Sarah Gabriel (12 page)

The gardens were windblown and deserted, and she turned to go back inside when she saw James walking toward her from the direction of the outbuildings, where the stables, animal byres, henhouse, and other buildings were located. He wore a great-coat and hat, one hand engaged with his cane, the other shoved in a pocket of the coat, its tails billowing in the wind.

“Good morning, Miss MacArthur,” he said as if they were mere acquaintances, as if this was a polite encounter in city park or village green. “Chilly and wet today.”

“Lord Struan,” she said with equal coolness, feeling an awkward tension and avoiding his direct glance. “The weather has improved enough that I can return home.”

“On foot? I think not. I will drive you as soon as the roads allow. We should wait to see how the day develops. Stay as long as you like.” His quick smile was shy, heart-wrenching, and gone too soon.

“I should not stay any longer than necessary.” She glanced away. “Have you seen to the animals yet? They will need tending after such a storm.”

“Actually I was just doing that, and all is well. Though I am a city lad, as you are eager to point out, I know the basics of country life. Most of the Struan animals are kept on the home farm, a mile into the glen. We have two cows who gave no milk this morning.”

“Probably frightened by the storm.”

He nodded. “Mrs. MacKimmie keeps several chickens here—they were penned safely. I found a few eggs this morning.” He pulled his hands from his pockets to display two or three brown eggs cupped in each hand, then repocketed them out of sight. “We can share some breakfast, if you like.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the hot chocolate, too.” She turned to walk toward the house alongside him.

“Quite welcome. How is the ankle this morning?” His own gait, with the cane, had the slight rhythm that seemed part of him. “You’re in no condition to walk home, as anxious as you seem to be to escape Struan and its laird.”

“I do not want to escape,” she said. “But I cannot stay here, alone with you.”

“Ah. Not now, in daylight,” he said.

She shrugged. In silence, they followed the earthen lane to the house. The morning light was pale, the rain soft, the ground beset with puddles and runnels of water. Elspeth picked her way carefully, now and again setting her hand on his arm, for her ankle troubled her over the uneven ground. If her foot was not strong enough even for this, she could not walk home, and would have to wait on his whim for a ride.

“Halloo! Halloo, my lord!”

Elspeth turned, as did James. “Who is that?” he asked, as they both looked around and into the distance. Two men walked along a road that led over the estate grounds. “It’s not MacKimmie or the grooms.”

One man wore a kilt, jacket, and flat dark bonnet, with a plaid over his shoulders. The other was dressed in a black suit and black hat, with a plaid over his shoulders as well. They waved again, and she felt her stomach sink a little as she recognized the men.

“That’s Mr. Buchanan and his son,” she explained. “The elder Buchanan is a smith, and his son is kirk minister down the glen.” She looked at him. “When they see us here together, they will make their own conclusions, and news will travel quickly. The Buchanans do not guard secrets well, nor do their wives.”

“Let us meet our fate, then,” James said, and took her arm to escort her toward the stile in the stone fence that surrounded the grounds of the house.

“Och, it’s the new laird,” the older man said. “And Miss MacArthur!”

She smiled. “Lord Struan, meet Mr. Willie Buchanan, a neighbor in the glen, and our blacksmith.
And this is his son, the reverend of our glen kirk, Mr. John Buchanan.”

“Good to meet you,” James said, shaking their hands. The Buchanans, looking like older and younger twins, tipped their hats to Elspeth and the viscount.

“A fine soft day.” The elder Buchanan looked up.

“Aye.” James smiled. “Let us hope it clears soon.”

“Not for a while. The clouds are thick yet, and still flying over the mountains to the west. More rain to come,” Willie Buchanan said. “Do you have any metals gone to rusting after this, you be sure to send for me.” James nodded.

“I would have visited sooner to welcome you to the glen, sir, but for the weather, and my duties in the parish,” the reverend said then. “It is a surprise to find you here, Miss MacArthur,” he continued. “I thought you would be working your loom at Kilcrennan, or snug by the fireside there. When we stopped there this morning to see if all was well after the storm, Mrs. Graeme said you were away to Margaret Lamont’s house, she said. She was concerned for you.”

“I set out for Margaret’s house, but had some difficultly yesterday due to the storm. Lord Struan came to my assistance.”

“Did he now.” The elder narrowed his eyes. “What sort of assistance?”

“A dry roof over her head and an offer of an escort home as soon as roads permit,” James said smoothly. “May I offer you hospitality, gentlemen?”

“Thank you, sir, and no,” the old smith said. “We’d best be on our way. We’re walking about to ask after the neighbors after the storm, and off to see that my
auld mum is all right. We canna take the pony cart, but must walk, the roads are that bad. The river and stream are gone floody, too. The auld bridge is washed out. Not yet collapsed, but washed out for the time being.”

“Oh!” Elspeth glanced at James. “Then I cannot go home that way.”

“You can walk the long way over the hills, as we’ve done,” the reverend said. “Neither cart nor gig can take road nor bridge until things dry up again.”

“Is Mrs. MacKimmie home, then?” Willie Buchanan asked. “I have greetings for her from my wife, who is her good friend.”

“Not at present, Mr. Buchanan, but I will tell her you called,” James replied.

“Not home? Perhaps your ghillie, then. Mr. MacKimmie is a fine friend.”

“He is not here either. Delayed by the weather.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Buchanan, glancing again at his son. “Not home. Alone, they are.”

Elspeth shivered and drew her plaid higher over her head. The gentlemen adjusted hat brims and jacket collars as they all stood, rather ridiculously she thought, in the drizzle, with the stone fence and iron gate between them. The Highlanders did not seem in a hurry to leave. Shifting her weight to her uninjured foot, Elspeth felt James’s hand briefly at her elbow. Again a fast look exchanged between the Buchanans.

“Yer Southron housemaids ran off, I heard,” Mr. Buchanan said. “We saw yer groom driving the lasses along the road yesterday.”

“Aye, the girls resigned their places here,” James said. “Apparently they dislike ghosts and fairies. I have not been much troubled by them, myself.”

“Och, Lowlanders,” old Buchanan said, nodding. “Though we canna blame them. It is custom in this glen to avoid Struan lands during the time of the fairy riding. You are a brave man to stay here at this time. Did Miss MacArthur not warn you?”

“My housekeeper mentioned the tradition,” James said. “It will not bother me.”

The elder Buchanan twisted his hat in his hand and glanced at Elspeth. “Are you sure he understands the whole of it?” he asked.

“He does,” she answered.

“You will find Highlanders a superstitious lot in general, Lord Struan,” the reverend said. “The people of this glen have their own particular legends, of course. Most find the stories entertaining, while some put real credence in them.” He glanced at Elspeth, then away. “It is not a matter of religious faith, not paganism or godlessness, as some might suggest, but rather the unique Celtic character. As a pastor, I try not to concern myself overmuch with it.”

“Very wise, sir,” James said. “The legends are entertaining, and harmless.”

“Such stories, along with the ghosts and fairies themselves,” Elspeth said, “are more than amusements. They are part of the cultural legacy of the Scottish Highlands, and as such should be given their just due.”

“Of course,” Reverend Buchanan agreed. “The late Lady Struan was quite interested in the tales of the glen, as I recall. She often drove her pony cart about to interview people about our local customs.”

“She loved her work,” James said amiably. “This weather looks to become dreadful again. Sirs, are you sure we cannot offer you some tea?”

“No, we are on our way. Miss MacArthur, may we see you home?” the reverend asked. “We would be glad to walk you over the hills to Kilcrennan.”

“Thank you, it is not necessary,” she answered, smiling. Beside her, James pulled his hat brim low against the incessant drip and said nothing.

“Lass, no need to impose on the good laird,” the elder Buchanan said. “Yer grandfather would want ye home. He’s expected home this evening, if roads permit.”

“I will see Miss MacArthur home myself,” James said.

“We can do that,” the reverend insisted. “No doubt you will agree, Lord Struan, that this situation is not…seemly.”

“There is nothing amiss here,” Elspeth said. “We are not even strangers,” she blurted then. “Lord Struan and I met last summer in Edinburgh.”

“Just so,” James said. Elspeth felt the warm pressure of his fingers through her jacket sleeve. A sense of support, of security, infused her, and she was grateful for it.

“Ah.” The smith glanced at his son, and back again. “Well then, sir, we will move on before the weather worsens.” Then he turned to Elspeth and spoke in Gaelic. “A thousand good wishes to you in your future, Elspeth, granddaughter of Donal.”

“And to you, sir,” she replied in that language.

The men moved on, and turned to wave. Elspeth waved, too. Then, without a glance for James, she picked up her skirt and hurried toward the house, limping with uneven steps. Catching up to her, James opened the door for her, and they stepped inside. Then she whirled on him in the small passageway.

“Now what? Mr. Buchanan spoke a Gaelic blessing to me, as if I was engaged!”

James frowned. “Well, generally a compromise means a marriage. It’s less of an uproar for you that way, than poor assumptions and disgrace. If we were to announce our courtship, or better yet, our engagement, that would avert scandal.”

“I do not want to be engaged,” she said. “I am trying to avoid one!”

“You spent the night alone with me, and now we’ve been caught out,” he said. “An engagement can be broken, creating less gossip around you.”

“Why should you be concerned with that?”

“I am,” he said, “because I thought you might be.” He bent to pet the terriers, who jumped up, panting for affection.

“Highlanders do not fret over scandal the way Southrons do. Some whispering might occur, but few in the glen would judge me unfairly. Even girls who have babies out of wedlock are not severely judged, or often sent away. We know such things happen.”

“Aye,” James said wryly, watching her. “They do.”

She felt herself blush. “My cousin’s first child was such a one, and she but fifteen then. Her family treated her kindly, and a few years later, Margaret married a good man. As for my wee transgression,” she said, glancing at James, “I would not be expected to marry the tailor, but I could live contented at Kilcrennan, running the household and doing my own work.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “What work is that?”

“Weaving.” She lifted a bit of the plaid draped around her shoulders. “This is some of my own work. I help Grandda with his tartan business. It is no occupation for a viscountess.”

“Not necessarily. My grandmother did as she pleased, driving about in her pony cart chasing fairy legends, and writing her stories. If she’d set her mind on weaving, the walls of this place would be draped in plaid. She never let convention or obligation deter her from what she most wanted. Even after she died,” he added low.

“She also spent a good part of the year in Edinburgh. I will not abandon what is important to me to move south and host tea parties and be bored with little to do, while a husband goes about his own business. I would not expect you to give up your work.”

“Nor would I ask it of you. Where is the argument, Elspeth? We can marry, and you could live here as much as you like.”

Osgar approached Elspeth, and she busied herself ruffling the silky fur of his ears. Then she looked up. “Away from my husband? I could not live like that.”

James gazed at her, a little frown between his brows. The man was inscrutable, she thought, and she sensed more in his persistence than gentlemanly obligation. “Keeping two homes is a good solution for our situation,” he said.

Nellie, the white terrier, trotted toward her then. Elspeth bent low to rub her snowy head. “Why are you so determined to see this done? Many men in these circumstances would be glad to be freely released.”

He shrugged. “You require a husband, after last night. I require a wife.”

Require.
She felt that word like a blow. “And I,” she said, standing, “will never marry a man who does not love me more than his obligations.”

James watched her in silence, then glanced away.

“There will be no engagement,” she said, hurt and angry. Snatching her skirts, she turned and swept past the kitchen toward the stairs. Her heart beat hard, and raw need made her desperate to turn back to ask why, and ask what more could be done.

Every instinct, womanly and Celtic, told her that she cared deeply about this man, and that he could care about her. But somehow her instincts were wrong. Though he had suggested marriage, it was dispassionate. She hurried away.

“Damnation,” James said then.

Elspeth whirled, shaking, hoping.

“I forgot about the eggs.” He removed a hand from his pocket, eggshells in his palm, the clear and golden slime coating his fingers.

She laughed nervously, part sob and part giggle. James scowled, then laughed, too, sheepishly. Egg dripped on his coat, his boots, the floor. The terriers trotted over to lick the floor and his shoes clean, and James pushed them away with his foot.

“I’ve managed to save these few, at least,” James said, producing three whole eggs from the other pocket. “Miss MacArthur, would you consider sharing breakfast?”

She sighed, surrender and sadness. “I would. We can agree on that, at least.”