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Page 30 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

“T he rain will clear overnight,” Donal MacArthur remarked. “Whisky, sir?”

James turned as the older man entered the parlor and went to a shelf containing a round ceramic bottle and glasses.

“Thank you,” he agreed. “And thank you for your hospitality, Mr. MacArthur.”

“We are glad of your company and your help for my granddaughter. She mentioned you intend to complete Lady Struan’s unfinished book.”

“I am working on her pages for now, though I must return to Edinburgh and the university in a few weeks.” He wondered if he would go alone, as it seemed he might never convince Elspeth to marry him.

“I see.” MacArthur poured the drams and handed one to James.

James sipped. “Excellent stuff,” he said, as the warmth spread through him. “Is it from a local distiller? Mellow, yet with subtle power. Extraordinarily pleasant.” He sipped again. “I’ve never tasted the like for quality.”

“‘Gie us the drink, to make us wink,’” MacArthur recited Robert Burns, and James chuckled. “A MacGregor cousin makes this in his small distillery up in the hills. So long as he makes enough family and friends, ‘tis legal.” He grinned.

“Ah, good.” James was aware that the manufacture of illicit whisky and its export via smugglers was rampant in the Highlands despite legal strictures. “I wish your cousin well in his enterprise. This is fine stuff.”

“He always sends some to Kilcrennan. He calls this fairy brew.”

James sipped again. “Because it is delicate as well as powerful?”

“And because it is made from dew according to a recipe from the Fey.”

“The Fey, is it.” The whisky warmed like fire yet soothed his throat and his spirit too, relaxing him. “Your cousin would be a wealthy man if he could sell this outright.”

“ Tcha! The taxes would be too high to bother. There would be no profit left. My cousin does well enough exporting his other whiskies, and we shall say little of that to protect him, hey. For this brew, he respects his responsibility to the Daoine Sìth , and will not profit from their recipe. Fairy dew makes his fairy brew.” He winked.

“ Dow-in shee.” James attempted the Gaelic. “My sister has a knack for the Gaelic, learned from our nanny. I did not pick up much of it myself.”

“You had a Highland nanny in Edinburgh?”

“I was born in the Perthshire hills and spent years in the Highlands before I came south to live with relatives.”

“Then you are a Highland man at heart, for all that.”

“I suppose I am. Mr. MacArthur, do you believe in this fairy business?”

“Oh, I do,” was the firm answer. Then the man took a long swallow.

“My grandmother mentions you in her manuscript. She was impressed with your knowledge of fairy lore. She devoted pages to your stories.”

“Did she?” Donal MacArthur carried the bottle and sat in a threadbare brocade chair, indicating the other for James.

“I am flattered. We were good acquaintances, and I am pleased to be in her wee book.” He raised his glass.

“To Lady Struan, a friend to the Kilcrennan weaver and a friend to the fairies too.”

“She also mentioned Niall MacArthur.”

“My son. Elspeth’s father.”

“So I understand. His painting hangs in the library at Struan House.”

“The fairy grove, aye. He painted that just before he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” James raised his brows.

MacArthur refilled his glass and poured another dram for James. “He was lured by the charms of a fairy lass.”

“Some lasses have a way of enchanting a fellow.”

“Some, aye. And some are of the fairy ilk.” MacArthur sighed. “Niall roamed the hills to make his drawings—he was gifted, that lad—and he worked at the weaving too. One day he went out with his drawing box, and never came back. He met a fairy lass and went over to the fairies with her.”

Unsure how to respond to that, James sipped. Perhaps the man embellished the account to hide the shame of a young man running off and leaving a small daughter and presumably a wife. “What a tragedy to lose him. I am sorry,” he said carefully.

“Sad for us, but he enjoys life where he is. One loses all sense of time and responsibility in the fairy realm. A day there is like a year here. A week is seven years. I know this myself.”

“Oh?” James tipped his head, skeptical, trying to remember something his grandmother had written, but he thought best to move the subject along. “So Miss MacArthur did not know her father?”

“Never saw him except in her dreams. She has a gift, you know. The Highland Sight.” He tapped his forehead.

“So I have seen.” That was undeniable and inexplicable.

“It can be a gift from the fairies.” The old man sighed.

“Mrs. Graham and I have raised her to be a proper lass, even took her to Edinburgh for her debut with her Graham cousins. But she prefers to be here, and she is a brilliant weaver, I will say. But I must be honest, sir.” MacArthur leaned forward.

“I want to see her married, and happy—and far away from here.”

“She seems determined to stay.”

“Do not give up your suit, sir,” Donal said.

“I cannot force her to agree. She is very stubborn.”

“Soon she will turn twenty-one, and then—well.” MacArthur stopped. “They have won, what’s done is done.”

Surely the weaver had imbibed too much drink and spoke in riddles and delusions. “Does her age matter? She is far from a spinster.”

“She would not mind that. But she must wed.” Donal sipped more whisky, and leaned toward James again.

“I went to Edinburgh to talk to a flourishing tailor there about taking Elspeth’s hand.

But I found I did not like him so well as before.

Now you are here, and I am thinking, this is the lad for my wee Elspeth! ’”

Silent, unsure how to answer, James returned MacArthur’s gaze.

“Good then,” the man said half to himself. “What do you teach, though you are a wealthy lord?”

“Geology,” James said, knowing he should divest the man of his opinion about his wealth. Later for that. “Rocks. Earth.”

“Ah! You can help us find the gold!” He raised his glass. “You are the one.”

“I would be happy to look for gold if it is in these hills. Some parts of the Highlands contain veins of gold running through the rock.” Now his head was buzzing too, from the strong fairy whisky. “My grandmother wrote about a legend of some fairy gold.”

“A legend in this very glen,” MacArthur said. “I must tell you—ah, Elspeth!”

Looking up to see Elspeth in the doorway, James stood. “Miss MacArthur.”

“Lord Struan.” She approached, limping only slightly, her gait improved some. He offered her his chair, and she sat, settling her gray skirts around her. He slid a footstool toward her so that she could rest her foot, showing a narrow black slipper and a hint of white stocking.

“What a fine man to give you a wee stool for the wee foot,” MacArthur said.

“Aye,” Elspeth said. “Is it the fairy brew you are drinking?”

“It is, and fine stuff. Struan likes it.”

Hiding a smile, James leaned against the mantelpiece. The whisky made him mellow, warm, content. He could almost believe in fairies just then, and could imagine Elspeth as their queen with her delicate beauty, dark lashes sweeping above pink cheeks, her hair soft as black silk.

When she glanced at him, he saw she was neither amused nor content.

“Elspeth, have some of Dougal MacGregor’s fairy brew. ‘Twill take the pain from your foot. Oh. I should not say his whole name,” he mumbled.

“It is safe with me, sir,” James reassured him.

“I like your lairdie,” MacArthur told Elspeth. “Will you have some, lass?”

“A bit, thank you. A swallow—enough!” Elspeth said as her grandfather poured. “I hope you warned Struan about this brew. It is rather strong.”

“Och, he’s done well with two drams and no weakness. ‘We are na fou,’” he quoted, raising his glass. “‘Well, na that fou—’”

“‘But just a drappie in our ee,’” James said, completing the Burns line.

MacArthur boomed a laugh. “Elspeth, lass, marry this laddie, do!”

“Aye, do,” James echoed softly, feeling more comfortable by the moment. He loved this place, he loved this family, he loved this fairy brew, which was loosening his usual restraint. And he very much loved the daughter of this place. He raised his glass in a small salute to her.

“Away wi’ you,” she said. Her gaze melted his heart just then.

“Never,” he said. Surely it was the whisky. And yet he meant it. He would never leave her, fairy or not. He would convince her. He had to.

“Beware the fairy brew, my lord,” she murmured.

“And beware the wee fairy lass,” he replied. She laughed.

“It’s late, Grandfather,” she said. “Our guest wants an early start.”

“Women always have practical notions when there is good whisky to be had,” MacArthur complained. “First let me tell Struan about the fairy gold. He must hear the truth of it.”

“Grandda,” she said.

“Go on, sir,” James replied, intrigued.

Dear God, not all the truth , Elspeth thought in a panic. “Grandda—”

“Long ago, they do say,” Donal began, “the Daoine Síth of this glen had a treasure so fine, it shone like the sun inside their hillside palaces. They had gold and silver and precious stones from deep in the earth, from mines tended only by the Fey, and treasure more precious than we can imagine. Every glen has its fairies, and every fairy clan has its treasure. And this was marvelous to behold.”

Elspeth watched James as he listened intently, one shoulder leaned against the mantelpiece, letting her have his chair. He was relaxed and so handsome, looking as if he belonged here. Her heart quickened.

“Long ago, my MacArthur ancestor found their hidden cache,” Donal continued. “MacArthurs are the oldest clan in the Highlands, and it must be true or we would not claim it, aye?”

James laughed, and Elspeth smiled. Just being near him made her feel so good, warm and happy, with a precious excitement sparkling within her.

She could marry him, she thought, and feel this way for a lifetime. It would be like a dream come true. All she had to do was accept.

But the power of the Fey made that almost impossible.

She wished her gift of Sight would show her the reason he was so determined, but she could not penetrate his inscrutable thoughts.

Why did he insist on a bride? She felt he cared for her now, yet he had not acknowledged it.

She knew how she felt. But if it was true that she was fairy-born—as her grandfather insisted—she could not draw James into her life.

“This MacArthur found the fairy treasure,” Donal was saying, “and he hid it away to ransom his kinsman, a piper who had been stolen away by the fairies.

They would not give the piper back, for they liked his music.

They demanded the return of their treasure.

He refused. So they played havoc in the glen, stealing away humans, playing tricks.

The thief himself took a fairy bolt in his leg and died, and so the secret hiding place was never found.

“Ever since,” he continued, “they have stolen glen folk and made wicked bargains. And they will do mischief until their gold is returned.”

“The fairy riding,” James said. “Is that why some are frightened of it?”

“They fear the fairies will take them away in revenge, aye.”

“How long ago was this treasure taken, if it really happened?”

“Three hundred years, and aye, it happened.”

“Can it be found? Are there any clues, or maps?”

“I have looked. Many have searched. If it is located, two keys are needed to open it. One key is a certain stone. The other—” He looked toward Elspeth.

She shook her head to silence her grandfather from saying she herself was the other key—or so Donal claimed.

“Miss MacArthur was looking for a stone in the garden at Struan House,” James said. “The blue agate in the library case, is that the one in this legend?”

“You found the bonny blue stone?” MacArthur demanded.

“There is one like that at Struan House,” she admitted. “But we do not know if it is the key in the tale about the treasure.”

“Likely it is. I want to see it.”

“Gold, silver, some gemstones are found now and again in the Highlands, either naturally formed in the earth, or buried by ancient people,” James said. “It could be called fairy gold. It is easy to see how such legends come about.”

“But this is real,” Donal said.

“How would you know it was fairy gold? How could you ever return it?”

“I know how,” Donal replied.

Elspeth hoped her grandfather would move on. He clearly had more than enough whisky in him. “Grandda,” she began.

“Are there clues in family lore, since this fellow was an ancestor? Maps, anything in writing?” James asked.

“He was a farmer, not a scholar. This is all we know. The treasure is somewhere in this glen, and needs two keys, a blue stone, and…well, we know what the second key is. The Fey need human help to find the missing treasure. My ancestor outwitted them, see,” Donal said.

“They will not be happy until it is found. Without it, they are not at ease.”

“A fairy’s aim is to be happy, in harmony with nature and the earth,” Elspeth added. “Living is an art to them, pleasure and delight and enchantment. They cannot fulfill that if they are uneasy over something stolen from them.”

“They are a temperamental lot,” Donal said.

“We call them the Good Neighbors,” Elspeth said. “But they would be better neighbors if they had their gold.”

“Certainly people have searched for this treasure,” James said.

“Many, without success,” Donal MacArthur said.

“Such an interesting tale. I want to be sure it is in Grandmother’s book.”

“Oh no, you must not put that in the book,” Elspeth said.

“Local legends are important to her book,” he answered.

“Elspeth is right, you cannot include all the details. Some part of it must be left unsaid. The fairies will be very angry if their secrets are told.”

“Grandda, enough,” Elspeth said. “Struan does not believe in the Fey.”

“But it is fascinating,” James countered.

“You do not believe it,” she said. “That is the difference.”

“I believe what can be proven.”

“He’ll believe soon enough,” Donal said. “He’s writing a fairy book, he’s drinking fairy brew. And he’s in the thrall of our wee fairy lass. He’s fallen to the glamourie.”

“The glamourie?” James asked. “My grandmother wrote of it. A fairy enchantment that changes our perception of the world, makes us see reality differently, something like that.”

“The glamourie is all over you, sir. The lass has the knack of it.”

“That she does,” James said, meeting her gaze.

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