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Page 14 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

R uination and compromise? Elspeth covered her face with her hands in embarrassment.

What was she thinking, to talk of that, and then mention visions, death, and battle!

Either the whisky or the Sight had loosened her tongue in a most deplorable fashion.

Now she must convince Struan that she was neither madwoman nor hussy.

Fairy gifts, so 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.

She had offended Sir Walter Scott and now Lord Struan.

No wonder James MacCarran of Struan thought her a fortune hunter.

She must leave. But she had not had enough time to search the grounds for her grandfather’s blue fairy stone.

Donal MacArthur was in Edinburgh even now, and may have already promised her hand to MacDowell. She might be standing before a parson with the tailor soon, for her twenty-first birthday was three weeks away.

But if these hours alone with Lord Struan could compromise her reputation, she might escape marrying the tailor.

If Struan felt obligated, she did not have to accept.

She wanted to avoid what her grandfather seemed determined to arrange for her, and she was equally determined to remain at Kilcrennan—even if she had to do it as a disgraced spinster.

She stood, hopping on her stronger foot.

The rain continued, the darkness increased, and she was chilled, for her things were still damp.

Draping her plaid to dry by the fire, she threw the woolen lap robe about her shoulders and limped out into the hallway.

Seeing a faint glow from the back staircase, she went toward it, supporting herself with a hand on the wall.

A faint, unsettling moan echoed distantly in the house.

Surely that was the banshee of Struan House.

On one visit with Grandda for tea with Lady Struan, she had heard the eerie cry and mentioned it.

The lady had been delighted that Elspeth had heard it, and had told Donal MacArthur that perhaps the child had some connection with Struan House.

Now, hearing it again, chills ran down her spine.

Limping down the steps and into the back corridor, she saw a light glowing in the kitchen, and moved toward it.

The huge gray wolfhound emerged from the shadows.

He shoved his head under her hand, pressing close as if to offer his tall shoulder for support.

Walking with him to the kitchen door, she peered inside and saw Struan standing at the long work table, arranging bread and cheese on a plate.

She entered beside the dog. The scrubbed pine table held a bowl of apples, a blue-and-white porcelain teapot, delicate teacups and saucers. In the arched kitchen hearth, a steaming iron teakettle hung from a hook. A second hook held a second bubbling kettle.

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

“Aye. The housekeeper left soup for my supper. We can share that and have a hearty tea if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you, I would love that. No need to take it upstairs,” she added as he reached for the tray. “We can eat in here. It is just the two of us.”

She began to arrange the tea things as he fetched dishes and spoons. She grated sugar from a cone into a bowl and set it with teapot. Then she found a knife to slice into a loaf of thick brown bread while Lord Struan went to the hearth to ladle soup into bowls.

Elspeth felt tension dissipate in favor of cooperation as they worked.

Struan carried the tray to a small table beneath a wide window, pulled up two wooden chairs, and held one out for her.

She sat, pulling the lap plaid around her shoulders.

Struan set a bowl of soup before her, another for himself, and sat across from her.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“My gown is still damp,” she admitted. And she wore just one boot, with her injured foot wrapped in his neckcloth.

Struan wore shirtsleeves and no cravat with his brocaded gray waistcoat, having discarded his wet coat.

Stifling a sigh, she reached out to pour tea into two cups and watched as he stirred sugar into the steaming liquid in his cup.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I should offer you some dry clothing, but I am not very familiar with what might be available in the house. We could look.”

She shook her head. “My things will dry.” She sipped hot tea, grateful for it, and saw that he waited courteously for her to begin eating.

She took a little bread, buttered it, then sipped a spoonful of soup.

It was excellent, savory, thick, and soon he began eating too.

They were silent, focused, as rain pattered the windows above the table and gusts rattled the panes. Then Elspeth glanced at the dark sky.

“Do you think anyone will return to the house tonight?”

“Honestly I doubt it. The roads will be muddy and unsafe in the dark. Likely they will arrive tomorrow. Here, you. Good lassie.” Elspeth blinked, but he spoke to one of the dogs, for the terriers had come in while they had been preparing the meal.

Struan set his nearly empty soup bowl on the floor, and the two terriers rushed for it, nosing at each other. When Elspeth set hers on the floor too, the wolfhound came over to lick it clean.

“I will give them more, but it has to cool first.” Struan sat back. “Miss MacArthur, we both know you should go home, but it is impossible for you to walk, and dangerous for us to ride out by cart or horse yet, for the horse’s sake more than ours. I fear you may have to stay the night.”

“I know.” Her heart gave a little flip. She reached for the teapot and poured a little tea into both cups. They sipped in silence. Then he set his cup down.

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

Hot tea, swallowed too quickly, made her cough. “I was looking for something my grandfather lost there. He knew Lady Struan. Sometimes she invited us to tea,” she added. “He is a weaver. Donal MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

“So I have heard. What did he lose in the garden?”

“A stone. It is very special to him. It was lost around the time that the grotto was finished. He mentioned it recently, having forgotten it. So I—I thought to look.”

“Is it a valuable stone?”

“Crystal and agate. Or was it chalcedony?”

“Agate is a form of chalcedony. The banded varieties are very colorful and pretty. Chalcedony itself tends to be gray. What color is your grandfather’s stone?”

“Blue.”

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

She nodded. “I believe he found it on that hill long ago. The property belonged to the MacArthurs when my grandfather was young, you see. He had the stone with him one day and—dropped it, I suppose. But the garden is different now and he could not find it.”

“If it holds special sentiment for him, we must try to find it. On my walks around the estate, I have seen massive beds of sedimentary rock, granite and sandstone with crystalline deposits. But agate is generally found in volcanic rock.”

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

“Not currently, but there may have been thousands of years ago. My research addresses that question, as a matter of fact. Layers of volcanic rock implies tremendous heat long ago in the terrestrial past. Geologists are only beginning to investigate Scotland’s mountains, and indeed much of Europe, for signs of the history of the earth.

Why did you come back today to look for it? ” he asked quickly.

“Grandda remembered the stone, and I wanted to find it.” She could hardly explain that Donal needed the thing to open a gate to the fairy world.

“I see. Did you say Struan House once belonged to your family?”

She took a sip of tea, judging how much to tell him.

“The estate and much of the glen belonged to my great-grandfather. When Grandda was young, he spent time here. Lady Struan was very interested in what he knew about the area and its—legends and such. The grotto in your garden was once a large hill with a rocky precipice.”

“I remember. I came here now and then when I was younger. My grandfather had the stone wall extended up the slope to form the grotto, and some of the rock wall broken apart to encourage water flow from the burn on the hillside above. Unfortunately he died before he had time to enjoy it, and my grandmother did not live long after that.”

“I do not remember meeting your grandfather, or seeing you. But Lady Struan was a wonderful person. I liked her very much.”

“So did I. Miss MacArthur, why not just come the door and ask if you could look for your missing stone? I would have helped you.”

“I thought no one was here. It is the time of the fairy riding.”

“Mrs. MacKimmie mentioned that. So you believe it too?”

“It is a local tradition.” She shrugged. “I thought to look quickly. But I did not count on the rain. I am sorry I disturbed you, Lord Struan.”

He waved a hand to dismiss that and sipped tea.

The cup looked small and delicate cradled in his hand.

She imagined those long, nimble fingers turning a beautiful rock over and over, holding it up to sunlight…

and then imagined his hands upon her, warm and agile and caressing. She shivered again, not from a chill.

“You study stones,” she blurted. “You are writing a book about 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, who coined the term.”

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

He stared, teacup halfway to his lips. “Good God, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

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