Page 29 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)
“She twisted her ankle, Donal MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham said. “I looked at it myself today and made her soak it in a salt bath. She must rest and cannot walk about the hills for a while. Did you not see her limping in the yard?”
“I did see,” Donal said. “Injured. Go on, sir.” He fixed James with a stern stare.
“Given the storm and her injury, I offered her hospitality at Struan House. My housekeeper and servants were detained elsewhere, unable to return yet.”
“The storm and the fairy riding,” Donal MacArthur said. “And then?”
“Grandda, it could not be helped,” Elspeth said.
“Alone together,” her grandfather murmured.
“Lord Struan was a cordial host.” Elspeth lifted her chin. “The Buchanans have no right to suggest otherwise.”
James saw temper flaring in the older man’s leonine eye, but MacArthur held his composure. So Elspeth got her temper, her spark, and her dignity too from this man.
“She turned her ankle, Donal,” Mrs. Graham reminded him.
“I fell in the mud,” Elspeth said. “I could hardly walk. It was unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate,” MacArthur repeated. “For two days!” he thundered then.
“Oh dearie!” Mrs. Graham fanned herself. “MacArthur, compose yourself!”
Elspeth’s cheeks burned as bright as her eyes. “Fortunately, Lord Struan was there to help me,” she said. “Imagine if I had been truly alone out there.”
MacArthur tapped his fingers on the table. “I commend you for considering my granddaughter’s well-being, sir, but what of her reputation?”
“We were in extraordinary circumstances,” James said.
“Extraordinary,” Elspeth repeated. “Grandfather, I saw the fairies riding!”
“What!” MacArthur stared.
“Over Struan lands,” she said. “We heard the horses. Or I did. And I saw—” She stopped. “I will tell you later. It was an exceptional night.”
“How exceptional was it,” her grandfather growled.
“Lord Struan was an utter gentleman,” she said, lifting her chin.
James blew out a breath, not sure that was entirely true. “I understand the situation appears dire, Mr. MacArthur. I know such things can jeopardize the reputation of an entire family. I am prepared to make it right.”
“Make it right?” Donal MacArthur regarded him, then Elspeth. James felt his heart beat fast, anticipating. “You would offer to marry her?”
“I have done so already. I would ask your blessing.” He could not look at Elspeth just then, but felt her hot gaze on him. He knew this was not how she wanted to reveal it.
“Huh.” MacArthur leaned toward Elspeth. “And will you have the man, then?”
“No,” she said, and set down her teacup.
“He’s a fine gentleman with a title and property, and seems to have good morals. I believe he has a good heart as well. I believe you found a good one.”
“He is, he does, and I have. But my answer is no.”
“He has a fine estate,” MacArthur went on as if she had not blatantly refused. “Sir, may I assume that your income is excellent?”
“I am, ah, comfortable,” James said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“There,” MacArthur blustered, waving a hand. “And he has a teaching position and a house in Edinburgh as well. He can take you to the Lowlands.”
“I do and I can,” James told Elspeth. “If you want.”
“I do not care to go to the Lowlands again,” Elspeth said firmly, quietly.
“Highland or Lowland, the decision was made when you stayed the night at Struan House,” MacArthur said. “The two of you make a fine match.”
“We do,” James ventured.
“We do, but I do not want to marry,” Elspeth said.
“Peggy Graham thinks you must marry, do you not, madam?” MacArthur boomed.
“Lord Struan is a fine gentleman and Elspeth is fortunate,” Mrs. Graham said. “But if the lass refuses, she has her reasons and you should listen.”
Despite that, Donal MacArthur raised his china cup in salute. “To Struan!”
“Grandda, you must listen. But I see you will not.” Elspeth stood and went to the door. “I have weaving to do. This matter is not decided, so do not celebrate.” She left.
“There, that’s done,” MacArthur said in a satisfied tone. “She will be married.”
“Let her make up her own mind, Donal MacArthur,” Mrs. Graham said.
“Stubborn as yon lass is, we must interfere. Eh, Struan?”
“I like her stubbornness, sir. And she has her reasons to refuse.” James stood. “I will do my best, I promise. But she cannot be forced. I think you know that. Mrs. Graham, thank you for tea.” He nodded and went to the door.
“Hoo hoo!” Donal crowed as James left. “A wedding for sure, Peggy dear!”
The loom clicked and the heddle bars shifted as Elspeth pressed the foot pedals.
She threw the small threaded shuttle from right to left, then another left to right, through the gap between the threads.
All the while she swayed her body side to side, back and forth with the steady rhythm of loom and shuttle.
Her hands moved quickly, the repetition soothing, erasing all but the moment. That respite was what she needed.
She pressed the treadle again to shift the wooden heddle bar that brought one set of warp threads down, creating a tunnel between the layered yarns.
Tossing another threaded shuttle through the gap, she caught it with her left hand as it sailed through.
The next push of the treadle dropped the warp threads to snug the weft thread in another color into the weave.
Tossing the shuttle through again, she dropped it and picked up another color.
Quick and nimble she went, warp threads clicking, yellow and black, the weft threads sailing through, red and black.
The woolen cloth grew in length by inches, the span only as wide as the reach of her arms as the cloth turned on the wooden roller that pressed against her taut belly as she leaned to the work.
The rhythms spoke to her. Go to him; stay here; go to him; stay here. Go to Struan, leave Kilcrennan, said the loom. She tossed another shuttle, pressed the treadle. Love him, keep him, love him, keep him, said the loom.
She took up the shuttle and flung it, right to left. Catch the shuttle, press the treadle; catch the shuttle; press the treadle. She did not want to think, she only wanted to lose herself in the warp and the weft and the rolling of the cloth.
A decision must be made. Yet someone waited for this fine tartan and would treasure it. That would do for now.
But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.
Catch the shuttle, press the treadle. Yellow goes over, black comes back; red flies through, black follows. Love him, keep him, go to him.
James paused in the open doorway of the weaving cottage, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb as he watched the weaver so absorbed in her work that she did not look up.
He had never seen tartan cloth produced on a loom. He had always taken the woolen fabric for granted, not thinking how it came into existence, only what it cost, or how it looked, or how it kept a man dry and warm, free and comfortable.
After a few moments watching the loom and the weaver, he saw how the parts worked together, how the colored yarns flew and interwove into the plaid pattern as the cloth formed, spooling taut and handsome over the roller.
But the weaver held his greater attention.
He was fascinated by the girl and her skill, how she sat on a chair leaning into the loom, back straight, arms out, hands swift, as if she held a harp sideways in her lap to play a rhythm of clicks and shushes and swoops, every motion deft and efficient.
The loom shuddered gently, the roller turned, the cloth grew under her steady hands.
She was focused, calm and entranced, a soft light on her face.
She did not see him watching her. He appreciated her swan-like grace, her supple curves, her beauty.
What she did was dance-like and almost seductive, so that his body stirred, and he wanted her fiercely, deeply, body and sweet soul.
And he saw more than a beautiful weaver at work.
He saw her gift, and her love, for the weaving, and he understood why she did not want to leave Kilcrennan or go to the Lowlands.
She was part of this place, this devotion.
In Edinburgh, she would feel smaller, lesser, her weaving not respected for an ancient and honorable craft, but merely an industry and an activity unsuitable to a viscountess.
This was more than a pastime for her. This was her art, and she was devoted to it.
He would never ask her to leave this behind. In silence, he turned away.