Sarah Gabriel (9 page)

Eilidh…
The sound came again, softly, and then again, like an echo.
Eilidh…

Osgar whimpered again, and was pacing, padding impatiently around the room. Gasping, she drew her knees to her chest, drew the covers snug to her, kept still and silent. In a dark corner of the room, she saw flitting lights—a pale green glow, a shimmering
blue, a streak of violet. Sitting straighter, alert, she wondered if the fire’s reflection was dancing on some surface. When she looked again, a cluster of shapes formed in that same corner—and she saw the tall, graceful contours of heads and shoulders, long draped robes.

Shivers rose along her neck, arms. “Who is there?” she called, but it came out as a whisper. “What is it?”

Eilidh…
The shadowy lights—for both they seemed—moved closer. Ghosts? She felt a chill all over. From the shadows, she clearly saw a hand reach toward her. Elspeth scrambled off the bed and leaped down. Pain stabbed through her ankle and she winced, leaning on the side of the bed, staring toward that side of the room.

“Who are you?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. Moving back, she snatched up her plaid from the back of a chair and edged toward the door, her heart pounding hard. The dog bumped against her, startling her so she cried out, then she rested a hand on his shoulder.

The lights had vanished, whatever they were. She breathed out, telling herself it was foolishness or fatigue. Yet she did not want to go back to the bed. Setting her hand on the doorknob, she turned it, about to step into the corridor.

Then she heard a roll of thunder mingled with distant hoofbeats. Osgar gave a loud, commanding woof and stood tall and alert. When her name sounded again—spoken by voices in soft chorus—she knew.
They
were here.

“Leave me be,” she gasped, and limped out into the dark corridor in bare feet. She was not sure where to go, but she had to get away from her bedchamber. Re
membering that Lord Struan had a room at the other end of the hallway, she ran that way, wincing, and knocked on the door.

No answer. She knocked again. A crash of thunder shook the walls, and she shrieked, opening the door to step inside. In firelight and darkness, the room was empty—shadowed furnishings, the bedcovers undisturbed. Osgar bumped against her hip as she turned and left.

Holding the dog’s collar, she hobbled along the shadowy corridor toward the main staircase, realizing that Struan might be still working in his study. She had to find him, for his safety might be at risk—and she could not bear to be alone just now. But how could she explain to him that she had seen the wildfolk themselves in her room, and had heard the pounding of their horses’ hooves through the very walls. The Fey rode tonight, and they knew she was inside Struan House.

She stopped, gasping a little as she realized that the tales her grandfather had told her all her life were true after all. Either that, or she was a little mad, and hearing things.

But she knew better. She knew, deep down now, that this was true, and she was not sure what to do about it. How had they found her inside, with the iron locks bolted? Had Struan shut the house as he had promised? She went as quickly down the stairs as her ankle would allow, grasping her plaid around her shoulders.

Eilidh…
Soft as a whisper of wind, that sound. They used her fairy name, the one that she herself could tell only once, for the power in it. A crack of lightning came so suddenly that Elspeth leaped, shrieking as a
blue-white light filled the stairway. The dog hastened downward ahead of her, reaching the main floor first.

Hearing her name again, she froze for an instant, and hurried on. Despite a strong temptation, she did not glance over her shoulder.

Never look behind you in a fairy-held place
, her grandfather had said,
for in that moment they will have you.

W
hen the scream sounded, lightning blazed through the windows, and James ran from the study into the main hallway. The terriers ran barking alongside him. The shriek was not the banshee this time, but light and feminine.
Elspeth
. Alarmed, he rounded the corner for the stairs, and a shadowy figure—the wolfhound—hurtled past him. A ghostly figure in white followed. James stepped forward, straight into the arms of the slender wraith that leaped at him, arms looping about his neck—

“What in blazes! Elspeth!”

“Oh!” She sank against him and he gathered her to him as another whipcrack of lightning flickered through the hallway. She felt so good, too good, in his arms, and he embraced her, smoothed her tousled hair, his heart beating heavily with the fright she had given him. “What is it? You’re scared—”

“I am not,” she said hastily, yet she clung to him like a squirrel on a tree.

“Well, I was bloody frightened,” he said. He held her close, felt her relax, and then she set her feet down,
hopping a bit. “I thought you were a ghost. What happened?”

“I could not sleep, and came down to find you.”

“Was it the lightning?”

“I am not a ninny to be scared of such things,” she said. “I thought perhaps I might sit and do some reading while you worked in the study.” She still clutched the lapels of his waistcoat; he had been working in shirtsleeves for comfort, and had left his coat behind in the study.

James covered her hand in his own. “Nothing so mundane as that would send you flying down here as if demons were after you. I thought you were the resident banshee when you came down in that floaty white thing—”

“Hush!” The fingers of her free hand pressed his lips. “Do not call the
ban-sìth
!”

“It’s only the storm, or creaking hinges, or rain on the roof.”

She shook her head, clutching his lapel. “It is not that—oh, James—”

Suddenly, for no good reason that came to mind, he kissed her. Tender and fervent, one kiss melted into another. He tilted his head to hers, caught her face in his hands, pushed his fingers into her hair, savored what she returned. She moaned a little and sank against him, slanting her mouth beneath his, driving him onward when he knew—and surely she knew—they should not do this. Yet he wanted her so keenly in that moment that his mind seemed foggy. Catching her by the waist, he pulled her hard against him, her body pressing against his own through the thin fabric of her gown. He thought he might go mad with the
wanting that pulsed so hard through him; he already seemed a bit lunatic where she was concerned.

Not this way
. That thought sobered him. He took her by the shoulders and set her a little apart from him. “Enough, before we both regret it.”

“I do not regret it,” she said, breathless.

“One of us has to be practical.”

“Neither of us does,” she said, “really.”

“Good God,” he said. He stepped back, tugged on his waistcoat, heart pounding, and turned away. “If you cannot bear to be upstairs alone in a thunderstorm, I am still working in the study. You can sit there if you wish, or in the library. And cover up a bit more, will you,” he added irritably. “I am not a strong fellow.”

“Oh you are,” she said with a little laugh, as he walked away.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. She seemed a lucent glow in the dark hallway, her pale face, the long whip of her black braid, the white billow of his grandmother’s gown. Her eyes were large and luminous, and he stared, entranced.

“Never look over your shoulder at the fairy ilk,” she said, inexplicably. Then she came toward him, bare feet over the bare floor in an uneven
slap-pat
, her limp still evident. James crooked out his arm, and she took it.

“Where in botheration did the dogs go?” he asked irritably, glancing around for any distraction. He was painfully aware that Elspeth wore only the night rail and the plaid over her shoulders. Moments ago, he had felt the smooth, warm curves of her body beneath soft fabric. His grandmother’s night rail, yet he could
not keep his hands off the girl beneath it. “Blast,” he muttered.

“Lord Struan,” she said. “Please.” She sounded amused, relieved.

“We hardly need a banshee in the house with you here,” he said. “You’ve cast your own lunatic spell over the laird. He cannot seem to act the gentleman, and begs your pardon, Miss MacArthur.”

She laughed and held his arm as formally as if they entered a ballroom instead of the doorway of the dark library. Both of them were partly clothed and in disarray, and they were alone in the house at midnight, in a fierce storm. Her lush allure and her delightful willingness, together with the passion he could feel for this girl—all of it had the makings of a disaster.

And he wondered how they would get through this night without a necessary obligation of marriage. Truth told, it could benefit both of them. Meanwhile, he was drawn to her like iron shavings to a magnet, holding back every moment he was with her. The infernal thing was that she did not seem to mind the circumstances at all.

The dogs materialized from the shadows to accompany them into the library, and James led Elspeth through it to the study. There, with the oil lamps turned up, things seemed more ordinary. But Elspeth did not relax as he expected. While he returned to his paperwork, she stood in the center of the room with her head cocked, looking wary, as if she listened for something. Thunder boomed distantly, and she jumped.

“Sit down,” he said. “Read a book.” He gestured toward the volumes available on table surfaces, on shelves. Contrary to the inherent restraint and control
in other areas of his life, he was not particularly tidy in his work. Digging about for rocks could make one less fussy about dust and piles of things.

“I am fine,” she said, standing in the middle of the room, arms folded, the plaid wrapped over her generous breasts. He lifted a brow and glanced away.

“Miss MacArthur, I cannot seem to think if you stand there like that,” he murmured, sifting through some papers. Where the devil was that piece he had read earlier?

She went to the window seat tucked beneath an expanse of paned glass that overlooked the back garden, now all darkness and whipping rain and wind. “The roads will be flooding; the bridge will wash out.”

“Is that a prediction?”

“Just familiarity with the glen. In bad storms, the old bridges sometimes crumble and the roads, which are not good to begin with, go to mud. The local men repair what they can afterward, but it is difficult to keep ahead of the weather in poor seasons.”

“New bridges should be built, and the roads resurfaced.”

“Should be, true. But no one has the wealth for it.”

Nodding without answer, he wondered if she truly believed that the laird of Struan had the generous pockets needed. He scarcely had enough funds to keep his house and grounds in order, let alone pay for bridges in the glen, or make a wife wealthy. Unless he finished his grandmother’s book and wed a fairy bride, he would have only a modest inheritance.

Fairy bride.
He looked up.

Well, no matter what came of this unusual situation, he certainly could not concentrate with her curled on the seat like that; her night rail defined the very
delightful shape of her hips and bent legs. He could even see a blush of pink skin through the fine lawn fabric. Rising from the desk, he began to put some books away, carrying them to a wrought-iron ladder, climbing up to slide the books onto high shelves.

Had Elspeth MacArthur come deliberately to Struan House in poor weather intending to find the laird alone, hoping events might lead to a marriage to benefit her family and community? She had been frank about her desire to be ruined. Had she been entirely honest about escaping the marriage her grandfather planned for her, and avoiding any marriage?

He glanced down to see her flipping through the pages of a book. She was so lovely—a fey sort with that dark hair, pale features, and delicate frame. Anyone might believe she had fairy blood. Even Sir Walter Scott was convinced of her unique abilities.

If he married her, he could meet the will’s conditions.

Preposterous, he told himself. He and his siblings should have disputed the will instead of agreeing to chase will-o’-the-wisps. Still, he was grateful for the chance to work with his grandmother’s manuscript. Lady Struan seemed closer to him now than she had been for much of his life. He would honor that, and her book, regardless of its fairy subject matter. What seemed pure nonsense to him might appeal to others.

The wolfhound rose from his spot by the door and loped toward the girl. She patted his great, unkempt head. “Good lad, Osgar,” she said.

“That dog follows you everywhere now,” James said. “You need not be frightened in this house. He could scare off anything, earthly or unearthly.”

“Oh no, he’d probably let them in.”

“Them?”

“The Fey who are out riding tonight.”

“Come now, Miss MacArthur. Not even a fairy would be out and about in such a downpour. Nor do dogs open doors. Let us put all this pretense aside.”

“I would never try to fool you.”

“A pretty promise,” he answered, easing another book into place.

She looked up at him. “You’ve closed off your heart from hurt, James MacCarran,” she said softly. “You trust no one.”

“Life does go more smoothly that way,” he said casually, picking up more books from the stack he’d carried with him, and shoving them into their slots. “It eliminates certain complications, like gullibility—”
And love
. He stopped.

“And love?” she asked.

James shoved another book into place. “The world is full of silly notions and sentiment, Miss MacArthur. We need not debate it here.”

“Why do you not believe in the Sight, or fairies—or perhaps anything?”

He climbed off the ladder and came to stand near her chair. “Because believing,” he said very quietly, “would require that I accept what is fantastical. I would only be disappointed when it is proven wrong. Give me good solid rocks to categorize—I will show you what is real.” He stamped his boot heel. “The earth beneath our feet. The air we breathe. What we touch, and see.” He wanted to reach out to her, but instead shoved hands into his pockets. “I rely on that.”

“You are afraid to believe.” She sat up and leaned toward him, and the lamplight reflected in her eyes. “Afraid it might be true, and that you could not ex
plain it, and you might have to trust in something unseen, and powerful.”

“What man trusts easily? Certainly not myself.” He inclined his head and stepped away to set some books on the desk.

“You are afraid of me a little, I think,” she said.

“A slip of a thing like you? Preposterous.”

“I am not frightened of you, or of being here alone with you. Nor am I afraid of what might happen…to us, or to my heart.” She watched him openly.

He glanced at her, keenly aware that she did frighten him a little; she had come into his solitude and stirred up too much. “This situation is what alarms me, Miss MacArthur. Disgrace is not a convenient solution for your engagement dilemma.”

“It could be,” she answered.

A decanter of whiskey sat on a nearby shelf, and he lifted it to swirl its contents. “Mrs. MacKimmie has placed bottles in every room,” he said, changing the subject. He could use a good swallow of whiskey to fortify him against the fetching little wraith in his study. But better to keep his wits about him. He set the decanter back.

“Struan House has a good supply,” she said. “It is the laird’s house, after all. The smugglers who live in the hills are generous if one looks the other way. My grandfather never wants for whiskey, and never purchases it. If you are pouring some, I will have a taste, as it is chilly in here. It is a night for whiskey, with such a storm.”

James poured a little into a glass and brought it to her. She swallowed a little and handed it back to him. “And you?” she asked.

“Not just now. If I got foxed, you might try to compromise me,” he drawled.

“I may abandon that idea. You’re too unwilling.”

“Oh, I’m quite willing,” he murmured. The silence pulsed in the very air between them. “But logic and manners prevail. For now,” he added quietly.

The wolfhound stood then, whining, just as a distant, eerie shrieking drifted overhead. Elspeth grabbed James’s arm as they turned toward the door. A cracking glow of lightning split the shadows, and a rumble of thunder sounded.

“The banshee—” Elspeth said, her fingers tightening on his arm.

“It’s an old rusted weathervane,” he answered. He was not convincing even himself, but he persevered. “I’ll have Mr. MacKimmie investigate it when he returns. Surely you are not unsettled by a bit of iron creaking in the wind.”

“The banshee is warning us,” she said. “Something will happen this evening.”

“Something is happening. We are stranded here alone in this blasted storm.”

“It wants to tell us that the fairy ilk are riding on Struan grounds.”

James was pondering his next denial, for it had to be a sound one, when a cacophony of thunder shook the walls. “What the devil,” he muttered, moving toward the door, Elspeth holding his arm. “It sounds as if the horses have gone loose from their stalls. I’ll have to check. Wait here,” he told her, letting go. “Osgar, stay with her.”

“I am coming with you,” Elspeth said. Wasting no time on argument, James hurried toward the back cor
ridor, then down the steps past the kitchen. The girl and the wolfhound followed him.

“Wait here.” He snatched a coat that hung on one of the hooks there, and stepped outside into a whipping gust.

“Struan!” Elspeth called behind him. “
James!
Wait!”

He looked back. “It’s only rain,” he assured her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever happens,” she called, “do not look back!”

He waved briefly and went out into the storm.

Eilidh.
Gasping, hearing her name again, Elspeth stepped out into the elements. The Fey were riding that night, and James had gone out unsuspecting. She knew he would find the horses safe, the stable closed, because the sounds had not come from there. And he might be in danger—she had to find him and urge him to return to the house. Whoever encountered the fairy cavalcade on Struan lands might vanish, never to be seen again.