Sarah Gabriel (3 page)

“Fiona,” Struan said to his sister. “If Aunt travels north, do come with her.” Elspeth thought she detected a pleading tone in his voice.

“I shall try,” Fiona MacCarran replied.

“So you know the area, Miss MacArthur?” Struan asked then.

“Very well. Loch Katrine and Struan House are not far from the glen where I live with my grandfather.”

“Then you will not be far from Struan House.”

“Not too far—several miles along the same glen. My grandfather knew the late viscountess, and I met her myself. We were distressed to hear of her passing.”

“Thank you.” Struan inclined his head. “She was
our grandmother.” He indicated his siblings in his answer; Fiona smiled, and Dr. MacCarran nodded.

“James is now Viscount Struan.” Charlotte Sinclair slipped her arm through his. “But he has so little time to visit there—perhaps for an occasional hunting party, isn’t that right, James? He is so busy as a professor in natural philosophy at the university.”

Elspeth nodded, smiled, and knew she was being warned away. Miss Sinclair practically glowered at her above the rim of her delicate white fan.

“Actually I have arranged to take a brief absence from my lectures,” Struan said.

“What sort of natural philosophy do you teach?” Lucie asked. “There is so very much
of
it.”

“Geology, Miss Graeme,” he answered.

“Ah. We have rather a lot of rock in the Trossachs,” Elspeth said.

Struan suppressed a smile. “Rather a lot of rock sounds intriguing.”

“Miss MacArthur, forgive me,” Lady Rankin said. “I do not recall your debut.”

“It was nothing to notice, madam,” Elspeth said. “I attended a hunt ball in Edinburgh two years ago in the company of my cousins, the Graemes of Lincraig.”

“I do recall that,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “I attended with the family of the Lord Provost Mayor. I remember Sir John Graeme, but I do not remember you.” She glanced with a coy smile at the viscount. “Dear Struan was not there. He simply could not attend every ball for every new girl,” she told Elspeth in loud confidence, “though he had inherited a fine title, and has an excellent reputation at the university, so he is in great demand at parties and outings. He turns down more invitations than he accepts.”

“Because I am not one for social functions,” he said, “though had I known Miss MacArthur and Miss Graeme then, I would have made the effort.” Struan smiled at Elspeth, and Miss Sinclair frowned. “Ah, we may now advance to the doors.”

He extended an arm to Lady Rankin, and offered his elbow to Elspeth. She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath. Behind them, his brother and Sir Philip escorted Lucie, Fiona, and Charlotte.

They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. Once invitations were shown, the doors were opened and they were waved through.

Beyond the crowd preceding them, Elspeth could see the king, taller than most men there, resplendent in black and white with a sash of red Stewart plaid. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the plaid presented to the king that week was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather, with the help of fairy craft.

Glancing at Lord Struan, she wondered what he, or anyone, would make of that.

He seemed the sort of somber, perfect gentleman who would think fairies utter nonsense, yet she felt a wayward urge to confide in him. Instead, she pressed her lips together in silence, lifted her head, and glided into the receiving room on Lord Struan’s arm as if she were a princess, and he, indeed, her prince—just for the moment.

Noticing the increased pressure of the girl’s fingers on his arm, James glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Nervous?” he asked.

“A bit,” she admitted. “I do hope my manners are adequate for this.”

“Why so?” He watched her, entranced by her beautiful eyes—gray-green, almost silver. Her heart-shaped face was framed by hair so glossy black, silken-rich, that he wanted to touch it. The lovely creature had such a natural allure that he looked at her again and again, as if he could take sustenance from her pure and unassuming beauty. A fragile quality, coupled with a touch of fire, made him feel protective and intrigued all at once. He knew Charlotte, just behind them, must be fuming. “Your manners are perfect.”

“I am a native Gaelic speaker,” she said. “I do not have the refined English of Edinburgh, let alone England, and I am not accustomed to elegant gatherings.”

“I rather like your accent,” he murmured. Her soft, graceful manner of speech was refreshing in this gathering of boisterous, Englishified Scots. “You would shine in any gathering, Miss MacArthur, like a diamond. Here we go, then.”

They were announced by a footman who led their party forward, heels tapping on the parquet floor. Tall King George was portly in black cutaway and trousers, white waistcoat, and military touches on his costume in plaid sash, badges, and epaulets. James, coming closer, could see the traces of excessive lifestyle in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion; the royal voice was loud, deep, and surprisingly pleasant.

James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave the lady a kiss on the cheek, quick passing brushes that barely
touched. “Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, “enchanted. Charmed.”

“Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James said. The girl stepped forward and made a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, feathers bobbing. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek; James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.

“Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head.

James introduced the others, then led Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward the man waiting in the receiving line beside the king. Sir Walter Scott, a tall man with gray-blond hair and an amiable face, greeted James with a nimble smile.

“Struan, excellent to see you here,” he said, extending a hand.

“And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin. And this is Miss MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

“Oh sir, I am very pleased to meet you,” Elspeth MacArthur said, sounding genuinely delighted. “I so admire your poetry and your work on ballads. I particularly favor
The Lady of the Lake,
since I live not far from Loch Katrine. You make it all seem so very romantical.” She blushed.

“My dear, I am flattered by the opinion of a true Highland lady.” Scott took her gloved hand in his own. Then James saw Miss MacArthur turn pale and gasp.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she said. “The Waverley novels,” she blurted. “They are all yours, Sir Walter—”

“I do not claim to be the author of those books, miss. Rather, I am a poet—”

“But sir, they are all yours, and soon the world will know and be glad of it. Your next story will be about…Nigel…and, aye, Quentin,” she said. “It will be some of your best work—oh! I beg your pardon!” She tried to pull her gloved hand away, but Sir Walter held her fingers tightly and leaned toward her.

“How did you know about the books, and the new manuscripts?” he murmured.

“Sir, truly, I did not mean to offend.” She looked distressed. James tightened his fingers on her elbow, uncertain what was happening. Beside him, Lady Rankin gasped in horror, and glanced at Charlotte. Lucie Graeme flapped her fan and looked mortified.

“What is it, over there?” the king boomed, looking toward them.

“Your Majesty, only a visit among friends,” Sir Walter answered mildly. “My dear,” he then whispered fervently, “you have the Sight, am I correct?”

“Sir, I—” The girl looked around, flustered.

“Miss MacArthur, we must go.” James tugged gently on her arm.

“Farewell, sir,” she told Scott, then let go of James’s arm and took up her skirts to hasten away.

“James, were I you,” Scott murmured, “I’d pursue that lass. She’s a rare treasure.”

“Sir,” James said. He would pursue her, to be sure—to find out what the devil she had been going on about. Handing his great-aunt over to William, he turned. The girl had slipped through the press of chattering people and into the corridor beyond, but bobbing white feathers and a jet gloss of hair were easy to
follow. Catching up to her, he snatched her arm and guided her toward an anteroom he saw just off the corridor.

“Come with me,” he said sternly, marching beside her, his cane tapping as they walked. The smaller room was quieter than the other areas. Tall ferns and potted rhododendrons were arranged around the room with large vases of fragrant roses. The room was thick with that mingled, natural perfume.

He pulled her behind some rhododendrons and roses, and glared down at her. “What the devil was that all about?” he demanded.

She stared up at him. “What?”

Glowering, waiting for her to relent, he realized that he was disappointed. She was so lovely, delectable really, yet not the innocent she seemed, having done such a scheming thing. Her beautiful eyes distracted him, but he would not look away. “Miss MacArthur, Sir Walter keeps his identity as a novelist secret. I do not know your game here, but—”

“No game. The knowledge of it just came to me. I never meant to offend.”

“Sir Walter seems convinced that you have the Sight. It is a poor joke to play on a gentleman who has such a beneficial passion for Highland lore.”

“But I do have the Sight,” she said.

“It may amuse you to fool others, but I will not tolerate a mockery of my friends.”

“Sometimes I simply…know things, and then I say them.” She drew a breath and stared up at him, her remarkable eyes flashing. “But you, sir, are rude to accuse and confront me so.”

Frowning at her, about to answer, he glanced up
when his party entered the room. “Oh, there you are, James!” Fiona called.

“I am shocked!” Charlotte said, strolling in with Lady Rankin. “Outraged!”

Elspeth MacArthur glanced up at James. “I suppose I am ruined now.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “I have scarcely touched you.” He knew what she meant, but he still wanted to determine the reason for her behavior.

Charlotte and Lady Rankin approached, headdress feathers waving, silk and satin trains sliding like plumed tails. “That was no proper kiss at all from the king,” Charlotte said. “I expected something much more genteel and memorable.”

“You cannot expect something romantical from the king,” Lucie reasoned.

“Struan!” Sir Philip peered behind the rhododendron. “And Miss MacArthur! What are you doing back there? We fellows must make up the deficit for the ladies. Like so!” Leaning toward Charlotte, he kissed her quickly on the lips.

“Oh!” Charlotte swatted him with her fan, but giggled.

“And one for you,” Sir Philip said, turning to Fiona, who offered her cheek. William bent toward Lucie, who dimpled and smiled as he kissed her cheek.

Though Lady Rankin huffed indignantly, she laughed when William kissed her cheek next. Standing close beside Miss MacArthur, wrapped in the sweet scent of the flowers, James saw others in the room begin to share kisses, as young women coyly complained, and young men obliged with proper kissing, amid laughter and flirting.

“It seems no one is satisfied with the royal kiss,” Lady Rankin said.

“Not Scottish women,” Fiona said, and Charlotte and Lucie laughed.

“What of the Highland lass in our party?” Sir Philip asked. “I will do the honors, since I am dressed in proper Highland fashion.” He came around the potted plants to kiss Elspeth MacArthur, quick and moist on the lips. He grinned, pleased, and stepped back.

The girl smiled, though James stood beside her and felt himself go still. No reason to feel jealous of that bit of silliness, he told himself—and yet he did.

“Look,” Charlotte said, “the Countess of Argyll has accepted a kiss from the Earl of Huntly. No one shall be left out of the game now.” They moved off to watch, leaving James and Miss Mac Arthur alone again, behind a screen of roses and rhododendrons.

“So, was that a proper kiss Rankin gave you?” he asked curtly.

“Not really, but we will let him think so.” She looked up to meet his intense gaze. “Not that I am a judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”

“What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He knew he sounded irritated.

“The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have both large looms and hand looms at Kilcrennan. But those kisses were not proper, either, I suppose—”

“Hush.” The urge welled so quickly in him that he obeyed it without thinking, taking her small chin in his fingers. “This is a proper kiss.” He touched his lips to hers.

Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. He had not intended it—that simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, and felt her quivering hand on his forearm.

“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh—” She tilted her face upward for more.

“Aye,” he murmured, and leaned down again. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silks and satins. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat. He felt as if he had stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed, as if he took a small, forbidden moment of hungry bliss.

Drawing in a breath, he pulled her closer to him, and she sighed against his mouth, felt her body press against his, wildly enticing, and she groaned softly as he slid his hand along her back, from the small of her waist upward, until his fingertips skimmed the warm, soft skin over her shoulder blade. She caught her breath, his body surged—

James dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”

She still clutched his sleeve. Letting go, she stepped away. “Good day…Lord Struan, thank you for”—she did not look at him—“your kindness today.”

“Miss MacArthur,” he murmured in farewell, knowing full well he craved to pursue the moment, and the girl; his body pulsed, and by her sweet response, she wanted more of this, too. Yet he should never have let things go even this far. Steeling himself, inclining his head, he stepped back. “Good day.”