Page 37 of A Rogue in Twilight

“It came over me too.” She pushed at her damp, beautifully messy dark hair. “When the Fey are near, a sort of madness can come over those who see them.”

“I saw you, and felt a madness indeed.” He approached. “I will not blame the Fey or the stories of the riding. I accept theresponsibility for what happened.” He reached out to touch her shoulder, smooth the dangling curls of hair that cascaded over her shoulder.

“The thrall had both of us in its power,” she said.

“Madness or magic, tomorrow morning we might see it as a disaster. What do you want to do?”

She sighed, frowned. “If you did not see them, that is fine. But you might remember suddenly. It happens that way with some. They forget for a while.”

He stroked her arm. “I cannot forget what happened between us. No need for a wild story to explain this away. The truth is that I went looking for you, worried about the storm, but I went too far. You should be angry with me.”

“You were worried about me?”

“You ran out into thunder and lightning in a nightgown,” he said. And not even his grandmother’s nightrail had deterred him. “In the rising wind, I saw you out there and feared the trees might snap. Anything else that happened was my doing.”

“Mine as well. Did you see the horses in the mist?”

“The horses are in the stable. I suppose one could imagine horses and riders in such mist, but it was just trees whipping about.” He frowned. “But something put a thrall over me.” He tipped up her chin with a finger. “I should have resisted.”

“It was magic did that.”

“And you have more magic than you know. What were you doing out there?”

“I came looking for you to warn you against the storm—and the fairy riding, for I felt they were out tonight. The only way to stay safe was to hold tight to each other.”

He stared. “Good lord. Are you fevered?”

“Do you know the ballad ofTam Lin?‘Hold me fast, let me not go,’—”

“‘I’ll be your bairn’s father’,” he finished. “Very nearly, which we must discuss. We are in extraordinary circumstances here.”

“Extraordinary,” she agreed. “And I do not mind being ruined. You know that.”

She tensed as she spoke, as if it did bother her, shoulders tight, brows tucked. Yet she looked an angel to him—or a fine fairy beauty, come to that.

“If this suits your mad plan to be ruined but not wed, I am not entirely in favor.”

“What do you mean? I will ask nothing of you.”

He blew out a breath. Fairy, angel, waif—she confounded him. “I want you to ask something of me. Expect it of me.”

She turned away, shaking her head. “I could not do that. I just want to stay in the Highlands with my grandfather, but he wants me to leave.”

“Lady Struan wrote about your grandfather,” he said then. “I came across it in her pages. He told her his story. He claims to have had some strange encounters.”

“Claims! My grandfather is a storyteller, but he does not tell lies.”

“She wrote that he was taken by the fairies and returns every few years.”

“Every seven. You will think Donal MacArthur a daftie if I tell you the whole of it. But you do not believe, and that gives me pause, now that I have seen them. Away with you, Struan! Believe what you like.”

“I do not think you are a daftie. Eccentric, perhaps. Superstitious, certainly.”

“I need to rest my foot,” she said suddenly, and leaned against the wall. “I do not want to go back to my room. I heard—voices.”

“Ghosts, I suppose. I might believe those in this place. There is a fire still going in the library hearth and in the study too.”

“I will rest in the library, then, and not disturb you.”