Sarah Gabriel (6 page)

And saw black boots standing an inch deep in mud. Looking up, she gazed at buff trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves on strong hands, a brown jacket, and a fine but damp neck cloth—

Lord Struan stared down at her.

No garden statue, no fairy, nor an eldritch hag sprawled at his feet, James realized: just a wet, bedraggled girl in a muddied plaid and gown. Her face was obscured by the green plaid, but he quickly noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from neat ankles and calves encased in soggy stockings and sturdy leather shoes to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts straining against wet fabric. The rest of her, under the bedraggled tartan, looked to be enticing as well.

“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “May I help you?”

Gasping, she shoved her skirts down rapidly, and pushed back the plaid. He saw a heart-shaped face and black hair in curling tendrils; then large eyes of a gray-green, just now the silvery color of the rain, looked up at him.

“Miss MacArthur,” he said, hiding his astonishment behind nonchalance. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”

“Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”

Stifling his next response, he offered his hand. She refused and stood, wincing. “I’m fine, sir,” she said, as he extended his hand again.

He doubted that, judging by the way she favored one foot and hopped about a little. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?”

They were both drenched, and water ran from the brim of his hat. When she moved, muck sloshed his boots, her shoes. He waited with a polite smile, despite the absurd circumstances.

“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said, as if they stood in some gas-lit parlor in Edinburgh rather than in a soaking rain while muddy water runneled around their feet, and thunder rumbled. “I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.”

James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”

“Excellent. I must go. My apologies for intruding.” Turning, she stepped, winced again, one arm flailing as her heel faltered in the mud. James snatched at her arm.

“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk off in a thunderstorm.” He turned with her toward the house.

As they took another incline and followed the stone
terraced steps that led through the wet, raggedy garden, he noticed that the girl was having real difficulty walking. The rain was lashing nearly sideways now. Elspeth MacArthur drew the plaid over her head, and hurried alongside him toward the house.

Oddly, James realized that they were both limping, almost in a rhythm. But the girl was having trouble—she paused more than once to rest. Lightning cracked nearly overhead, and the wind whirled about them. James felt a sense of something eerie, even dangerous around them that seemed beyond the storm itself.

Snatching her up in his arms despite her protest, he took the garden path in long strides. For some reason his leg hardly hindered him as he rushed over the strip of garden lawn and along a pathway lined with leggy marigolds and late pansies to reach the back kitchen doorway. The girl clung to his neck as he hurried.

When thunder pounded again, for an instant James felt caught again in the nightmare of Quatre Bras. He had been with his Highland Watch regiment, defending ground against an onrush of French cuirassiers. The sensation startled him so that he rushed toward the door and opened it, nearly hurtling inside with the girl in his arms.

In the corridor, the wolfhound and two terriers waited, shuffling back as James entered with the girl. He kicked the door shut behind him and carried the girl down the hall, past the kitchen, and up the back stairs to the parlor. The dogs trotted close and curious on his heels.

Elspeth MacArthur was a sopping bundle, but lightweight and no burden, even on the steps. She fit in his arms like sin itself. Her curves eased against him, and a heavy pulse beat through him. Her face was so close
to his, her breath soft upon his cheek, her arm looped around his shoulders, the other resting on his chest.

Heart slamming, he tried to focus on other matters. The slippery steps, the need to get the girl somewhere warm and dry, the slight ache in his left leg from a wound more than seven years old now. He had dropped his cane in the garden when he had lifted her up. And blast it all, he had lost his hat, and the rain had likely ruined a good woolen jacket.

Mundane thoughts, he knew—but he needed them now. Anything to keep his mind off the delicious creature who leaned her head against him as if he were her savior. He, of all men, a rescuer—he almost laughed. These days he went out of his way to keep his life dull. This mad, rain-soaked adventure would soon be over.

But what the devil was the lovely Miss MacArthur doing in his blasted garden?

U
p steps and along a corridor, its polished wood floor reflecting the glow of creamy walls and brass sconces, James carried her into the drawing room. There, upholstered chairs were arranged beside a low fire in the grate. James set the girl down in a wingback chair and angled it toward the fireplace.

The room was dim, and he grabbed a tinderbox to light the wicks of the candles in a brass candelabra. Then he turned. “We’d best get you warmed up. You’re soaked.”

“So are you,” she said. “Sir, I do appreciate this, but I really must go.” She half rose from the chair, but shifted to stand on her right foot, favoring the left. “And I should not sit down anywhere. My things are wet and muddy, and will ruin the furnishings.”

“My concern is not the upholstery, but you, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please.”

She sighed, and sat. “I suppose I could stay until the rain lessens.”

“At least that. My housekeeper would have my head if I let you go out again in such weather, and clearly injured.”

“Mrs. MacKimmie? Aye, but she knows me, and knows I would leave if I wanted to do so. I’d best take off my plaidie, it’s that wet.” She shrugged out of the long, damp shawl, and James took it, draping it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace.

“When my shawl dries, I can brush it clean,” she said, “but it could take hours for it to dry properly.” Looking dismayed she brushed ineffectually at her muddy skirt.

Beneath the plaid, the girl wore a gown of pale cream muslin patterned in small florals with a little green jacket over it. Her bonnet was of straw, its white ribbons and lace ruching pitiful-looking now. Beneath it, her hair was so dark it seemed jet-black, and curled rather than flattened with dampness. Her gown, he noticed, was mud-splotched, and all her garments so wet that the fabric clung to her very enticing curves.

“I’ll fetch you a blanket,” James said. She nodded and began to remove her jacket. His own coat of superfine was drenched in places, but he could not properly remain in shirtsleeves in a lady’s presence. He had to endure the discomfort.

Turning, he looked about for a blanket or a shawl to give her, opening drawers in a highboy to find linens and candles and papers, then opening the front panel of a desk, only to find writing materials, paper stock, inkwell, quills. He was not familiar with much of Struan House beyond the study, the library, and his private rooms. In a low chest under a window, he found a dark tartan lap robe and brought that to her. She tucked it over her, murmuring thanks.

Reaching for a tapestried footstool, he pulled it toward her, and she set her left foot on it. “Where are you injured?” he asked. “If I may inquire.”

“My foot.” She leaned forward to draw her skirts up, then glanced at him. “Turn away, sir, or your fine city manners might be offended. I must look at my ankle.”

He nearly laughed. “I’m hardly offended. I’ve a little medical experience, if that will help. The first years of my college education were in medical studies before I changed to another science. May I be of assistance?”

She nodded, and James dropped to one knee to ease off her shoe of sturdy laced leather. He looked at her stockinged foot, resting on the stool: pretty little ankle, small toes, muddy stocking. A swelling filled out the inner ankle.

“Are you a doctor like your brother?” she asked. “The one I met in Edinburgh?”

“No, William is better suited to it than I. Though I began medical studies, I later changed my pursuit to natural philosophy. Geological science,” he added. He omitted the real reason for changing his mind—a bloody field on the day before Waterloo, when despite his own injury, he had done his best to help in that futile aftermath, though his own cousin and friend had died in his arms. Devastated, he had returned to Scotland and took up the study of rocks and minerals, a subject he had always loved, after that. As it turned out, it suited him.

He looked up at Elspeth MacArthur. “May I?” Complying, she drew her skirts higher. James cupped her heel and turned her foot side to side, running his fingertips along the delicate shape and contour. “It’s a bit swollen. I had best compare the two feet.”

She lifted the other foot, and he untied the shoelaces to remove her low boot. As he rotated and stroked gently, James felt a deep thrill go through him. Her
heel pressed into his palm and her injured foot rested over his bent knee, where he had set it for a moment. Drawing a breath, he let go of her uninjured foot and took up the left foot again to ease his thumb over the ankle, the top of the foot, the bottom. Glancing up, he saw that she had inclined her head backward a little, eyes half closed.

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Oh.”

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

“No.” She gathered the blanket closer around her, blushing.

James set her foot down and rose to his feet. “You could use faster warmth than that blanket, and something for the pain,” he said. Seeing a decanter and glasses on a table, he went there to open the bottle, sniffing its pale amber contents. “Whiskey. A few sips will do you some good.” He poured a little into a glass and brought it to her. “I know ladies generally do not indulge in strong spirits unless they’re out on a hunt, or—”

“Whiskey is perfectly acceptable to Highland ladies,” she said, taking the glass from him. She tipped it to her lips, swallowed easily, paused, and took a little more, smoothly, without a cough or a tear in the eye, though bright color sprang to her cheeks. She handed the glass back to him. “Sir, your turn. There is an old Highland custom of passing the welcome dram, even between genders.”

“Aye then.” He drank from the glass quickly, the sweet, mellow burn searing his throat. Glancing down at her, seeing her dulcet smile and radiant gray eyes, he wondered what in blazes to do now. He was alone with the same young beauty who had appeared in his dreams too often recently.

He set down the glass, then knelt and once again took up her injured ankle. “This ought to be wrapped,” he said. She laughed. He glanced up, her foot in his hands, and raised a brow in question.

“I feel like Cinderella, about to get a slipper.” She giggled a little, then reached for the whiskey glass and took a good swallow.

“Does it hurt when I turn it this way?” He rotated her foot gently.

She winced and jumped. “Ow! Oh, it will be fine.” She dropped her skirts to cover her ankles, the soft folds covering his hands as well. “I’m sure it’s just a slight twist. I can manage—my home is eight miles from here. I should leave before dark.”

“Eight miles?” He looked at her, incredulous. “You walked eight miles to get here?” He still wanted to know why she had been in the garden at all.

“It’s not so long a distance to walk in the Highlands. I was going to my cousin’s home, another few miles from here. I can walk there instead of home tonight.”

“You should not walk anywhere just now.” He was still holding her foot. “Your ankle is badly twisted, perhaps sprained, and a doctor should look at it. For now, a bandage for support would help. I advise you to avoid much walking for a week or more, until it heals.”

“Perhaps I could borrow a gig or a pony cart.”

“I would drive you, but for the weather. Besides, the landau and gig are both in use by the ghillie and a groom, who took the housekeeper and the servants elsewhere. The cart is here, but would not do well in the rain and muck. However, I could escort you home by horseback once the storm lifts.”

She glanced through the windows of the drawing room, where rain and winds lashed at the glass. “Who can say when that will be?”

“My ghillie predicted bad weather for days to come.” James set her foot on the stool and rocked back on his heels. “Miss MacArthur, I must tell you something.”

She tilted her head. “Aye?”

“You should be aware that we are alone here at Struan House just now.”

“Alone?” She narrowed her eyes.

“For the present, aye. The ghillie took the maids to Stirling, the other staff have gone to see kinfolk for a few days, and even the housekeeper is gone, called away to tend to family. She left the household in good order and food in the cupboard, and hired a local girl to come in to do some chores. But the girl will not be here for a day or two. So that leaves us alone in the house. I apologize for not saying so immediately.”

“We were both distracted.” She frowned thoughtfully. “So with this storm, perhaps no one will return until tomorrow, or later.”

“It is possible.”

“My grandfather, who is my guardian, is away from home at present, and our housekeeper believes I’ve gone to my friend’s home across the glen. But she is not expecting me. So…no one knows I am here.”

He frowned. His heart thumped very fast, and a peculiar thrill coursed through him. He ignored it. “An unfortunate set of circumstances.”

She sat up and smiled. “These are perfect circumstances.”

“Miss MacArthur, be assured that you are safe in my company.”

“I know.” She leaned forward, her head angled as she studied him. Kneeling so close to her, James felt the soft whisper of her breath upon him, and felt the allure of her nearness. “I could be compromised by this,” she said.

“Some might think so, but it is not the case. Nor will it be,” he said firmly.

“But I do not mind being compromised.”

What was this? He frowned. Did she think him a wealthy lord to be caught and then obliged to marry her? “As I said, there is no danger of that.”

She smiled, impish and dazzling, her remarkable eyes sparkling. He saw that she had two dimples, darling indentations, to either side of her mouth, and her lips were full, winsome, rose-colored. He knew their taste. “Lord Struan, it would be very convenient for me, at least, if a compromise resulted from this,” she said.

A sort of fever shot through him at the thought. He could indeed compromise this delectable female if he were the sort of rascal to do that. James rose to his feet to look down at her. “Tell me what in blazes you are going on about, would you?”

“You swear quite a bit,” she said. “Highland gentlemen rarely curse. It is not Gaelic custom. Is it a Southron habit?” When she smiled, it was like sunshine blooming.

But he would not succumb to manipulation. “Do not play coy games with me,” he said sharply. “You are not very good at it, pouting like a spoiled child and batting your eyelashes as if there is sand in them.”

“Oh.” She tipped her head. “What should I do, then?”

“That depends on what you want to accomplish.”

“A gentle compromise. That’s all.” Smile. Sunshine.

Blast.
“Miss MacArthur, say outright what you intended by coming here.”

“I am here by accident, quite literally. And so long as we are in this situation, I would very much enjoy being compromised.”

His heart thundered. “Surely you cannot mean that.”

“Gloriously
rrruined
,” she said, adopting a broad Scots burr. “That would quite suit. If you do not mind, sir.” She took up the whiskey glass, sipped, turned it upside down, and smiled again.

He stared, thoughts and suspicions churning. “Ruination,” he drawled, with an edge to his tone, “would necessarily lead to marriage, Miss MacArthur. We need not make that mistake.”

“We are alone together. Regardless, there is compromise,” she pointed out.

Frowning, James glanced away. Could the girl have plotted this, and not very well at that, to trap the local laird into marriage, believing him wealthy?

The damnable thing was that there was merit in the suggestion. He had come to Struan House, in part, with the decidedly odd mission of finding a woman of fairy descent to marry. With those fey and graceful looks, Elspeth MacArthur could pass easily for a fairy wife. Sir Walter Scott, the judge of this profoundly troublesome scheme, liked her already, he remembered.

It could work. James watched her for a moment. Compromise and its frequent companion, hasty marriage, could come together seamlessly in this situation. Did he have the heart not only to ruin the young woman, but to fool her into believing he wanted a wife?

True, he found her nearly irresistible. Coy, darling, forthright, and seductive all at once. Was it those beautiful eyes, with their luminous color, or the elusive dimples? The gentle bow curve of her lips, the graceful angle of her long neck, the pulse in her throat? Beneath the sodden gown and little jacket, her breath moved her full breasts in enticing rise and fall. He noticed all of it, could not help himself.

What the devil was she doing to him, while merely sitting, smiling, making suggestions that made his heart, his body pound? Despite his wariness, his body was definitely responding, arousing. He was increasingly aware of it—and now his mind was hatching schemes to rival what she herself had concocted.

No, he told himself. Marrying the girl and passing her off as a fairy was preposterous. Yet, if she were willing, it could solve part of his dilemma. Still, she seemed to be proposing compromise without marriage, unless it was all a coy ruse to trap him.

“Miss MacArthur.” He stood. “This ordeal has stressed you beyond the norm. We will tend to your injury, and then you should rest. There are bedrooms upstairs—”
Blast it
, he thought, that line of conversation would not do. “I’ll find some bandages. I’ve no idea where they might be kept, but any clean linen will do. The kitchen, perhaps—” He turned, ready to bolt.

“Lord Struan.” She rose to her feet and hobbled close, so that he took her arm to steady her. She was fine-boned, and his hand was large on her arm. He felt strong and protective in contrast. Looking up, she batted her eyelashes again, very deliberately, it seemed. Then she reached for him and took his neck cloth.

“What the devil,” he muttered. “Stop that.”

She tugged. “Your cravat would make a fine bandage, if you will part with it. Then you need not go searching.”

“Oh. I suppose so.” He reached up to undo the knot in the cloth, his hands brushing hers, and she did not take away her hands, but worked at the soft knot under his fingers. That drove him mad, until she slipped the knot and began to draw the thing away from him. He assisted her in unwrapping it, bowing his head, and his brow brushed the top of her head. Her dark hair smelled divinely of rain and blossoms.