever it is, we will try to find it, if that will ease your mind.” He bent forward to kiss her lightly, and even with his siblings present—and Fiona gasping back another sob of happiness—she felt a heat like clear fire all through her. She tilted her head and kissed him, clutching at his coat, immersed in his strength, in his masculine mystery and tenderness. She knew with exquisite clarity how much she wanted this man, and she felt grateful that—providing great good luck found them—she would be with him forever. But the danger was still there—the final risk had not been met.

He pulled back, resting his hand on her shoulder, and she drew a breath, blinking as if emerging from a dream. Fiona came forward to hug her, and Patrick kissed her cheek, welcoming her to the family.

Yet she knew it might be too soon. She felt anxious beneath, for she had thrown down a gauntlet to fate, and the powerful forces of the Fey. Yet she felt as if this was right, as if she had known James and understood him forever, part of her own soul. The differences between them only made the match richer—like a clear lake mirroring a mountain, the same image yet
rendered in two ways, one shimmering and changeable, one strong and solid, earthlike.

“James, I must know,” she said quietly, looking up. “I must know that you take my request seriously. The treasure must be found tomorrow, at any cost.”

“Tomorrow, my aunt and the rest plan a tour of Loch Katrine. Do you want me to stay here, with you, and search in the glen?”

“I—do not know.” Suddenly she felt doubtful, fearful, having no clear intuition regarding the treasure, much as she had tried. Nothing at all came to her, though she furrowed her brow, closed her eyes. Effort only chased the gift away. “I do not know where to look, other than near Struan. And I know my grandfather has searched there.”

“Your father’s picture,” James said. “Does it show a specific location?”