Sarah Gabriel (18 page)

“What are you doing to me?” he asked.

She laughed lightly. “Whatever you are doing to
me
,” she whispered, “I will let you.” Then she took him by hand to lead him around the corner to the stone step of her weaving cottage. As she lifted the door latch, James felt the intent of what they would do here surging strong within him. Suddenly he lifted her in his arms, pushed the door open, and stepped inside holding her.

The small dark room smelled of wood and planking, of whitewashed walls and lengths of wool, and held a sense of simple, solid values, of effort and reward. Elspeth slid out of his arms sweet as a kitten, then took his hands and pulled him toward a dark corner where he saw stacks of plaids. She tossed a few blankets down for a nest, then tugged on his hand.

As she drew James down with her to the soft plaids spread beneath them, Elspeth did not care about consequences; only the moment, only her pulsing, yearning body; only being with James. Enclosed in darkness and silence, they would not be disturbed here, at this
hour, and her grandfather would be occupied well into the morning. Facing him, she looped her arms about his neck.

He streamed his fingers through her hair, cupped her cheek in his palm, leaned to kiss her, aching tender. And he traced his mouth along her cheek, to her ear, at the same time taking her full into his arms. “Elspeth,” he whispered. “What is this, between us? What now, before we go on?” His lips traced, touched, and she melted.

She closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, resisting the urge to say what rushed through her mind.
I love you—I want you to love me.
“I want…to feel what we felt the other night. Just that, before you go back to Struan.”

“I am only going across the glen,” he whispered. “I will see you soon.”

“For now we are alone,” she answered, touching his jaw, the beard like sand under her fingertips. “We may do as we will.”

He sighed, and she felt his desire in the sound. He soothed his hand over her shoulder and the length of her hair spilling there, and shivers cascaded through her. When he bent his head to kiss her, pulling her deeper into his arms, the warmth of his body penetrated through her nightgown. She sighed and pressed close, his heart thudding against her, only lawn and linen between them. Pulling at his sleeves, she helped him strip off his coat, which he tossed aside, and she dropped the plaid shawl away, adding to the thick nest that surrounded them.

He kissed her again, a feeling like a plummeting to be caught safe in his arms; he kissed her breathless, leaning her back, fitting his lips to hers. A quivering
ran through her, a sheer delicious thrill as his fingers smoothed over her cheek, her throat, her breasts. Her nipples tightened, tingled, as his fingers grazed past, and she arched to urge for more. She felt as if she would do anything he asked—anything but marry him.

That thought filled her with a poignant sadness. What if she were never in his arms like this again? What if he asked her to marry him again—what if he did not, and left, never to return. Only a fool would refuse him, yet she had no choice. And each time he touched her, she only wanted more, without telling him why she had to refuse the future and the lifetime he offered her.

So she would take joy from these moments. Kissing him, she slid her fingers into the thick waves of his hair, and he dipped his head to kiss her throat again, so that she cried out softly, eagerly. She pushed the collar of his shirt aside to touch him, and felt his heart thumping under warm, bare, firm skin, and a layer of fine hair; she found and traced his small, flat nipples.

He groaned, muted, and brought his hand over her breast, tugging aside the neck of her gown, and then his lips were hot and pliant upon her breast, his breath warming her. He swept his tongue over her nipple, nudged it, and the tightening shot through her like lightning to plunge deep. She gasped, whimpered.

Again he took her mouth in a kiss, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs teasing until she moaned and writhed, hot within and wanting more, pleading for more. The urgency of his lips and hands melted her so that she felt buttery and willing, and as he kissed the shell of her ear, she felt a raw need thrumming through her. What she most yearned to say—
I love
you, I will wed you
—she somehow kept inside, biting at her lips, moaning soft, asking with her body for that which she could not express in words.

He took her down to the thick bed of plaids, and she lay on her side facing him, slipping her leg over his as she pressed against him. Quickly he slid his hand along her leg, up her thigh, to round over her hip. She ran her fingers through his hair, arched to encourage him to kiss her breasts—she could not get enough of what he did, only wanted more, the beating of her heart untamed, her body moving, rocking, in further plea.

Her fingers found his chest again, and she tore his shirt free of his breeches. With shaking fingers she eased over the panel of his trousers, over the hardness there, a proof of how he wanted her, and she intended to give herself to him. The urge was irresistible now as passion replaced thought and wildness displaced logic. As she tugged at buttons and the cloth flap fell away, she pushed his shirttail aside and found him there, the length of him like warm velvet over iron, and she gasped at the heightening desire in her own body, fueled by touches, kisses in the darkness. She moved boldly against him, pushing her own gown aside, desperate for skin to touch skin, heat to heat.

He sought her breast again, and with her own hand she shaped him full, teasing, until he groaned fiercely against her, his lips taking her nipple so that a strong, peculiar fluttering began deep within, and she gasped. He rose to smother the sound with his mouth. “Let me love you,” he whispered, his lips a breath away from her own, his hands skimming over her hips, feeling so warm and so good.

In answer, she moved against him, whimpering, and
he sighed and fit his mouth over hers, the kiss deep and raw, and his fingers skimmed over her flat belly and downward. When he slipped a finger just inside her, tip to cleft, she gasped again, and as he touched her deeper, she burned, melted, her hands seeking over the planes of his belly and his hard, wonderful, warm length. And he touched off a spark in her that caught like a flame, and as he caressed her, she rocked like the familiar rhythm of the loom, rose and cried out, gone to shimmering.

Wild with unspoken, instinctive need, she shifted her hips to take him inside her, every bit of her crying out for sudden thrust and release. But he pushed her hips away and guided her hand upon him again, and with his fingers inside, he stroked her to bring her to that burning, while she stroked and felt him meet his own release against her.

Then she sobbed out, aware of something precious and something missing all at once. “I wanted—I thought we both wanted—”

He kissed her. “My girl,” he whispered raggedly, “if we let that happen, there would be a wedding quick, whether or not you agree. So”—his fingers traced over her breasts, her body still tingling at his merest touch—“remember there will be time for that, and so much more, if we marry.”

Sighing, she turned away, knowing he was wise to suggest that they hold back and wait, but she yearned for all of it—but he knew that. He knew it.

She stood, legs trembly, feeling ease and heartache all at once. She found a cloth for him, then straightened her night rail, found her plaid. When he was ready he shrugged into his coat, then reached out to draw her close. Wordless and fervent, he kissed her.

Elspeth rested against him, eyes closed, aware that she must tell him farewell. She could not give way to the intense desire and burgeoning love she felt—not until all the fairy debt was settled. She wondered if he would wait for her, if he knew that. She wondered if he would believe it, even after tonight.

He lifted her chin to look down at her. “You know I mean to marry you.”

She felt a small thrill, but she glanced away and shook her head in silence.

“You could be the wife of the viscount who owns most of this glen,” he said. “Yet you will not. You could marry a wealthy tailor to benefit your grandfather’s weaving business, yet you will not. Your own grandfather disagrees with you, and so do I. There is no reason that I know of, and perhaps he understands it more. I only know that you will not be convinced to marry, no matter how—I feel about you.”

“Leave it be,” she whispered, a catch in her voice. “I have my reasons.”

He waited, but she would not look up, or give in, though it hurt to resist. Part of her insisted that she was foolish—but another inner voice agreed with her caution. The human half of her, she realized, was vying with the fairy half. And she could not tell him that. Not now, in this moment.

James released her, stepped back. “So be it. I will spare both of us the unpleasantness of asking again.” He went to the door and yanked it open.

“James,” she said. He looked over his shoulder. “If I did marry…it would be you.”

“Then why—blast it, I will not argue it further.” He shut the door behind him.

She stood motionless, aching inside, then went to
the door and looked out. Dawn brightened over the mountains, and James walked along the lane up to the house.

And she could hear the incessant clack and
shoosh
of the loom in the next building, driven by the same demanding magic that had made such a shambles of her dreams.

G
ood granite was abundant in this part of the glen, James thought, standing atop a high conical hill that overlooked Struan House, with a view of the glen and surroundings for miles. The morning air was fresh, the sunlight invigorating as he turned back to his work. Removing a small hammer and chisel from his pocket, he bent to tap and break off another chunk of the stone ledge that ran under the hillside. A crust made up of sedimentary rock and limestone with patches of red sandstone, it broke away easily in places. James was certain the layers stretched a long way through this string of hills. The tapping had revealed a shoulder of granite close to the surface, the common gray composite stuff studded with a glitter of plain quartz and a touch of cairngorm.

Angus MacKimmie had spoken of a quarry across the glen that produced red sandstone and pale limestone, with pockets of granite and trap rock, the latter so hard it could not be quarried. James was pleased to hear of the variety, for finding large deposits of granite and basalt in this glen, which was set well into the
central Highlands, was encouraging for his geological research.

He broke off some bits of limestone that showed traces of fossils, knowing that Fiona would enjoy examining them; his twin shared his interest in geology and collected fossils of all sorts. Dropping them into the leather bag he carried, he set aside his tall, gnarled walking stick, recommended by Angus for strenuous hill climbing, and pulled a small leather notebook and wood-cased pencil from his pocket. Then he sat on a rocky outcrop to jot some notes.

Granite and whinstone formations NW of house…100 ft. plus above level of house,
he wrote.
The deposits indicate possible internal heat, fusing masses together to create beds of sedimentary rock…molten material extruded from terrestrial core, cooled as crust, becoming volcanic rock. Evidence of such here. Basalt, dolerite, gray granite…traces of red sandstone also found in the vicinity…

Excellent material for lectures, he told himself, and for a chapter in the book he had been working on in Edinburgh; that project drew together many theories, including that of a catastrophic development of earth, with stupendous heaving shifts of earth’s most ancient land and sea masses; other scientists theorized that early land masses and rocky formations had evolved slowly as a result of gradual erosion. James leaned toward the Catastrophists, himself, while agreeing in some specifics with the Uniformitarianists.

Granite, a rocky mass that required tremendous heat to form, evidenced volcanic activity, and James was pleased to find rich sources of it this far into the Highlands, a considerable distance away from known
volcanoes such as those in and near Edinburgh. He was pleased, too, to find the beds on his own property. What he had discovered was worthy of exploration, a potential contribution to the wealth of information accumulating more rapidly every year as geologists pieced together a picture of earth’s creation. As well as looking backward, the discoveries pointed toward the future direction that terrestrial evolution might take, as he intended to point out in his next book.

Still seated, the wind brisk around him, he looked into the kit he had brought in the leather bag. It contained not only various chisels and two small geologist’s hammers, but a fine loupe—two small hinged magnifying lenses banded in engraved brass, a gift from Fiona—along with other items, including chunks of unfired ceramic clay to test the streaking properties of minerals; and bits of metal, such as gold, silver, and iron, with a few shards of wood for testing the hardness and density of rocks and stones. In addition he carried a small vial of hydrochloric acid, well-capped and protected, to dissolve certain sedimentary deposits, often helpful in cleaning and identifying rock. Today, all he really needed were the chisels, a hammer, and the loupe.

Hearing the dogs bark, he looked around to see Angus climbing the hill with the wolfhound and the white terrier running alongside him. Nellie reached him first, and James rubbed her head as she leaped up to greet him.

“Your guests are arriving, sir,” Angus said, pointing southeast.

“Sooner than expected, if so. I had a letter from my great-aunt a few days ago saying they would arrive by Friday afternoon. It’s but Wednesday.”

“Mrs. MacKimmie has the house more than ready,” her husband said.

“She does indeed.” Struan House virtually sparkled, from polished furniture and sparkling silver and glass in the public rooms, to the white counter-panes and freshly laundered linens in the guest rooms. James narrowed his eyes as he saw a vehicle approach from two, perhaps three miles away. The black coach and matched four followed the winding road that led through the glen and past Struan House.

“No hired chaise, neither,” Angus MacKimmie said. “That’s a private coach. I’ve sent a groom, Davie, ahead to lead them to the house. The roads are still muddy and rutted—and will stay so until they are fixed,” he added bluntly. “Yon coachman had best go slow.”

James nodded, appreciating Angus’s broad hint. He stood beside the older man on the conical peak overlooking Struan House, no more than ten minutes’ walk from the house, and so in no hurry to rush to greet the arrivals. He dropped the bits of rock and the chisel and hammer into the leather bag he shouldered, then took up the walking stick to descend the hill. Angus and the dogs went with him.

The young groom came flying back along the road on foot—Davie, one of Angus’s nephews, a kilted boy with red hair and an elfin grin. The head ghillie walked quickly to meet him, leaving James to make his way more slowly, using the cane to balance.

The pockets of his rough tweed jacket sagged, for he had dropped some rock specimens into them, hardly thinking about it. The loose, comfortable jacket had been a gift, its sturdy woolen weave handsome, warm, and impervious to damp. Two days after his visit to
Kilcrennan, a boy had arrived at Struan with a package in brown paper. Donal MacArthur had sent the coat with his compliments.

But there had been no message from Elspeth, and no word of her welfare. James had returned a handwritten note of thanks, extending a dinner invitation to the MacArthurs and Mrs. Graeme, and he had inquired politely after Miss MacArthur, adding that he hoped she was still interested in acting as his research assistant.

So far no answer had come back, though over a week had passed. James had contemplated riding to Kilcrennan, but uncertainty as well as pride put him off the idea. He sensed that he was reverting to his previous self, with that familiar shell closing over him again. This time, he regretted it, for the changes he had felt in himself were freeing. Until he had met Elspeth, he had not realized how much he wanted to shake off the past, and step away from the old, restrained, bitter part of himself.

But he would not ask her again to marry him. She had refused repeatedly, and he would not make a fool of himself again, not even to meet the odd conditions of his grandmother’s will. Elspeth was perfect for that. Perfect for him.

Fairy or none, he wanted her, desired her endlessly, and now craved the thought of marrying her. He could not imagine his future without her in it. Though daydreaming was not in his character, he had found a little solace, a little lonely contentment, in that habit lately. But if the girl did not want him, that avenue of dreams was closed.

If he had no appropriate Highland bride, he would jeopardize everything—his siblings’ inheritance, and
his property of Struan. He might have to find other candidates for marriage—he knew Lady Rankin was sure to push Charlotte Sinclair at him—but he wanted only one.

If he had to, he could let go of his dreams of Elspeth. He would recover, as he had recovered from his wounds of the past. The injuries taken at Quatre Bras had left him with a limp. Now he would have injuries that were not so obvious.

He could almost feel the clenching of his spirit in protest. He was accustomed to life as a solitary soul, and he would continue, even if he had to make a marriage of convenience someday. And he would sell Struan House, though he knew it would only break his heart further.

Angus spoke with his nephew and returned, gesturing toward a carriage in the distance. “Davie says there are three gentlemen in the coach, only some of your guests. The rest are following in a second coach, the gentlemen told Davie.”

“My brother Patrick wrote to say that he might arrive ahead of the rest, but I’ve had no word since.” He shrugged, puzzled.

“You’ll find out soon who they are. That driver is flyin’ fast on a poor road.”

Chuckling at another hint, James walked downward to stand on the sloping foot of the hillside, watching as the vehicle drew closer. It was a handsome black barouche, he now saw, drawn by four powerful bays with whipping black manes. Angus lifted his arm in salute, and the coach slowed and stopped. For a moment, James thought of the coaches of the devil said to haunt some Highland roads.

But he dismissed that when his brother Patrick
opened the door to leap down as Angus came forward to greet the coachman. James walked down to meet Patrick, who greeted him with a handshake and a thump on the shoulder.

“James, you look well, the country laird and a’ that, hey.” Patrick grinned. “The others are following us—Fiona, Aunt Rankin, Philip, and Miss Sinclair rode in a second coach. They fell a bit behind, but should be here within the hour.”

James nodded. “Very good. Who have you brought with you?” As he walked toward the carriage, the door opened and another man emerged. “Sir John! Excellent to see you,” James said, as John Graeme stepped down. James extended his hand.

“Struan, good to see you.” John tipped his hat, his blond hair bright in the sun. “I hope you do not mind the intrusion. We had a business endeavor just north of here, and Patrick invited us to accompany him. Lord Eldin was generous enough to offer the use of his carriage for the trip.”

“Eldin?” James glanced toward the barouche. A third man sat in the shadows, dressed in black from the crown of his hat and dark hair to his suit of clothes and immaculate boots. He remained inside, though he shifted his long legs to lean forward, tapping the point of his cane.

“Greetings, Struan. I see no reason to get out too soon, with the driver about to take us to the entrance.” Nicholas MacCarran, Lord Eldin, nodded and extended a hand.

“Eldin,” James said, reaching in to briefly shake the man’s gloved hand. He would rather have ignored him, but propriety demanded that resentment and anger remain hidden.

“No doubt you’re surprised to see us, particularly myself,” his cousin Nicholas said, “but as Sir John and I had business near here—I have a building project near Loch Katrine—we thought it efficient to travel with Patrick in advance of Lady Rankin’s party.”

“Of course,” James said. Seeing Patrick and John watching soberly, he yanked the door open wide. “Will you stay the night at Struan House?”

“Luncheon will be fine,” Lord Eldin answered, as if Struan House was an inn. “Sir John and I have business in the north tomorrow, and would like to reach our hotel by this evening.”

“Of course. Gentlemen, you may want to ride up to the house. I’ll walk and meet you there,” James answered, keeping his temper in check.

“I’ll come with you,” Patrick said, and John Graeme climbed back into the coach with Eldin. Angus and his nephew joined the driver, and they set off.

Patrick glanced at James. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said. “Nick is persistent.”

“True,” James said. “He talked our uncle into selling the clan seat, years back.”

Patrick huffed agreement. “He and Sir John are going up north to see to the renovation of an old castle near Loch Katrine, a property Nick has purchased. He’s going to open a new hotel there. With so many travelers going on tour up there, more accommodations are needed every year. Eldin has hired Sir John as engineer on the estate—private roads to build, a bridge, so forth. They’re even talking about a small canal to connect two waterways, from what I heard.”

“Impressive, though he might find that the Highlanders feel it is rather too much improvement for
their remote area,” James murmured. He did not want to discuss their cousin. “I understand Aunt Rankin plans a tour of the Highlands.”

“Aye, she’s quite enthused about it. She won’t stay at Struan but a night or two—she is in a hurry, you know how she can be. Likely she’ll breeze through the Highlands and barely appreciate it, but once home, she will be an expert to impress her friends.”

“Indeed. I’m surprised you decided to accompany her. You’ve got little patience for her or her entourage. Who is she bringing with her?”

“Fiona, thank heavens, or I could not have borne the company. Aunt Rankin is dragging along her insufferable nephew Philip and Miss Sinclair—the latter for your benefit, I’m sure.”

“No doubt,” James muttered.

“I would have begged off the trip entirely, but I have my own reason for coming.” Patrick grinned. “I’ve been appointed to a position in the Highlands as Excise Officer in a northern area. I’m going north to look at the area now, and after the new year, I’m to work with a glen sheriff there.”

“Excellent! It’s a better use of your talents than clerking documents in the signet courts all day. You do have a taste for adventure.”

“Smugglers abound in those hills, so it should prove interesting.”

“So I understand.” James thought of the elusive cousin of the MacArthurs who made illicit whiskey, some of it supposedly of fairy make.

“I am to meet with a local laird named MacGregor,” Patrick said.

“There are a fair number of MacGregors in this part of the Trossachs,” James said, without giving
away what he knew. “I am glad Fiona decided to come with Aunt Rankin after all.”

“She’s making arrangements to teach at a Gaelic school, and she wanted to see you before she accepts the assignment. She has her own requirement to fulfill, as do we all, thanks to Grandmother’s will.” Patrick glanced at James. “Any luck?”

“I am learning a good deal about fairy belief, but I have not found a fairy bride, if that is what you are wondering about.”