Sarah Gabriel (7 page)

She looked up just as he was looking down, and his nose touched hers.

For a moment, he breathed; she breathed. And he recalled far too vividly a few wild kisses shared behind some potted shrubberies at Holyroodhouse, weeks ago, with this same girl.

“Please,” she said, breathless.

A surge went through him, hard and sudden. “Oh. The cravat.”

“Of course,” she said, and drew it slowly free, soft linen and the air upon his neck as sensual as a caress, setting up a fire in him that only willpower smothered. “Though some men may feel unsettled without their neck cloth, I believe.”

“I have a dozen cravats.” He could not sound more of a dolt, he thought. Her touch was what unsettled him. Even with his usual composure, he felt whirled off balance, drawn to her like stalwart iron to a curving magnet.

“Miss MacArthur, sit down.” He guided her back to the chair, noticing how much she limped. At least that was genuine, he thought. “After we wrap the foot, I will fetch you some tea, and we will decide what to do.”

She nodded and sat again, lifting her injured foot to the stool. Bringing up the hem of her skirts, she handed him the cravat. James watched while she removed her stocking, slowly rolling and then slipping it off to reveal her bare foot and slim, neatly muscled calf. His body surged distinctly, uncomfortably.

The sight of bruising startled him out of a haze of desire. Carefully he began to wrap the cravat around her foot and ankle, circling and crossing to provide snug support.

“Thank you. It feels a bit better.” She wiggled her toes. “If you did not finish your medical studies, where did you learn to do this?”

“War,” he said succinctly. “I learned from the doctors in the regiment. Helped them when I could, while I was in the military.” He did not want to talk about that.

She watched him quietly, then sighed. “Quatre Bras was a terrible ordeal.”

He looked up, startled and silent.

“The Royal Highlanders,” she said. “The Black Watch…they were so brave, held their own, the day before Waterloo. But they lost so many men when the French came at them, where they held ground there.”

His hands grew still. Then he forced himself to continue wrapping, and to remain calm. “How did you know I was at Quatre Bras?”

“A moment ago, I saw you there in my mind, like a dream image. And then I just knew the name of the place. I have heard of the battle, the day before Waterloo, when the Scots held the day. You were there. The knowing tells me that.”

“The knowing?” He glanced up at her silvery eyes, her gaze direct yet mysterious. “Miss MacArthur, do
not play me for a fool,” he snapped. “Who told you? And to what scheming purpose do you pretend to have a vision about my past?”

“I am not scheming against you.” She leaned forward. He tensed and leaned back. “I saw you in my mind just now, on a battlefield, wearing a dark kilt and red coat. I heard the name. Quatre Bras. I did not previously know that you were personally there.”

He wrapped and tugged on the cloth a little too hard, simmering with anger. Taking an end of the neck cloth, he tore it fiercely and tied it around her ankle.

“You tried to save him,” she said then. “You saw the blinding flash of steel as the blow came down upon him. But then a horseman, a Frenchman, jumped the line of Highlanders, and landed among the Scotsmen. Your leg was trapped beneath the horse…and you took a bayonet…in your thigh. Just above the knee. You could not move, nor could you save him in time. As you watched, he called to you—”

“Enough,” he said sharply, and stood. “Did that nitwit Philip Rankin tell you this?” He was livid, which dissolved the sense of passion he had felt only minutes ago. Anger always burned clean, like a ring of fire about a person, protective, shielding.

Passion, he had found, could muddy things, especially the sort of passion that had to do with women. Passion for a well-stocked stable, or an enviable library collection, or a case of rock specimens carefully labeled, passion for expressing theories in writing—those were safe and solid. Not the muddy emotional sort that whipped like a storm.

“No one told me,” she said. “I…saw the scene in my mind just now.”

“Given that I fought in the war against Napoleon,
it could be assumed that I joined a Highland regiment. The Black Watch is another good guess, and correct. I was a lieutenant in the Forty-second, and so I was at Quatre Bras seven years ago. Very good, Miss MacArthur. I will give you that.” He inclined his head. “But to lead me to believe that your clever guesses are Highland divination, and to add grisly detail…I hope you have a better explanation for that than ‘the Sight.’”

She sat up and pulled her skirts over her feet. “I did not guess it. When I touch someone, or they touch me, sometimes I just know things about them. It comes to me like that. I will admit that at times I speak too quickly, and say more than I should.”

“More than enough, and you damn well know it.”

“I beg pardon.” She looked troubled, biting her lip, frowning. “But—who was he, the friend you lost there? A brother, or a close kinsman?”

“You’re the one with the blasted Sight, you tell me,” he snapped.

“Your chief,” she said quickly. “Chief of your clan.”

“First Sir Walter Scott at the Ladies’ Assembly,” he said, “then you hint at an interest in being compromised, and now this. Whatever your scheme, may it end now.” He bowed stiffly. “Rest here, miss. When the weather improves, I will take you home.”

She stood, too, fists clenched, facing him. “I thought, being a Highland laird raised in the Highlands, you would be accepting of those with the Sight.”

“And who told you I was raised in the Highlands? More divination?”

“You
told me,” she pointed out. “At the Ladies’ Assembly. I thought you might have some appreciation for
Da Shealladh
, the Second Sight. But I was mis
taken in that, and in speaking out. Do not bother to take me home. I will go myself. Now would be the best time,” she muttered, and snatching up her plaid, threw it around her shoulders.

She stood on one foot and the toes of the other, hobbling, fuming. Then she snatched up her shoes and stockings and limped toward the door.

James folded his arms and watched, slightly amused in that moment, still unsure what motivated her. Puzzled by her behavior, he was not entirely convinced she was a schemer. He was wary of minxes who had an eye to a man’s fortune, having courted the princess of them all, Charlotte Sinclair, his great-aunt’s marriage choice for him, as a niece of the late Lord Rankin. Years ago as a vulnerable soldier returning home, he had fallen for that charm and had found enough to admire and even love in her. Then he realized how manipulative, ambitious, haughty, and possessive she could be. He had not proposed to her, despite expectations, and had cooled his ardor, though Aunt Rankin and Charlotte still held out hope.

James would stake his life that Elspeth MacArthur was not of the same cloth, but he was not sure what she was after. Still, he would give her credit for an imaginative attempt to ensnare the local laird. She seemed innocent of true guile, the sparkle in her eyes and her spirit too genuine to be calculating. Besides, she was so damnably alluring that he did not want to believe ill of her.

But he would not be played for a fool, either. “Miss MacArthur, please sit down. I am not throwing you summarily out the door.”

“You will not,” she said. “I am leaving.”

“If you must know,” he said, as he leaned by the
door, “there was a fellow killed beside me at Quatre Bras. He was my cousin, the young chief of Clan MacCarran. Several people could have told you that. As for the wound you saw in your supposed reverie—it is bloody obvious that I require a cane. So I will not bow to intuition just yet. Please sit, Miss MacArthur.” He went toward her to take her elbow and lead her back to the chair. “I will not be responsible for your further injury.”

She looked up at him. “Trout,” she said.

“What?” He frowned, confused.

“Trout. I heard that word clearly in my head. And…pudding? Do you like trout with pudding, is that it?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Puddin’,” he said, startled. “My cousin loved it when we were at Eton. The lads teased him mercilessly. He was a bit of a pudge then, and handsome later—Puddin’, we called him.” Why had he let down his guard, and told her that much?

“And trout?”

“Enough,” he snapped. “I will fetch the tea, if you will stay here.” Stunned, he wanted this game to end.

Sighing, she sat in the chair. “Tea would be lovely, thank you. I will not bother you further. You may return to”—she waved her hand a little—“planning your hunts or adding up sheep revenues, or whatever it is you do now that you own Struan House.”

Despite all, he wanted to laugh. “After tea, while you rest and I count my vast and princely revenues,” he drawled, “perhaps if we are lucky, this blasted rain will stop and I can escort you home.”

She smiled a little and nodded. “Lord Struan,” she said. “Please forgive me.”

“Of course,” he murmured politely, and left the
room, shutting the doors behind him. Out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall to take a deep breath.

Trout.
No one knew about that but Fiona, and his sister would not have discussed so intimate and sensitive a topic with a stranger.

How had Elspeth MacArthur learned that, along with the details of his injury? Some of it was known only to himself, and to Nicholas MacCarran, Lord Eldin, who had been there also. Who was low enough to describe for her the death of his beloved friend and cousin before his eyes, while James was unable to defend him? Only Nick, he thought, who had reason to undermine James’s bid for the inheritance. Could the two have schemed this?

Yet the girl did not seem keen on marriage. He could not piece it all together.

But—Trout. He sighed. That had been his boyhood name for his cousin when they had been eight years old, when Archie had fallen in a stream while fishing, and had come up with a trout jumping about in his trousers. Both James and Archie had fallen in the water trying to get it out, and had nearly asphyxiated with laughter over it, even years afterward. They had even laughed about it hours before Archie’s death, when James had called him Trout. Nicholas had not even been there, then.

How could Elspeth MacArthur have known?

His grandmother’s writings were full of references to Highland Sight, he recalled. Fanciful stuff, in sum, but it had begun to influence his thinking. None of it suited a man of science, an esteemed professor of geology.

Still, he could not explain away what Elspeth had
said. Not Trout, especially not Puddin’—she would have had to dig deep to find that one out, too.

He had looked forward to solitude at the house, but now he fervently wished the others were here. If left alone with his pretty visitor, he feared he would either toss her out the window, or throttle her madly and gladly—or quite gloriously ruin her, just as she had suggested.

And too much time alone with the tempting, bewildering, bewitching Miss MacArthur would indeed obligate him to marry her, ruination or none. Finding himself a fairy bride was nothing, he realized, compared to this very real predicament.

Years ago he had decided to skirt risk and live a safe, dull life. Now risk had found him, regardless.

Find the blasted tea
, he reminded himself, as he headed for the stairs.

R
uination and compromise?
Elspeth covered her face with her hand. Had she truly said that, along with talk of visions, death, and battle? Either it was the whiskey or the troublesome tongue loosening that sometimes accompanied her Second Sight. She wondered how to convince Lord Struan that she was neither a hussy nor a madwoman.

Fairy gifts, her grandfather said, came with a price. Her gift of Sight asked a good deal for the privilege. Sometimes she impulsively blurted out whatever came to mind, as she had done with Sir Walter Scott, and now with Lord Struan. No wonder the latter thought her a fortune hunter. Likely he would clear her out of his house quickly, and once she was gone, there might never be a good chance to search the grounds for the stone key.

And by now, Donal MacArthur might have promised her hand to MacDowell; he was determined enough to do that. If he had his way, she and the reliable tailor would stand before a parson soon; her twenty-first birthday was three weeks away.

Yet even a few hours alone with Lord Struan could
render her compromised, at least in reputation, and she could escape marriage offers but from Struan himself, who seemed a gentleman; and she did not have to accept if he did offer. She was just as determined as her grandfather. She would find the missing crystal, and find some way to stay at Kilcrennan, even if it meant living a spinsterish life.

Shivering, Elspeth stood, hopping a little on her good foot to spare her ankle. The rain continued, the darkness increasing, and even sitting by the fire did not warm her; even her underthings were damp through. Slipping the woolen lap robe over her shoulders, she limped to the door to peer out into the dark, silent hallway. Seeing a faint glow from a back staircase, she walked toward it, supporting herself with a hand along the wainscoting.

As she went, she heard a strange sound, a faint, unsettling shriek; she knew it must be the banshee of Struan House. Once she had accompanied her grandfather here for tea with Lady Struan, and she had heard the eerie cry herself. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mac Kimmie, had been startled, and Lady Struan strangely pleased. Now chills ran down her spine, and she hurried down the narrow steps as best she could.

Despite his injured leg, Lord Struan had carried her up these steps earlier, and she had overlooked that small act of heroism at the time. Down the steps and along a whitewashed corridor, her uneven footsteps tapped on the planked flooring as she headed toward what was surely the kitchen, where more light glowed.

The big gray wolfhound came out of the shadows toward her, shoving his head under her hand. She petted him, and as she moved forward, he pressed close
as if offering his tall shoulder for extra support. He almost seemed to lead her to the kitchen door, where light spilled into the corridor. There, Elspeth peered inside to see a long worktable, and she saw Struan standing with his back to her as he placed bread and cheese on a plate.

She entered quietly, the dog at her side. The scrubbed pine table held a bowl of apples, and on the plate were cheese and bread, beside a blue-and-white porcelain teapot. In the huge kitchen hearth, a steaming iron teakettle hung from a hook. A second hook held another kettle, contents bubbling.

“Soup,” Elspeth said, sniffing the seasoned air. “It smells delicious.”

He turned. “Miss MacArthur. The housekeeper left soup for my supper, and we can share if you’re hungry. It’s nearly late enough for supper.”

“Thank you. No need to take it to the parlor,” she added. “We can eat in the kitchen.” She helped Struan prepare the tea, and he set the pot on the tray along with other items he found in a cupboard: teacups, saucers, spoons, a bowl of sugar already grated from the cone.

As they worked in silence, Elspeth felt the earlier tension between them dissipate in favor of cooperation. He set the tray on a table beneath a wide window, where chairs were arranged, and he drew out an end-most chair for her. She sat, pulling the woolen blanket closer over her shoulders, teeth chattering a bit. He set a bowl of soup before her, another for himself at the opposite end of the table, and then he sat, too.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“My things are still damp,” she reminded him. Her bare feet, one of them wrapped in his neck cloth,
touched the cool slate floor. She noticed that Struan had changed to a dry coat of gray wool, with another cravat knotted at his throat. She stifled another shiver.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have offered you some dry clothing, but honestly I do not know where to look in the house for something to suit you. I could offer you my own things, if nothing else.”

She shook her head quickly. “The whiskey helped warm me upstairs, but it is chilly here.” Realizing that he waited courteously for her to spoon up her soup first, she did, finding it to be excellent, savory and thick. As they ate, rain pattered the windows beside the table, and a gust rattled the panes. Elspeth glanced at the darkened sky. “Will your ghillie and the others return tonight?”

“I doubt it, judging by the storm. The roads will be muddy and unsafe in the dark. Most likely they will arrive tomorrow.” He set his nearly empty bowl on the floor, and the two terriers who had been sitting nearby rushed for it, nosing at each other. Elspeth set hers on the floor, too, and the wolfhound came over to lick it.

Struan crossed his forearms on the table. “It would be dangerous for us to ride out on horseback this evening, for the sake of the horses even more than ourselves. Miss MacArthur…you had best stay the night here.”

“I see.” Her heart gave a little fillip. She reached for the teapot and poured a cup for each of them, spooning sugar into hers, though Struan asked for his plain. They sipped in silence for a few moments, until he set his cup down.

“Miss MacArthur, I must ask—why were you in the garden?”

Hot tea, swallowed too quickly, made her cough. “I…was looking for something that my grandfather lost there. He knew Lady Struan. We came here once or twice,” she explained. “He is Mr. Donal MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

“Ah. I have seen the name in my grandmother’s papers. What did he lose?”

“A stone, something special to him. It was lost when the hill was made into the grotto.”

He sat forward. “I see. What sort of stone?”

“It is crystal and…chalcedony, perhaps, or agate. One or the other.”

“Agate is a form of chalcedony,” he said. “A banded variety, very colorful. Chalcedony of itself tends to be grayish. What color is this stone you are looking for?”

“Blue, I believe,” she said, frowning. She had not seen the rock for seven years.

“Agate is unusual in this region, and the blue sort is rare anywhere. Did he find it near here?”

She nodded. “It was part of the original rock formation on the hill, before the gardens were altered. The property used to belong to the MacArthurs, when my grandfather was a young man. He left the stone there, but he…would like to find it.”

“Perhaps it holds some sentiment for him. Of course he must have it, if it can be found. On my walks around the estate, I’ve noticed massive beds of sedimentary rock in these hills, such as granite and sandstone, with crystalline deposits. But agate is generally found in volcanic rock, which I have not yet seen in this area.”

“Volcanic?” She looked surprised. “There are no volcanoes here.”

“Not currently, but there may have been many
thousands of years ago. My own research addresses that question, since layers of volcanic rock implies tremendous heat long ago in the terrestrial past. Geologists are still investigating Scotland’s mountains, and indeed much of Europe, for the signs. Why did you come back today to look for it?”

“My grandfather remembered it.” She could hardly explain that her grandfather needed the thing to open a gate to the fairy world. Struan could not even accept Highland Sight, let alone bargains with the Fey in otherworldly hillside palaces.

He frowned. “Struan House once belonged to your family?”

She sipped her tea, then nodded. “The estate and much of the glen belonged to my great-grandfather. When my grandfather was young, he was often here. The grotto in your garden was once a large hill with a rocky precipice.”

“I know the stone wall was extended up the slope. My grandmother was pleased with the result, an ongoing effort over several years, but unfortunately she did not live to enjoy it. Miss MacArthur—why not come to the door and ask about your missing stone?”

He was a persistent and practical man, she realized. “I did not think anyone was in residence. It is the time when the fairies go riding through Struan lands.”

“Mrs. MacKimmie explained something about that.”

“And my request seemed so mad that I decided to look for myself, believing the house empty. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Not at all.” He swallowed more tea. Elspeth noticed how delicate the cup looked, cradled in his long fingers. She imagined those hands turning a beauti
ful rock over and over, holding it up to sunlight…and then she imagined his hands upon her, warm and agile in their caressing. She shivered, not from cold, and sipped her own tea to hide her sudden flustered reaction.

“You study such stones as I’m looking for,” she blurted then. “You’re writing a book, something to do with volcanic rock.” A strange word sounded clear in her head. “Geo…nosey. What is that?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Geognosy? It means earth knowledge—the study of the earth as a complete structure, interior and exterior. I did not realize that you were familiar with the work of Werner.”

“I never heard of him. The word just came into my head.”

He stared at her, teacup halfway to his lips. “Good God, how do you do that? How did you know that I’ve begun a book about geognostic science? A few years ago I studied in Freiburg for half a year with Abraham Werner, who developed the theory of geognosy, which looks at the earth as a whole. Either someone told you, or—”

“Or I just knew,” she supplied softly.

“Aye,” he said, and seemed about to say something else. He poured himself another cup of tea, and added to her cup when she held it out. “While I’m here in the glen, I intend to explore some the rock formations in these hills. If agate was found nearby, that could have real significance for my work.”

“If you wander these hills, you may even encounter the
daoine sìth
,” she said.

“The—
dowin-shee
?” He looked at her, puzzled.

“The people of peace, in Gaelic. It is one of the many names we use for the fairy folk. They live in
various places in the earth, but the caves and hills are their special territory in this glen. Do geologists ever take into account the Otherwordly creatures who inhabit the subterranean earth?” She smiled.

“Not if they value their reputations. Fancy and science do not mix well in academia, I assure you.” He sat forward. “For now, though, I have agreed to study fancy on behalf of my grandmother and her legacy of work.”

“Perhaps you will learn something about rocks to surprise you. Fairies are plentiful among caves and live inside hills,” she said, feeling a little mischievous.

“I do not expect to encounter any. But I’ve made a promise, and I will honor it. Tell me about this curious fairy riding custom. I suppose you know all about it?”

“I do. They ride at the time-between-times, when the curtain between our world and theirs is very thin—dawn, twilight, midnight, mist, and so on.”

He tapped fingers on the table, thoughtful. “At times when visibility is poor enough to allow for tricks of the eye and mind. I see.”

“I think you do not, actually,” she murmured. “Though you could if you want.”

“Well, the custom seems to have frightened the living wits out of some of my staff. Between the banshee in the foyer, the ghosts in the house, and the garden fairies, two of the maidservants packed up in haste and left for Edinburgh.”

“Southrons,” she said with a little huff. “Highlanders do not mind such things.”

“Even the Highland staff has gone, now. Apparently they avoid the place this time of year.”

“They are not foolish enough to risk being taken
by the Fey folk. You should not be here yourself, nor should I.”

“I am not intimidated by nonsensical tales.” He smiled then. “It is no surprise that you are an authority on this, being part fairy yourself.”

Elspeth nearly gasped. “What do you mean?”

“One of the housemaids must have seen you in the garden, and took you for a fairy. She packed her things and departed.”

“Me? She might have seen one of the Struan fairies, but not me, unless it was just before you came outside.”

“Of course there’s some explanation.” He sat back. “Entertaining stories are part and parcel of folklore, but no more than that, to my mind. By the way, Lady Struan mentioned your grandfather in her notes. She respected his knowledge concerning local tradition, and I thought it would be good to speak with him myself regarding the book.”

“She and my grandfather discussed fairy lore several times. Will you speak with him before or after he learns that I spent tonight at Struan House?” She smiled.

“Well said,” he muttered. Elspeth laughed a little. Sitting here with him, quiet and peaceful, she liked him quite a bit, despite his stubborn skepticism.

She stood. “The dishes need cleaning, but there are no servants here. I will be happy to do it.” When she began to carry her dishes to the table and washbowl, Struan took them from her. He willingly did his best to help, though Elspeth suspected he had rarely washed or dried a dish before. Within minutes, all the things were cleaned and set away, and Struan took the lamp from the big pine table.

“I’d best close up the house. There are no servants here to attend to that, either.”

“A Highland laird often sees to the shutting of his house personally, with or without a house full of servants. Even in fine houses it is the laird’s responsibility to bolt the doors.”

“I hope locking up is custom rather than necessity in this glen,” he said.

“We have not had cattle raiders or feuding clans for two generations and more. There are some smugglers in the hills, but they stay to themselves except for bringing whiskey along the lochs and rivers to the sea.” She paused. “What disturbs the peace of a house in this glen, sir, is not kept out by bolts, but by iron.”