Page 1 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

Scotland, the Highlands

B uffeted by wind gusts, Donal MacArthur climbed a rocky hill in moonlight, his plaid billowing and snapping against his trousered legs. He walked up the slope toward a tall black crevice in the rock, and reached up to a natural shelf, groping with his hand.

There, he had it—the bit of crystal he had tucked there years ago. Fitting the palm of his hand, it was pale blue under the moon, variegated and crystalline. Pressing it into a small niche in the rock wall, he felt the massive rock slide with a chink and a settle.

The wind whipped around him as he turned the crystal, which was a key. He pulled his plaidie close, clamped a hand to his bonnet, and waited. Though this was not the appointed time for him to come here, they would expect him this particular night.

Every seven years since his youth, he had come to this place according to the agreement. Seven years, and seven again, until seven-times-seven was reached. By then, he would be an old man. Only a year and a day had passed since his last visit, but he had a reason to return so soon.

She always came to greet him, welcoming him into her arms, taking him into her world.

For a while, he would lose his sense of time, of himself, his home, his dear ones at Kilcrennan.

Inside the hill, he would revel in the pleasures offered, golden wines and ripe fruits, sweet crystalline music, dancing like joyful madness, laughter like angels, like devils.

Some did say the Fey were fallen angels.

He could believe it, knowing their sweetness and their cruelty.

And then the private pleasures with her—sinful, graceful passions, her perfect body never aging, fitting exquisitely to his own, still hard and fit despite the years.

That lush sensual feverishness lured him here too.

The craving that pulsed through blood and soul slowed his aging.

He could not resist her, nor did she deny him the powerful blend of touch, thrust, and magic.

Inevitably, she would release him and he would find himself standing outside the rock again in moonlight or at dawn: just Donal the weaver, tall and handsome though aging, blessed in his friends, fortunate in his business; Donal MacArthur, who as a young man had made a dark bargain with a queen of the fairy ilk.

The rock wall shifted and opened like a door. Beyond the glow of light within, he heard pipes and laughter. Oh, how he wanted to go inside. No , he told himself.

“Donal, dearest!” She stood before him. He did not dare say or think her name for its power. Standing inside the threshold, slim and elegant, she glowed like a moonbeam. Her garments were gossamer, her face and form beautiful. He caught his breath, feeling the lure and the lust.

“I am here,” he said, “a year a day from the last time we met, as agreed. I am here for the return of my son. We had a bargain.”

“Did we?” She laughed, silver music. Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned. The sound of merriment, the fragrances of wine, apples, and cakes wafted toward the entrance. Donal drew breath, tempted, and stood still.

Then his son appeared, Niall, a dark-haired and beautiful young man. With him stood the one who had lured him inside, a lass of uncommon beauty, black glossy hair and silvery eyes. Sensing sadness in her, Donal hoped it was because Niall was leaving.

“Niall, my own, are you well?” he asked, careful to stay outside the entrance.

“Very well, and happier than any man ever was.”

“You must break their power over you,” Donal said, but Niall shook his head.

“The Fey have won, what’s done is done,” the queen of the hillside said. “Your son has found true love’s enchantment here, which all humans long for. He reminds me of you, my Donal.” Her eyes gleamed, and lust darkened her lips to rose. “Come.”

“Not this time,” Donal growled.

She laughed. “Oh, come inside forever, my love, with me.” She opened her arms.

It took effort, but Donal ignored her to look at his son. “Come out, Niall.”

But he shook his head. “I cannot cross the threshold now. I gave my promise and I must remain.” He pulled the black-haired beauty close. “But I am happy, Da. I would gladly stay forever with my bride.”

Donal’s heart sank. “ Och , my Niall.”

The queen, his lover, reached out. “Forever would be our bliss too. Come to me, my bonny weaver.”

He loved her, he did, but he stepped back. “It is not time. I will return as I promised long ago. Every seven years.” He stepped back.

“Fine, then. Wait, the gift! I keep my promises too.” She turned as a girl appeared beside her, holding a bundle. Niall’s black-haired lover reached out, but the queen snatched it up, pulling down the blanket. “Here Donal, take this home with you.”

He saw an infant swathed in glittering fairy cloth. The small, perfect creature had dark hair and big eyes and was so lovely and impish that his heart melted then and there.

“What is this? A changeling who will not be so lovely when I reach home?”

“No changeling. She is half our kind and half yours.” His lover touched the child’s brow, and a glow like a moonbeam sparked and vanished. She offered the infant to Donal. “I have given her a gift. She will see what cannot be seen.”

“The Second Sight.” Such a gift was by the fairies, though at a hidden cost, so it was said. Donal accepted the feathery weight in his arms, studied the infant, and knew. He looked at his son. “Yours? I see a resemblance.”

“Aye. Your granddaughter. We lend her into your keeping.” His bride bowed her head, and Donal understood her sadness. The Fey had good hearts for their ilk, and for humans, too, sometimes.

His granddaughter, and so perfect! His heart filled with new love. “Mine to take?” he asked.

“In exchange for your son,” the queen said. “That is our bargain now. She is called Eilidh”— Ai-lish , she pronounced. “It is her fairy name, and holds great power. Take care not to say it aloud very often.”

“Then I will call her Elspeth, after my late wife, her grandmother. And I will give her a home and love her as if she were my own child.” He moved back quickly, before they could change their capricious minds about the babe.

The wee squirming bundle was dear to him already.

Tears stung his eyes. “Niall, come with me—”

“Not now. We will meet again, Da. Take care of her, please. She has Fey blood, and will feel the lure of it sometimes. But she will live with you until we call her back.”

“Let her stay with me always,” Donal protested. He looked at the queen. “I have lost my son to your ilk. Give her to me and she will thrive and be happy.”

“When she is grown, she must return to us.”

“Is there no other way? I cannot lose her, too.” He felt near tears.

“If you would find the treasure stolen from us long ago, perhaps she could stay longer. Return our treasure and we can make a new agreement.”

“The fairy treasure is gone. No one knows if the legend is even true.” The Fey were prone to exaggeration, Donal knew. Daoine Síth , they were called in the Gaelic—people of peace. Yet they were not peaceful if crossed. He must be cautious.

“It is true. A MacArthur of your ilk stole our treasure long ago.” Her voice turned icy cold. “Until it is returned, we will claim sons and daughters from this glen. You are in our thrall. Your son is with us now. You are fortunate to have this little one for a time.”

He held the babe close. “I have looked for the treasure. I do not know where it is.”

“It lies somewhere in these hills, or in some earthly hall. We cannot retrieve it, but you can. Two keys will open it. You have one, the blue stone.” Donal knew she meant the crystal that he used to open the rock. “The second key lies in your arms.”

“The child? I do not understand.”

“You will.” Her smile twitched, either humor or scheming.

“Tell me where to look for the treasure.”

“If we knew that, we would not need your help. Either find it or bring the girl to us when she is grown. I will set a binding spell around her.” She raised her arms high.

Sensing her power about to ignite, Donal moved back. “This is a wicked bargain. Let the lass choose what she wants. There must be another way.”

“Love,” Niall said suddenly. “Da, listen. Love can break a fairy spell. It is the strongest magic in any realm.”

“Stop,” the queen told Niall.

He shook his head. “If our wee daughter finds true love, the spell that binds her to this realm will dissolve.”

“Stop,” said the queen.

“Our daughter must never fall in love,” said Niall’s fey bride. “She must come back to us!” She sounded heartbroken.

Donal held the child close, knowing he must take her now and leave his son behind. “Niall, farewell,” he forced out. The young man lifted a hand, his eyes sad.

Shielding the infant with his plaidie, Donal walked backward, aware he must not turn his back on the beautiful ones or their shining world inside the dark hill. Only when the rock had closed did he turn, his heart heavy, his spirit determined.

If he could help it, his granddaughter would never set foot inside that realm, he thought as he hurried away.

He would keep Elspeth safe as any treasure.

Though he was obliged to visit the hillside portal regularly, he would keep the lass away from the glamour of the Seelie court and its allure and enchantment.

Yet if she were to find true love, she would be safe from the spell.

Without that, the Seelie Court would take her just as they had taken Niall.

He could not lose both of them. Returning the treasure could release the hold on the MacArthurs of this glen, but Donal had searched for years. He did not know where else to look.

But he would do all he could to keep this precious lass free of their realm.

The Highlands, 1808

Elspeth sat beside her grandfather in one of two green brocade chairs flanking the fire.

She watched small blue flames lick around peat bricks and traced her fingers over the worn brocade.

Sitting proper and straight, as their housekeeper Mrs. Graham always admonished her, she smoothed her blue dress, patted her dark curls, crossed her feet in white stockings and black slippers, and watched her grandfather.

He studied a page in the small leather book where he kept his notes and the criss-cross drawings for his weavings. He wrote something with pencil, scritch-scratch .

“Grandda, will you teach me the weaving?”

“Someday,” he murmured, distracted.

She swung her feet like the clapper of a bell. “Tell me about the Fey again.”

He smiled, and looked up. “So beautiful, like you, hey. Quick-witted and joyful, like you. But fickle, which you would never be.” She laughed, and he continued. “Remember, if the Daoine Síth like us and love us, good fortune is ours.”

“If they are pleased,” she prodded.

“Aye, if they become annoyed, they will turn their hearts and their backs to us, and their blessings and gifts will become curses. And we must never look back if we walk away from them, or we will be in their thrall forever.”

“Never look back,” she repeated dutifully, nodding. “My father looked back.”

He nodded sadly. “He did. They love and live joyfully, but they have hidden powers, and they do not forgive easily, if ever. That’s the Fey.”

“What do they look like?” She had heard the stories often and delighted in them. She wanted to know more about the realm where her father lived. Her grandfather had a storyteller’s way about him that made every repeated tale sound new.

“Some are golden as sunshine, some dark as midnight. You are like the dark ones.” He reached over to tap her knee.

“Hair like jet, eyes like moonlight in that small and perfect wee face. You take after your fairy mother. But you have your father’s stubborn chin and his temperament.

You do not always do as Mrs. Graham and I ask. ” He looked stern for a moment.

“I try to listen, but sometimes I want to do as I please.”

“Just like your father. Willful and smart, with a mind of your own.”

“I wish my parents were here with us,” she said wistfully. “Grandda, let’s try the guessing game again. I will tell you what page you are looking at in the book.”

“Very well.” He turned a page and covered it with his hand.

She closed her eyes. She liked this game well. “It says, blue, blue, green, green, and five threads of yellow for the weft threads. It is the MacArthur tartan! You are looking at the weaving pattern for our own plaidie!” She opened her eyes and he showed her the page.

“True! One of my cousins wants a length of wool for a new waistcoat.”

She smiled. “Peggy Graham says I have the Sight.”

“And so you do. The fairies gave it to you.”

“Someday perhaps I will see where their fairy gold is hidden so we can return it to them. And then they will be grateful and happy, and send my father back to us.”

Donal MacArthur sighed. “Niall and the fairy treasure may be lost forever. But anything is possible, aye?” He returned to his notes. Scritch, scratch .

Elspeth looked into the leaping, delicate flames, and wished she could see the fairies too, as Grandda sometimes did. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing came to her.

Sometimes she had lovely dreams where a handsome young man and a beautiful dark-haired lady came to her, laughed with her, hugged her. She thought they were fairy people, but was not sure. She wondered if they were her own parents.

Someday she would see them, she promised herself.