Page 12 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

H e set her down in the drawing room and urged her to sit in one of the damask-covered wing chairs angled beside the hearth, where a fire crackled in the grate against the damp chill. He grabbed a tinderbox and lit the candles in brass holders on the mantel.

“We must get you warmed up. You are soaked,” he said.

“So are you. Lord Struan, I appreciate your help, but I must leave.” She stood, shifting to favor one foot. “I am too wet and muddy to sit here—I may have ruined this chair already.”

“My concern is not the chair but the lass, Miss MacArthur. Sit, please. My housekeeper would have my head if I let you leave here in such weather, and injured.”

She sighed. “I could stay until the rain lets up. I know Mrs. MacKimmie, and she would care about the fabric. I will move over here.” She took off her damp plaid shawl and draped it over a wooden bench beside the fireplace.

Brushing ineffectually at her skirt, a mud-stained gray-green wool embroidered in florals at the hem, she tried to right her sorry-looking bonnet, then finally loosened its wet ribbons and set it aside.

With her plaidie and hat removed, James noticed how the wet fabric clung to her graceful curves. He looked away. “I’ll fetch you a blanket,” he said, turning.

She sat, attempting to rub mud from her skirt.

His own coat of superfine was fair drenched, but he could not properly go about in shirtsleeves with a girl in the room.

A silly nod to polite company, but he could endure the discomfort.

Being here alone with her and carrying her in his arms earlier, was damaging enough.

If the MacKimmies should return unexpectedly to find them in wet disarray, things would look worse than they were.

He did not want the MacArthur girl to feel embarrassed.

Looking for a blanket, he opened drawers in a highboy to find table linens, candles, papers; another contained paper, ink, quills.

He was not yet familiar with things beyond the study, the library, and his own rooms. Finally he opened a low chest under a window to find a red tartan lap robe.

She thanked him and tucked it around her shoulders.

He pulled a tapestry foot stool toward her and she set her left foot on it. “Where are you injured?” he asked. “If I may inquire.”

“My ankle is a bit sore.” She drew her skirt hem up to reveal a creamy woolen stocking, then glanced up. “Turn away, sir, or your fine manners might be offended.”

“No matter. I have a little medical experience, if that helps. I studied a year of medicine in university before I took up another science. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

She nodded. James dropped to one knee, then unlaced and eased off her leather boot. He took her stockinged foot in his hand. Her pretty little ankle in its muddy stocking was swelling a bit.

“You wanted to be a doctor like your brother, the one I met in Edinburgh?”

“My brother William is well suited to it. I am better suited to natural philosophy. Geological science in particular.” He did not tell her the reason for changing his mind—a bloody field the day before Waterloo, when he had done his best to help in the futile aftermath despite his own injury.

His third cousin, close as a brother, had died in his arms that day.

Numb to his core, James had eventually returned to Scotland, stuffed his emotions away, and took up the study of rocks.

Sometimes he still thought about medicine and wished he had continued, for he cared about helping as William did—but rocks were safe.

Rocks challenged the mind but did not demand much of the heart.

He cupped her heel, turned her foot. “May I?”

“Aye.” She drew her skirts higher, and modestly through the wool skirt, worked her stocking down and off.

He ran his fingertips along her bare foot and up her ankle, most of it delicately contoured, but for the turgid area where the shadow of a bruise had begun. He gestured to the other foot, and she complied, untying the laces and pulling it off. It looked fine to him, and nicely shaped.

He gently rotated the injured ankle. She winced but did not cry out.

He nodded. “It looks like a bad sprain,” he said.

“I do not think it is broken. But we will not know for certain unless a doctor looks at it.” Cradling her foot in his hands, he felt a thrill go through him—physical, aye, for she was delectable, but he felt something more rush through him, crown to foot.

He felt protective, compassionate. His heart pounded.

Glancing up, he saw the girl incline her head, eyes closed. “Oh,” she whispered.

He set her foot on the cushioned stool. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much.” She gathered the dry plaid closer, blushing furiously. “Just—something else. You have—a nice touch.”

He cleared his throat and stood. “You need something to warm you and help the pain.” A table held two glass decanters and a few glasses on a tray, and he lifted the decanter that held amber liquid, and poured a healthy dram into a glass.

He brought it to her. “Whisky. I know ladies do not usually indulge in strong spirits, but this will help.”

“Whisky is perfectly fine for Highland ladies. Thank you.” She tipped the glass to her lips, swallowed, paused.

Then she took more, without scarcely a cough or a tear in the eye.

Pink sprang into her cheeks as she handed the glass to him.

“Your turn, sir. There is a Highland custom of passing the welcome dram, even between genders.”

“A welcome to Struan House, is it?” The sweet, mellow burn of it seared his throat. Seeing her smile, all dulcet and radiant, he wondered what to do next. He was quite alone with the young beauty who had appeared in his dreams recently.

He set down the glass and knelt to take up her injured ankle again. “This ought to be wrapped.”

“I feel like Cinderella about to get a slipper.” She giggled, then reached for the whisky glass and downed the last drops.

Then she slipped her skirt hem over her ankles, mucky folds covering his hands as well.

“The ankle is just twisted. I can manage. My home is only eight miles from here. I should leave before dark.”

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

“Not so far a distance in the Highlands. I was heading to my cousin’s home, just three or four miles from here. I will go there instead of back home tonight.”

“You should not be walking anywhere just now.” He still held her foot under the hem of the gown—it felt improper and exciting—nor did she protest. “Your ankle is swollen, Miss MacArthur. Bandaging will help support it, but anyone could tell you that you must rest it and avoid walking for a while.”

“Perhaps I could borrow a gig or a pony cart from you, then.”

“I can drive you once the rain eases up, but just now, the landau and gig are in use by MacKimmie and the groom, who took Mrs. MacKimmie and the servants elsewhere.”

“Ah. They would be going away just now,” she murmured.

He frowned. So she knew about this too. “I believe there is a pony cart here, or I could take you home on horseback after the storm lifts.”

She looked through the tall parlor window at the lashing rain. “If it ends, aye.”

“It will end soon.” He set her foot on the stool and rocked back on his heels. “Miss MacArthur, there is something you should know.”

“Aye?” She tilted her head prettily, eyes sparkling, cheeks a perfect pink. Was that natural beauty, or a blush from the whisky?

“We, ah, you—we are alone in the house.”

“Utterly alone?” She kept her head tilted—most young ladies would be shocked, but she only seemed curious.

“For a little while. MacKimmie will be back, I think, but the others have gone to visit kinfolk for a few days. And to be honest, some have quit my employ entirely.”

“Perhaps the banshee made them anxious.” Her smile was calm.

“You know about that? Mrs. MacKimmie went to see her daughter for a few days. She left the house in good order with food in the cupboard. A local girl will come in to do chores, perhaps tomorrow. But we are alone for now. I should have said so sooner.”

“We were distracted. So no one will be here tonight, and perhaps tomorrow?”

“Quite possibly.”

“My grandfather is away from home now, and I told our servants I was going to see my friend across the glen. But she is not expecting me. No one knows I am here.”

His heart thumped hard, and a shot of excitement sank through him. He ignored it. “An unfortunate set of circumstances.”

She sat up quickly. “What if it was—a perfect set of circumstances?”

Startled, he shook his head. “Perfectly awkward, you mean. Rest assured that you are safe in my company, Miss MacArthur.”

“I know. But what if—” She leaned forward, silvery-green eyes twinkling, cheeks flushed high. Kneeling so near, James felt the soft whisper of her breath on his cheek, felt the allure of her nearness. “This is a rather compromising situation, you know.”

“Some might think so. But it is not the case,” he said firmly.

“I do not mind being compromised,” she said.

He frowned. What was this? Did she think to catch a wealthy man who would feel obliged to marry her? But he was not wealthy, so she was wasting her time. “You are in no danger here.”

Her smile bloomed like sunshine. Dimples, two impish indentations, flashed at either side of her mouth. Her lips were full, winsome, rosy. He knew their taste—and remembered that he had all but compromised her behind a rhododendrom in Edinburgh.

He stood. “Miss MacArthur, I apologize, but—”

“It might be convenient if a scandal resulted from this.”

“What!” He said it aloud this time. Outrage, even passion, swirled like heat through him. “A rascal might compromise you in this situation. But I am not that sort,” he said firmly. “Explain what in blazes you are going on about.”