Sarah Gabriel (8 page)

“Iron keeps the fairies away.” He nodded. “I read about that just recently.”

“If the wildfolk want to come in, they will find a way.”

He laughed softly. She knew he thought it all harmless superstition, yet she did not resent it. Rather, she found his practical approach intriguing—wholly masculine and a bit of a challenge. She tilted her head, watching him, wondering about him. Standing in that cozy, quiet kitchen while rain pounded at the windows, she felt an unexpected sense of ease and comfort in his company. She did not want this night, this visit, to end quickly.

Tender, unforgettable kisses shared weeks earlier came to her mind, and as she gazed at him, she could almost feel his hands upon her again. An urge to be in his arms again, to experience not only the kisses but the passion and the cherishing that had been part of them, made her breath deepen, made her yearn.

Love,
the thought came to her then:
Love feels like this.

She saw him tilt his head in question at her silence. “What—where shall I sleep, sir?” she asked hastily.

“You may have your pick of the guest rooms.” Holding the lantern, he led the way, taking her arm to escort her. A thrill went through her like small lightning. He had a restrained masculine power, tempered by courtesy and an inner control that she found compelling. She walked beside him, limping a little, her heart pounding.

The wolfhound rose from his place to nudge between them, setting Elspeth off balance so that she stumbled against Struan and set a hand on his chest. He caught her with a hand to her arm. The plaid slid from her shoulders, and he caught it, and for a moment she looked into his eyes, very blue in the low light. Through his clothing, his heartbeat under her hand felt strong and hard.

“You’ve made a friend in Osgar.” He smiled as she stepped back.

“His breed are called fairy hounds. They take readily to those with fairy blood. They are true to their kind—though he seems to have taken to you,” she said, as Struan reached down to pet the dog. “Do you have a trace of fairy heritage?”

“I was about to ask the same of you, since he likes you so well.”

“Oh,” she said, shrugging. “We have some legends in the family, like many Highland clans. My grandfather likes to say that my mother…had fairy blood.”

“I could see that in you…in your eyes. Beautiful,” he murmured, and reached up to brush back her hair where it had sifted over her cheek. Every part
of her felt aware of his touch; wonderful shivers went through her body. He dropped his hand away. “But of course such things are not possible.”

“I’m surprised that you acknowledge any claim to fairy ancestry, as much as you disdain such things.”

“The legend exists. I did not say I believed it,” he said. “Family lore holds that long ago, a MacCarran ancestor saved a fairy woman from drowning, and they were married. Her blood runs through all who are connected to the main branch, including myself and my siblings. They even claim that some MacCarrans have strange abilities because of this mythical ancestor,” he added with a little twist of his mouth. “Come along, you lot,” he called to the dogs. As they trotted around his heels, he took Elspeth gently by the arm and helped her up the stairs.

“Saved a fairy woman?” Elspeth asked with interest.

“Charming Highland hogwash,” he said.

“T
here are guest rooms on this level,” James said as they walked along the upper corridor. “And the next floor up, but you do not need to climb more stairs just now.”

He liked the pressure of her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow as she limped beside him. He understood, having lived with an injured limb for years, the concessions needed, and he was glad to offer support. But his body responded with an intimate tightening each time she changed the position of her hand, or leaned toward him a little. The feeling was strong and best ignored.

He would show her to a guest room and in the morning, drive her home. Between then and now were too many hours filled with temptation. But he would not take advantage of the circumstances, even if she wanted that—and had boldly stated so.

“All the rooms have been freshened for use,” he said. “Mrs. MacKimmie set the housemaids to it, since some guests are expected next week.”

“And I am unexpected,” she said.

“Quite.” He opened a door and stood back. The lantern light spilled into the room.

She stepped inside. “I’ll need to light the fire—the hearth is cold.”

“Let me.” James followed her into the room, as did Osgar, while Taran and Nellie plopped down in the doorway. Limping slightly, he crossed the space; he had left his cane in the garden, and between the rain and the exertion, he felt the ache in his injured leg. Kneeling, he found peat bricks already stacked, and lit a match from the lamp that Elspeth held out. Patiently he coaxed the peat to catch. “The room will warm up soon.”

“Thank you.” She bent a little to warm her hands by the small flames. James stood, his gaze flickering down her body, taking in the lush curves beneath her damp gown. In the rising firelight she was lovely, and as she straightened, he leaned closer.

She looked into his eyes in a way few women he knew had done with him: clear and compassionate, yet enticing and mysterious. The girl knew his past without being told, so far as he knew, and that had shaken him—
she
had shaken him. He had not forgotten those lightning kisses in Edinburgh. Though it had been a public and acceptable flirtation, he had felt a deeper impact that he did not quite understand.

“I remember the first time we met,” she said, echoing his thoughts in that damnable way she had. She looked up at him, petite enough to tilt her head. “We kissed.” Said so softly, the sound a caress in itself.

“We did.” A mere cushion of air warmed between them, and he felt drawn down. He could easily kiss her again, and wondered if she invited that now, and
if so, why. She confounded him with this mix of innocence and possible ruse.

“I must go,” he said, straightening. “I have paperwork waiting in the study.”

“The fairy lore? I could help you.”

“Perhaps another time. The less we are together here, the better.”

She sighed. “If we are discovered here, it will not matter what we did or did not do. Others will make their assumptions. Only we two will know the truth.”

“We
will know. That is more important than the rest of it.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, and James realized that he felt off balance, uncertain of his way here. “I have been honest with you, Lord Struan,” she said. “If I am even slightly compromised, I will be content. And I will hold you to nothing.”

“It is not my habit to ruin young women, however willing, and abandon them.”

“I do not mean the actual deed, sir. A tainted reputation will do.” Despite the preposterous subject, she looked serious.

He huffed a laugh. “Few men would respect the difference.”

“You do.”

“And you,” he said, “cannot know what I would do.”

She watched him, eyes crinkling. “I do know.”

“A blithe statement from a bonny girl,” he murmured, “can signal disaster.” And impulsively he kissed her, swift and powerful, surprising himself. The answering touch of her lips fed a flame in him, deep and intense, and then he was caught—

He slid his fingers into the silken mass of her black hair, and cupped her head in his hand; slanting his mouth over hers, he felt her buckle against him, heard her sigh. She opened her lips beneath his, and he grazed his tongue over the delicate shape of her lower lip. That contact shuddered through him—he was no novice by any means, and had initiated the kiss with the intent of showing her what risk she invited. Yet he himself felt overwhelmed, as if he had taken hold of a new flame and wanted to know what it was to be burned. He made himself draw back, and saw that her eyes were closed, her lips full with a rosy bloom, her cheeks slightly flushed.

“Lovely,” she said in a dreamy voice. Her eyes opened. They sparkled.

“Oh no,” he said, putting her away from him. “Soon this will be no game, but something with very serious consequences.”

“You think I mean to trick you,” she said, “because you are a wealthy man.”

She knew his thoughts too easily. But she had not guessed that he was not particularly wealthy, though anyone might assume so. “You are a charmer, Miss MacArthur, and something of a minx. That kiss,” he said, stepping back, “will accomplish an adequate compromise, since we are alone here. Aye, something happened between us. Tell the world if you will. But let us leave this be, here and now.”

She teetered on one foot and grabbed the fireplace mantel. “I am not a vixen, though I can understand if you think so. Very well. Still, the kissing was very nice.”

He blinked. “Very nice,” he repeated. No face slap
ping, no huffing away from him, no coy attempt to invite more and entrap him. “Just…nice?”

“Wonderful,” she said softly.

“Miss MacArthur, explain to me why you do not insist on marriage in return for the delights of this, ah, willing compromise,” he said. “Or will that insistence come later, when the fish is well and truly caught?”

“I would rather be ruined, a disgraced spinster,” she replied, frowning, “than marry where my grandfather wishes for me.”

“Surely your guardian is concerned for your welfare.” Or else the old fellow had sent her to snare a wealthy and titled husband.

“He wants me to marry a Lowlander.”

“What in thunder is wrong with a Lowland man?” He felt almost insulted.

“Nothing. But I intend to stay in the Highlands. If it takes compromise and disgrace to send away the Lowland suitor my grandfather has chosen for me, then so be it.” She lifted her chin. It was a lovely chin, above an elegant throat.

“Interesting,” he said, not yet convinced.

“It is true, though you think otherwise.”

“You do not know what I think, Miss MacArthur,” he murmured.

Her long glance said, indeed, that she did. Then she turned to the fire. “I must ask you something, Lord Struan.”

“And that is—?” Was it the entrapment he dreaded? Yet his heart pounded.

She drew out the skirt of her dress. “May I borrow something for the night?”

“Ah.” Bewildered, he glanced around the room, saw a tall wardrobe, and went there. He opened the
doors to find shelves with folded garments and a few gowns hanging on hooks. “There must be something here.”

She joined him, catching at his sleeve to keep her balance. James drew out one of the folded things and held it up: a short corset meant to hold the breasts snug. With it fell a lightweight chemise. He grabbed them and crammed them back. He knew how to undo such things when the time was right, but now he felt himself go red-faced.

“Er, you may look for yourself,” he said.

Elspeth took a white folded garment from the shelf, lifting its full, lace-trimmed sleeve and high-necked bodice. “This is a night rail. But whose things are these? Oh dear, did this wardrobe belong to your grandmother?”

James regarded the white, billowy thing, which would no doubt swallow the girl. His grandmother had been a big woman. “She must have stored some of her things here.”

“Oh, then I should not borrow these.”

Elspeth wearing his grandmother’s night rail—that ought to make the girl less appealing, James told himself. Perhaps then he would not feel keenly, intensely tempted; perhaps he would be unable to conjure images of her with nothing on at all. He thrust the thing toward her. “Take it. I insist.”

She caught it against her, and James saw the curves of her breasts beneath his grandmother’s delicates: a very good deterrent. He stepped back. “Good night, miss.”

In shadows and firelight, her eyes were wide and silvery, so that she looked innocent as well as wanton. Though it was wrong to be so very alone with
her, and inconceivable to take advantage of an injured, stranded girl wearing his grandmother’s nightgown—he wanted to do just that. He hastened for the door in uneven strides, neatly making his way around the dogs.

He rushed down the corridor toward the main stairs as if all the hounds of hell were after him. In reality only a pair of curious terriers scampered at his heels. The wolfhound had stayed in the girl’s bedchamber. The fairy hound would know its kind, James remembered.

Only magic could explain the temptations he felt toward the girl, James thought wryly. His usual reserve was more than enough to keep him aloof and controlled in any situation. Yet when this fey and fetching creature appeared asking blithely to be compromised, he had very nearly acted the fool over her.

Hurrying through the shadowed house, he saw a lamp he’d left burning on a side table and snatched it up for its light, then crossed connecting rooms into the study. There he sank into the wide leather chair to take up the pages he had set down hours ago, before his life had changed.

What an odd notion, that one, and he dismissed it. But he could not keep his mind on his grandmother’s papers, constantly distracted by thoughts of that quaint night rail and the delectable girl who wore it right now. Tapping his fingers on a stack of unread pages, he gazed through the window as the rain lashed the glass with renewed force.

He had walked away from a Highland beauty virtually offering herself to him. He was neither a coward nor wary around women, as some men could be. He did not care a whit for society’s opinion, but he had to
live with himself, and he would not satisfy urges that were blatantly ungentlemanly in this situation, even if a powerful delight in better circumstances. He had kept a mistress years earlier, and had dallied about with other women before and after; but he was not about to further compromise this girl, no matter how willing she claimed to be.

His Belgian mistress had been a pretty creature, the widow of an esteemed and forward-thinking geologist, a man he had corresponded with but who had died by the time James had traveled to the area with his regiment. The scholar’s young widow, soft-spoken and buxom, had granted James access to her husband’s scientific papers while he was on brief periods of leave from the Black Watch—soon she had offered access to her person as well. Being young and hungry for passion, knowledge, adventure, with the underlying fear that he would face battle soon, James had let the dalliance develop and continue. They had parted without desperation or regret, friends more than lovers. And he had gained an increasing interest in geology and a diminished desire to study medicine.

Only his first lover, when he had been barely twenty and studying medicine and natural philosophy at University of Glasgow, had stirred genuine love in him. He never intended to be that hurt again. The red-haired daughter of a Glasgow shopkeeper, she had an interest in botanical sketching and spent many afternoons wandering the hills above the town; James met her while he was collecting rock samples in pursuit of his personal hobby. Soon they met there by arrangement, working diligently to help each other’s efforts; sometimes they played sweetly, privately, in the grasses, or met elsewhere when they could.

She took a chill that winter, and by the time James called at her house, she was seriously ill, with her family unaware of her beau. Turned away, he had not spoken up, thinking to hear from her soon. But he never saw her again. Fostering the reserve he had learned as a boy, he later regretted not revealing himself that day, but he had been young. A few of her drawings were tucked in a drawer at his home on Charlotte Square, and he would keep them always. He had gone to war after that, giving up medicine for the study of rocks. Dull to others, perhaps, but well-suited to him.

Wind whipped past the house then with such strength that for a moment James heard a faint shrieking—that pestering banshee again, he thought wryly, though he knew it was just the moaning of the storm.

Again he thought of Elspeth, alone upstairs, and wondered if she was alarmed by the groans and creaks of the old house. He sighed, rowing fingers through his hair, and told himself that she was a tough Highland girl, after all, and used to such things. Setting aside a recurrent urge to walk upstairs to see if all was well, he took up another stack of handwritten pages to resume reading.

James sat straight up, and read the passage again.

Something was not right. The wolfhound was growling.

Elspeth woke, quick and alert, from sleep, hearing Osgar’s low rumble. The hour had to be very late, she thought, with the darkness and quiet so deep. Even the sounds of the storm had faded. “What is it, Osgar?” she asked.

The dog padded over to the side of the bed, looked at her through the darkness, and whimpered. She reached out to pat his head, then lay back again.

The bed was soft, the pillows plump, the linens cool and fresh; she was exceedingly comfortable, yet she could not sleep. A sound, faint through the walls, sounded like her name. Sitting up, she saw the room lit only by sparse light of the peat fire, flickering blue-gold, all else in shadow. Had James, Lord Struan, called her name, or had he knocked?