Page 31 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

S tirring deep in the night, a bit groggy from the whisky, James wondered what had woken him. He heard voices, felt as if shadows moved around him. Sitting up, he craved fresh air to clear his head. The fairy brew, as MacArthur had called it, had been stronger and more lasting than he thought.

Dressing in trousers and boots, shrugging the borrowed frock coat over his shirt, he left the house to walk through the courtyard and follow the earthen lane that led toward the weaving cottages.

The night was cool and overcast, and a ringed moon flowed its beams through the clouds.

Fog curled low on the ground, and meadows and orchards stretched into the dark distance.

His footfalls echoed quietly, and soon he heard the fast, clacking rhythm of a loom. Faint light glowed in one of the weaving cottages. Was Elspeth awake too? The cadence of the loom was furious and passionate.

He went close and peered through the square window beside the door.

Not Elspeth, but Donal seated at the large loom. A lantern lit the space, the rest in shadow. The man worked very quickly, shifting and moving, lacking Elspeth’s grace but working with power, speed, and certainty.

Watching, James frowned, then gaped. MacArthur worked so fast that James could hardly follow the movements. His hands, the shuttle, the yarns, the loom were all a blur. A red tartan pattern gathered rapidly on the roller, faster than seemed possible.

James rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked again. The loom whirred, clicked, shuddered, and the weaver sped through his work like a demon. The incredible pace seemed beyond what a man could do.

Had the whisky been that strong? Was he dreaming?

“Come away!” A hand touched his arm, and James turned to see Elspeth. “James, please,” she whispered.

He drew her close. “Look! What is he doing?”

“Working. Hush,” she said, touching her fingers to his lips. He circled an arm around her, drew her close. She wore a dark plaid over a pale nightgown, her hair loose and long and silky dark.

“Why are you out here?” he asked. “Did the noise of the loom wake you?”

“I woke, and I knew you were out here, so I came. I can feel you when you are about,” she whispered. “As if you are…part of me.”

He understood. He felt it too. Only he and his twin sister had ever had such a tie, but now—was it possible to love someone so quickly, trust them so completely?

“Come away,” she whispered, drawing him into shadows away from the window. “We should not be here. We must not watch him.”

“He works the loom like the devil himself. What is it?”

She sighed. “It is the secret of his weaving. He guards it. We must leave.” She tugged at his arm.

“That pace is inhuman.” He glanced through the window again, from a hidden angle. As if in a whirlwind, Donal snatched the new roll of tartan from the loom, set the frame, and began anew, all at a steady and astonishing speed.

“It is how he does it. It is how he produces excellent cloth very quickly.”

“I watched you today at the loom. You were all skill and grace.” He set his arms around her. “But this is unearthly.”

“That is true.”

A chill slid down his spine. “Please explain.”

“It is the fairy gift upon him,” she murmured. “Years ago, he was given the fairy gift, the ability to weave a month’s work in an evening.”

“Go on,” he said skeptically. “A fairy gift?”

“A kind of spell.”

“Away wi’ you,” he said gently. “I did not have that much whisky, lass.”

Her eyes were wide and sincere. “It is due to the whisky you drank that you can see this tonight.”

“I am not fou,” he jested. “No’ that fou.” But she was utterly serious.

“Listen! The fairy brew lets some of us see fairy magic. Without that, you might simply see the man at his usual weaving.”

He frowned. “Your grandfather said your gift of Sight came from the fairies. I thought it was just another term for what some Highland folk can do.”

“Some are gifted by the fairies at birth. Grandda insists I was.”

Everything in him wanted to deny what he heard. Yet he felt a strange and almost dreadful sense—what if it was true and real? The small hairs lifted on his arms, on his neck. “What do you mean?”

“I am a good weaver, and can make a length of tartan in a few days. When the magic comes over him like this, Grandda can make a dozen plaids in a night,” she said.

“I wonder if he wanted you to see this. He gave you the fairy brew that he shares with no one but me. And then he set to the weaving where anyone might see him.”

“That was deliberate?”

“Aye, he would do that. He wants to pull you to us, you see.”

“I see,” he said slowly.

“But we will not let him know you were here, aye? Only I know, and Peggy Graham too, but she prefers to ignore it.”

“I would prefer that too. Any moment now I shall wake in my bed with a thick head from whisky.” He paused. “Would you want to be there and wake together?” He drew her closer. “We could arrange that with a vicar.”

“Hush you,” she murmured, smiled, and set a finger to his lips. Then she took his face between her hands, lifted on her toes, and kissed him.

Slow, tender, surprise and delight, the kiss sank through him, crown to sole. His body surged, craved. He caught her by the waist, dipped his head, kissed her hard and sure until she arched against him. Then she pulled back.

“That was very real,” she whispered.

“So is this.” He traced his thumb along the delicious weight of her breast.

“Jamie,” she breathed, pressing against him.

He closed his eyes. Only his sister ever called him that boyhood name. On Elspeth’s lips, it felt intimate, fitting, with the ring of love to it. Love. He needed to tell her so.

“Come away,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

“This is a dream, aye? Not even your fairy whisky can prove to me that I’ve seen fairy magic.” His heart thumped like a drum. Leaning down, he nuzzled his lips over her cheek, traced to her lips, and kissed her again.

Her lips opened for him and she sighed against his mouth. “This is real, and so is that in the cottage,” she whispered. “Let yourself trust what you see.”

Kissing her again, he drew back and pulled her into his embrace.

Trusting did not come easily to him, yet Elspeth MacArthur challenged him, drew him, challenged him again.

She had a kind of magic about her, a captivating charm he had never encountered before.

She pushed him to think beyond what he had had always known.

“I trust that I saw a man weaving like a lunatic. And I trust I have a lovely lass in my arms. And I trust that I am falling in love with her.”

His heart pounded to say it.

She drew back. “Is it so?”

“I think so. Does it change your mind?”

“I might be falling too. But it only makes things—more complicated.”

“I think it could simplify things.” He brushed his hand over her soft hair, down her cheek, touched her lower lip. Then he kissed her again, touching the merest tip of his tongue to hers. She opened her mouth a little, inviting him.

This was real. This was reassuring, breath and flesh and passion certain in his body. He needed her that way, and he wanted to spend his life with her.

Yet she was the most alluring and stubborn creature he had ever met.

She pressed against him now, lips urgent, lush, and soft under his. She pulled back and looked up. “What is real now,” she whispered, “are your feelings for me, and mine for you.”

Again she echoed his thoughts. “You are a conundrum.”

“Come away,” she said, and drew him through shadows and fog.

As they approached her weaving cottage, its windows dark, she pulled him toward the shadows along the side wall.

There she set her back against the stone and lifted her arms to his shoulders.

He tugged her to him at the small of her back, taut and slim and sweet against him.

Swathed in darkness and quiet, he kissed her again, deep and fervent, slow and tender.

A sort of wildness entered him, heart thudding, body craving.

He cautioned himself to slow, consider, and he did—until she pulled him hard against her, kissing him with opened lips and moist, curious tongue.

He was full, hard, aching for her, and her fervor equaled his now.

He followed the craving as far as she would allow, standing in the lee of the stone wall, lost in needful kisses and touches.

She tossed the plaid she wore around them, a warm, soft shield, and he bunched her night rail under his palms, her body slender and heated beneath the fabric.

His body quickened all through like fire as she ran eager hands along his shoulders, then under his coat, fingers tugging at his shirt, then warm over his skin.

Her touch teased, tantalized as he pressed her against the wall, his hunger driving him now.

He was changing in the moment, opening to her, trusting her with his desire, his vulnerability.

Unsettling to lose that accustomed reserve, but he had to be truthful and honest with her, with what he felt.

His reliable, dull, carefully constructed life had been shifting ever since he met her months ago, culminating in the here and now.

What had seemed fanciful and impossible to his logical mind was shifting too, and the feelings he had strictly guarded were opening too.

Why did he feel such love for her, so quickly?

Impulse was unlike him. But the certainty that he loved her felt true.

He surrendered to the moment, her permission clear, her fervor rising in pace with his. She felt solid and real in his arms, willing and ready. Questions of magic and fairies faded. This was all that mattered just now, this need, this love.

Yet he was a thinker, a scientist, a questioner, not used to surrendering to the body or the heart. He hesitated.

She did too, her breath ragged as his. “What?”

“What are we doing, my lass?”