Page 35 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

M oving a heavy roll of tartan, Elspeth set down the bolt, tugged the roller free, and set it again on the loom.

Removing the last yarn sett from the loom took a little time as she wound the spare yarns into bundles and thought about the next design.

After completing a length of commissioned tartan, she now planned to weave a gift length to give to James at Struan. It would be a reason to see him again.

No matter what happened, she wanted to give him something she had woven. Then some part of her would always be with him.

A fortnight had passed since he had visited, and she had thrown herself into her work. She did not have her grandfather’s otherworldly work habits, but she kept a pace fast enough to be creative and productive.

She had managed to be too busy to talk much with her grandfather about Struan and marriage and her future, though he tried. She tried not to think about it, but the matter burdened her heart and soul.

Now, she left the weaving cottage and went into the storage house where yarns and supplies were kept.

Inside its dimness, sunbeams poured through cracks in the shutters.

Motes and woolen fibers floated on the light.

From a shelf, she took a copy of Wilson’s Key Pattern Book and sat at the worktable turning the pages.

Published by an Edinburgh tailor years earlier, the book contained hundreds of tartan designs assigned to particular clans.

Some were based on old clan traditions, while many had been invented more recently.

Tartan patterns and clan associations were part of the craze for Highland culture that accompanied the king’s visit to Scotland.

And that had benefitted the Kilcrennan weavers and other weavers too.

Immersed in studying the meticulous hand-colored tartans on the pages, she was surprised to hear a knock. The door opened to admit a young woman.

“Margaret!” Elspeth jumped up to embrace her cousin. “How nice to see you!”

Margaret Lamont smiled, round face beaming, brown eyes sparkling.

Her red hair was tucked in a thick braid wrapped over the crown of her head, making her seem even taller, her full figure party due to another babe on the way.

She was a brawny lass, as Donal MacArthur sometimes described her, with wide shoulders, strong arms, and hands pink from working with raw wool and dye baths.

“Reverend Buchanan brought me here on his way through,” Margaret explained.

“Dear Margaret! You look good,” Elspeth said. “I hope you are working less with this babe coming. The dye baths are not good for your back, and the smell could make you ill.”

“My husband found others do the dyeing for now, so I am spinning and combing. Today I had some free time and my mother is watching the children, so I thought to visit you. I love seeing what you and Uncle Donal are weaving with my yarns.”

“Your yarns are wonderful! I’ve finished several tartans this week. I came here to search out a new pattern.”

Margaret peered at the book open on the table. “What a great book it is,” she said, and began speaking softly in Gaelic, as she and Elspeth sometimes did. It was Margaret’s native tongue. “Tartan is in such demand now. The demand will keep us all busy.”

“I’m glad. Grandda is very content when he’s busy at the weaving.”

“What sett will you choose?” Margaret turned a page or two.

“I was looking for, ah, MacCarran.”

“Lord Struan’s plaid?” Margaret asked. “I heard you were seen at Struan House with him. Reverend Buchanan told me. Uncle Donal said so too, just now in the yard when I saw him. He and Peggy Graham hinted at—something going on with you two.”

Elspeth blushed. “Grandda cannot keep a secret.”

“He has your best interest at heart.”

Elspeth sighed and turned another page. “I want to weave a plaid so Lord Struan can have a kilt made up in Edinburgh when he returns.”

“Would this be your wedding gift to him?”

“ Och, Grandda has indeed been chatty!”

“It is customary for a bride to make her husband a tartan of his clan if she has the skill for it. And you do.”

“It may be more of a parting gift,” Elspeth admitted.

“Is it? Peggy Graham and your grandfather think otherwise,” Margaret said quietly.

“They love you so much, and hope the best for you. And those Buchanans are gossipy sorts. Do not whatever they say. Your grandfather and Peggy seem to like Struan very much.” Margaret touched Elspeth’s shoulder. “They said he offered marriage.”

“He did.”

Margaret nodded. “I see. Do you love him?”

Turning another page, Elspeth sighed again. “This kerfuffle is all my doing. I asked him to ruin me, Margaret,” she confessed.

“Asked him to what?” Margaret blinked. “Did he?”

“Only a little, and I wanted it. And I thought it would help me escape the marriage Grandda tried to arrange with a tailor. But I did not think that—well, it is no matter now.”

“Your grandfather wants you to marry well and leave Kilcrennan, I know that.”

“He does. And now his mind is set on Lord Struan.”

“What is wrong with that, if you like what happened with him?” Margaret smiled.

Elspeth felt heat fill her cheeks. “Grandda wants my happiness, but I need to stay here at Kilcrennan, not go south with a husband. I thought no one would ever marry me if I were compromised. But Struan offered, and offered again, and is waiting, unless he has given up by now.”

“I have not seen him, but Peggy says he is a lovely braw man. A good man.”

“Oh, he is,” she said quickly. “And he was a gentleman with me, truly. I never expected that—” Her voice caught. “Oh, dear.”

“So you fell in love? And what is the trouble with that, then?”

“It is so confusing.” Elspeth flipped pages. “I cannot find the pattern I want.”

“The MacCarrans are a small clan. They may not be in this book.”

She was relieved that Margaret left the other topic.

“We have other books, older ones that Grandda uses. Perhaps it is there.” Elspeth a black leather notebook from the shelf, very worn, with slips of paper stuck among its tattered pages.

She paged through and finally stopped. “MacCarran! Here it is.”

They leaned together to study a page of sketches and charts showing weaving patterns. “‘The MacCarrans are a sept of the MacDonalds of the Isles,’ it says. My great-great-grandfather wrote these notes. Interesting!” Elspeth said.

“It says here that the Kilcrennan weavers made a tartan for a MacCarran laird in the years of peace,” Margaret said.

“That would have been before the Jacobites. What a blessing to have these old notes. The ancient plaids were not always specific to a clan, but varied depending on local weavers and the plant dyes they had available.”

“The MacCarran is very authentic, then.” Elspeth studied the design and color notes. “Twenty warp threads of deep blue, twenty warp of forest green, ten weft threads of red, five of white,” she read. “That repeat would be very handsome.”

“I heard something about the MacCarrans long ago,” Margaret said. “A small clan with an interesting history. Do you know their clan motto?”

Elspeth shook her head. “Lord Struan mentioned a tale of a fairy ancestor, but he does not believe in such things himself. It is all fancy, he says.”

“Then he needs to spend more here with you and Uncle Donal,” Margaret laughed. “Ask your viscount about the MacCarran motto.”

“He is not my viscount.” Elspeth took a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal from a box on the table and copied the sett pattern. “I do not know when I will see him again. But I can weave this for him and send it to him if he leaves for Edinburgh.”

“Perhaps he will take it to Uncle Donal’s tailor friend,” Margaret said.

“I do not care what he does with it.” Elspeth copied carefully, not looking up.

“It will be a fine gift and you should deliver it yourself.”

She glanced at her cousin in surprise. “Me, go to Edinburgh?”

Margaret smiled. “Weave fast, and go to Struan House.”

Her heartbeat went fast. “I suppose I could.”

“This is what I remember. The MacCarrans had a golden cup in their castle seat that was very ancient, a gift from a fairy ancestor. Around its base was a motto.”

“What was that?”

“Love makes its own magic,” she said.

“Oh! That is beautiful. He never said.” Elspeth felt tears sting her eyes.

“I thought you might like it.”

“Oh, Margaret, what have I done?”

“Only you can say, and only you can make it right. Ask your heart what it wants, and follow that.”

“I thought he proposed to me out of responsibility. But the situation was my own doing. And Grandda needs me here, even if he says he does not.”

“Such things can be sorted out, especially if you love him.”

She shrugged. “I do. And I think he cares for me too.”

“What more do you need?” Margaret asked gently.

“It is more complicated than that. I feel I must stay here always.”

“Sometimes love seems so complicated, yet it is a simple, beautiful thing.” Margaret smiled. “If you love him, tell him. Give the man a chance.”

Elspeth gave her a hug. Suddenly she wanted to weep. “I am so glad you came by today. Help me pick the yarns.”

“Gladly.” While they worked together finding skeins in the colors of the MacCarran plaid, her thoughts tumbled.

She would turn twenty-one in just a few days, when her grandfather had said she would belong by fairy bargain to that realm. She still did not know whether to believe it, and Margaret knew nothing of it.

Later, after Margaret had shared tea with them, and the stable groom agreed to drive her home so she would not have to walk the distance, Elspeth set out to find her grandfather in his weaving cottage.

He was there, the light of candles glowing in the window.

She knocked, and Donal glanced up as she brought some yarns for his work as an excuse. Things needed to be said.

“Grandfather,” she began.

“Aye then, what is it?” He paused his work, his pace normal that evening.

“Kilcrennan is flourishing. And that depends on your ability to weave so quickly.”