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Page 16 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

“T here are a few guest rooms on this level,” James said as they reached the upper corridor. “And more above, but you do not need to climb more stairs.”

He understood the concessions needed for a weak limb, and even more, he wanted her to disappear into one of the rooms just now. He was distracted and responding too keenly to this girl. The feeling was best ignored.

Until morning, he wanted some distance between them. No matter what she had said earlier about a willingness to be compromised, he would not ruin her reputation or his with some heady passion that could be easily controlled with willpower and reason.

“The rooms are freshened for use, as guests are expected next week.”

“And I am unexpected,” she said.

“But welcome to stay.” He opened a door and stood back as Elspeth stepped inside. “The hearth is cold in here. Let me tend to it.” He followed her into the room as the three dogs plopped down to arrange themselves in and around the doorway.

Limping, his leg aching, he wished he had gone back to look for his cane in the garden.

He knelt by the fireplace, found peat bricks neatly stacked, and used the tinder box Elspeth found and held out for him.

She lit an oil lamp while he coaxed the peats to catch.

Then he sat back. “It will take some time, but the room should warm soon.”

“Thank you. I could have done that. I am used to such.”

“And I am the laird who looks after things here,” he said, amused.

She held her hands before the small flames. James stood, his gaze flickering down her body, lush curves beneath a damp gown, nearly translucent in the firelight. When she looked up at him, he went still, sensing compassion in her eyes.

This girl—who was she? How did she know his past? That had shaken him— she had shaken him. Nor could he forget those lightning kisses in Edinburgh. Although that had been part of a game of flirtation, he felt its deeper impact come back to him now.

“The first time we met,” she said, echoing his thoughts in that damnable way she had, “we kissed.”

“Part of a merry game.” Only a little fire-warmed space separated them. He could easily lean to kiss her. Was she inviting it? Her mix of innocence, coyness, and perhaps a ruse confounded him. “I must go. I planned to do some work in my study this evening.”

“On the fairy lore? I could help you.”

“Another time, perhaps. The less we are together now, perhaps the better.”

She sighed. “If we are found alone here, it will not matter what we did, or did not do. Others will make assumptions and only we will know the truth.”

“ We will know. That is more important.”

She watched him. “I have been honest with you, sir. The slightest compromise will do for me, and I will hold you to nothing.”

“It is not in my character to ruin a young woman and abandon her.”

“Only a hint of it will be enough. I do not expect your obligation.”

He huffed. “Few men would see a difference in your request to be ruined.”

“You do.”

“You,” he murmured, “cannot know what I would do.”

“I do know.” Her eyes crinkled in a half-smile.

“You are a blithe and bonny girl.” Impulsively he leaned forward and kissed her, swift and powerful, surprising himself. “There. Do you feel compromised?”

“Not quite.” She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him so that his quick kiss became a slow caress of lips, feeding the flame in him.

Sliding his fingers into the dark silken mass of her hair, he cradled her head; slanting his mouth over hers, he felt her buckle against him, heard her sigh. Her lips opened to his, and he grazed his tongue over her lip. The touch shuddered through him.

He had not intended this. He had meant to kiss her for an instant, a warning of the risk she recklessly invited before he removed himself from the situation.

Yet her unique allure, purposeful or not, overwhelmed him, as if he had touched a flame, wanting to be burned.

He forced himself to pull away. Her eyes stayed closed, lips rosy, cheeks flushed.

“Lovely,” she said in a dreamy voice. Her eyes opened. They sparkled.

“Oh no, you lass,” he said, hands to her shoulders, pushing her gently away.

“You think I meant to trick you because you are a wealthy man, is that it? You are wrong.”

“You are a charmer, Miss MacArthur. Let this be enough compromise and consequence, aye?” He stepped back. “Something has happened between us, and I admit my role and my guilt. Does that suffice?”

If he married her, it could be to his advantage and hers. He wanted to succumb, pull her back into his arms, wildly, wanting marriage and more.

Instead he stepped back as if he stood on a precipice despite his cautious nature.

Elspeth hopped about on one foot and grabbed a chair for support. “I did not plot to trap you, even if you think it. But the kisses were very nice.”

He blinked. No face-slapping, no huffing or hysterics, no attempt to invite more and entrap him. What was she about? “Nice?”

“Wonderful,” she said softly. “And we are alone. All the elements—but you need not marry me.”

“Not all the elements, to be honest,” he pointed out. “But you said you only wanted the compromise for your own ends, whatever those are? Or will a forced marriage come later, with the fish well and truly caught?”

“You want to know why I prefer to be disgraced,” she clarified.

He folded his arms. “That would be good.”

“I would rather be a ruined spinster who never marries—than marry as my grandfather chooses.”

“That,” he said, “is medieval. Straight out of a fairy tale.”

“Well, then, that is perfect.” She shrugged.

“I imagine your grandfather just wants to ensure your future.” He wondered if the old fellow had sent the girl here to snare a wealthy, titled husband.

“He is determined that I must marry a Lowlander.” She wrinkled her nose.

“What in thunder is wrong with a Lowland man?” he asked, offended.

“Nothing, except that I want to stay in the Highlands. Grandda wants me to leave the Highlands. But I do not want to marry the tailor he has chosen for me, a man who just wants to take over my grandfather’s weaving business once he is gone.

If a little disgrace will discourage him, I am content.

” She lifted her chin. It was a lovely chin, above a slim and elegant throat.

“Content to never marry, never be happy?”

She looked down. “I do want to be happy. But I would rather live lonely in the Highlands than unhappy in the Lowlands. But Grandda says I must leave here.”

“Why would he want that?”

“I—cannot explain why, but I will not do it. I suppose you think this is all play-acting. I suppose you scoff and suspect me of some plan to snare a rich man.”

“I am of two minds on that, Miss MacArthur.”

She met his gaze, and there was pure clarity in her eyes. “I have another request.”

“What?” Would entrapment be next?

She pulled at her damp dress. “May I borrow something for the night?”

“Of course.” Relieved, still bewildered, he went to a tall wardrobe, opened its doors, and rummaged inside, finding shelves and drawers of folded garments. “There must be something here.”

She limped to join him just as James drew out a pale, translucent, lacy chemise. He felt himself going red-faced. “Er, look for what you want,” he said.

Elspeth pulled out a folded white garment on a shelf, lifting its lace-trimmed sleeve and high-necked bodice. She held it up under her chin. “This is a nightrail. Whose is it? Oh dear, did this wardrobe belong to your grandmother?”

James regarded the white, billowy thing, which all but swallowed the girl. His grandmother had been a tall woman. “Perhaps.”

“I could not wear this.”

Elspeth in his grandmother’s nightrail—perfect. That would make the girl less appealing, he thought. “Take it. I insist.”

She pressed it to her, the globes of her breasts outlined beneath his grandmother’s clothing. An excellent deterrent. “Thank you!”

“Good night, Miss MacArthur. Oh—one reminder.” He stood with a hand on the open door. “You do realize I am a Lowland man?”

“I do. But if we married, you—would not mind if I stayed in the Highlands.” In shadows and firelight, her eyes were wide and silvery, innocent yet wanton.

It was wrong to be alone with her, and he would never take advantage of that.

Yet even in his grandmother’s nightgown, this girl was all he desired.

“You do not want to marry. You just want a wee bit of scandal.”

“I could change my mind,” she said softly.

“Good night,” he muttered, and backed out, rushing down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. Only the terriers followed. The wolfhound stayed with her.

Fairy hounds knew their kind, James remembered.

His innate reserve was usually enough to keep him aloof and controlled in any situation. Yet when this fey and fetching creature blithely wanted to be compromised, he had very nearly acted the fool and done it.

He crossed through connecting rooms into the study, brightened an oil lamp, and sank into the leather chair to take up the pages he had set down hours ago. Before she had come to Struan House. Before his life had changed. He waved the thought away.

Soon established at the desk again, he tried to keep his mind on his grandmother’s manuscript, but thoughts of a delectable girl in a quaint nightrail distracted him.

Tapping his fingers on the pages, he looked through the window into the darkness where rain pattered forcefully against the glass, and winds whipped loudly.

He could not even take the girl home and put distance between them.

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