Sarah Gabriel (16 page)

“No,” she said, and set down her teacup.

“He’s a fine gentleman,” her grandfather said, “with a title and property, and clearly good morals. I believe the man has a good heart as well.”

“He is and he does, but my answer is no,” Elspeth said.

“Certainly he has an estate anyone would be proud to own,” MacArthur went on, as if Elspeth had not blatantly refused, “and a generous income—sir, may I assume that your income is excellent?”

“I am…comfortable,” James said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“There,” MacArthur continued in a blustery fashion. “And he has a teaching position and a house in Edinburgh as well.”

“I do,” James said, looking at Elspeth. “And Highland property.”

“Highland or Lowland, the decision was made when you stayed the night at Struan House, poor weather or none.” MacArthur smiled. “Besides, it seems to me that the two of you are a fine match.”

“We are,” James ventured.

“We are not,” Elspeth said decisively in the same moment.

“Peggy agrees with me, do you not?” MacArthur boomed.

“Lord Struan is all of a gentleman, and Elspeth is fortunate,” Mrs. Graeme said.

Donal MacArthur raised his china cup. “To Struan!”

“Indeed,” Elspeth said, and stood. “I have some weaving to finish, having been gone from it for too many days.” She headed for the door and turned. “This matter is not decided, by any means, so do not celebrate.” She left, shutting the dining room door firmly behind her.

“There,” MacArthur said in a satisfied tone, “that’s done.”

“You must keep from interfering, Donal MacArthur,” the housekeeper said.

“As stubborn as yon lass is, we may need to interfere. Eh, Struan?”

“I rather like a stubborn lass,” James replied as he stood. “And I’ll take the matter into my own hands, if you do not mind, sir. Mrs. Graeme, thank you for the supper.” He bowed slightly and went toward the door.

“Hoo hoo,” Donal crowed as James left. “A wedding for certain, Peggy dear!”

The loom clicked and its 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 moving her body side to side and back and forth with steady rhythms created by loom, shuttle, woman. She moved quickly, letting thought go, so that the repetition soothed her, erasing all but the moment.

And that was what she most needed.

As she pressed the treadle again, the quick motion shifted a wooden heddle bar bringing one set of warp threads down to create a tunnel between the layered warp threads—then she took up a shuttle threaded with yellow, the weft thread, and tossed it surely through the gap, catching it with her left hand as it sailed through, and the next treadle push dropped the warp threads to snug that new yellow into the weave. She tossed the yellow through again, dropped it and picked up the black. On she went, weaving the weft threads, yellow and black, through the warp threads, red and black. The new cloth grew by inches, its smooth width—no wider than the reach of her arms allowed—turning on the wooden roller that pressed against her taut belly as she leaned into the work.

The layered rhythms seemed to speak to her
—go to him, stay here, go to him, stay here
, and the colors reflected her feelings: red for passion and anger, black for fear, yellow for hope.
Be with James, leave Kilcrennan
, said the loom;
be with James, leave Kilcrennan.
She tossed the yellow-threaded shuttle, pressed the treadle—
all will be well, all will be well.

Elspeth took up the black-threaded shuttle again and flung it right to left. Catch the shuttle, press the
treadle, catch the shuttle, press the treadle; she need not think, need only keep a watchful eye on the process, the warp and the weft, the heddle and the roller, and the rest.

She had to make a decision. For now, she found respite in rhythm, and satisfaction in steadily creating a length of sturdy and handsome plaid, inch by inch. Somewhere, someone waited for this cloth. For now, that was enough.

But it was not enough to fill a lifetime.

Catch the shuttle, press the treadle. Yellow goes over, black comes back; hope flies through, and shadows follow.

James stood in the open doorway, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb, hands in pockets, and watched the weaver absorbed in her work. He had never seen tartan cloth, or any cloth come to think of it, produced on a loom before; he realized that he had always taken woolen fabric for granted, thinking little about how it came into existence—just what it cost per ell, or how it looked and felt, how neatly the tailor cut it, or whether it beaded moisture in rain and kept him dry, or left him chilled and dissatisfied.

Now, though he did not understand the process entirely, a few moments studying the loom in action gave him a rudimentary understanding of how the parts worked together, how the stripes of colored threads interwove, loom and shuttle, to spool a taut and perfect plaid onto the roller. But that was not what held his attention.

She fascinated him, both the girl and her skill. She sat on a wood and wicker chair and leaned into the loom, her back straight, arms out, hands moving, as if
she held a great harp sideways in her lap and played a rhythmic melody of clicks and shushes upon it. Every motion she made was practiced, efficient expertise as she leaned and tossed, pressed and caught, while the loom posts shuddered gently.

He noticed how deftly she snatched the shuttle bit with its long tail of color to send it flying through the separated threads; how she caught it on the other side and sent it back again; how her foot pushed the wooden pedal at just the right moment, so that shuttle never caught, threads never tangled, and the loom wove sweetly, steadily, under her sure handling.

Compelled, James watched not only what she did, but
how
she did it: with total focus, her face still and lovely, her gaze peaceful and almost trancelike, but for an occasional glance toward hands, threads, or the loom. The tartan cloth grew beneath her caring and skilled hands, created from simple threads. He listened to the steady, controlled beat she played on the old loom, and saw her deep concentration, her enchanting face in the soft light within.

Being male, he naturally savored the sight for other reasons—the swanlike grace of her body clothed in soft gray, the swell of her breasts pressed against the loom bar as she moved forward, the supple curves of her waist as she leaned; the way her teeth just touched her lower lip sent a shiver through him, as did the sight of her slender fingers, so deft where they shaped and threw the shuttle. What she did was dancelike, reminiscent of lovemaking, and his own body stirred, surged inwardly as he watched her. He knew the feeling of her body moving against his own—he wanted that again, fiercely so, distractingly so.

Yet he saw more than enticing beauty and a beauti
ful young weaver at work; more than a blur of colored threads and the shifting loom. He saw her gift, and her love, for the work.

Now he understood why she refused to marry a Southron and leave Kilcrennan. Some of his circle of acquaintances in Edinburgh might not appreciate her skills and knowledge, though they would be polite about his weaver lass. In the Highlands, weaving was an ancient and honorable craft; in the South, it was regarded as industry and labor, an outmoded artisan craft that would be highly unsuited to a proper viscountess.

He smiled to himself, thinking that if Elspeth became his viscountess, she would more likely be seen as a charming Highland beauty, and therefore allowed her eccentric hobby. But now he realized that weaving was not just a pastime for her; it was an art, and a devotion. Even a few moments watching her told him that.

With a sudden, deep ache inside, he knew that he could not ask her to leave it, or leave this place.

Silent, he stepped back and turned, walking away.

“T
he storms are clearing at last,” Donal Mac Arthur said, as he entered the parlor where James stood by the window.

“Aye,” James said. Under the evening sky, the rain had stopped, with thick mist over the far mountains. “I will return to Struan House tomorrow. I’m grateful for the hospitality, sir.”

“As we’re glad for the company, sir, and for your assistance. My granddaughter mentioned that you’re finishing up Lady Struan’s final book.”

James nodded. “The work should take but a few weeks, and then I’ll return to Edinburgh. I’ve lectures to resume.” He did not think he would convince Elspeth to go with him to Edinburgh, though he could not stay always in the Highlands. Now he did not know if he should try; a Lowland marriage might be a disser vice to her after all. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gazed out on the vast scenery, and sighed.

MacArthur walked over to a cupboard, opening that to remove a brown bottle and two glasses. He poured out for each of them and returned. “Whiskey, sir?”

James took the glass, thanked him, and tasted it. “Excellent,” he said. The warmth sank and seemed to spread throughout his body. “Is this from a local distiller?”

“It is,” MacArthur said, and swallowed.

“Mellow yet with a subtle power—it’s extraordinarily pleasant.” James sipped again. “I’ve never tasted the like.”

“‘Gie us the drink, to make us wink,’” MacArthur recited, and James laughed at the Burns quote. “A cousin of mine makes this. He owns a small distillery in the hills…so long as he makes no more than a modest amount for family and friends, ’tis all very legal.” Donal grinned, brown eyes gleaming.

“Oh, of course.” James knew very well that the manufacture of illicit whiskey, and its smuggling for export, had been rampant in the Highlands for years, despite legal strictures. “I wish your cousin well of his enterprises, with a product this fine.”

“He makes several gallons of this particular whiskey every year, and always sends some to Kilcrennan. It’s what he calls a fairy brew.”

“Aye?” James sipped again. “For its delicate flavor, I suppose.”

“It has an unusual ingredient—the dew collected from certain flowers at dawn, said to be the fairies’ own drink.” He lifted his glass in salute. “There’s no whiskey like it.”

“Excellent stuff.” It warmed like fire yet felt soothing to his throat, even to his spirit, relaxing him beyond any similar drink he’d ever tasted. “Your cousin could become a wealthy man bottling and selling this.”

“Legitimately?
Tcha
,” MacArthur said. “The taxes would be too high to make the profit worthwhile. He
does very well exporting the other whiskey that his stills produce, but he could never make enough of this particular potion to meet the demand, once the news of this got out. He keeps his loyalty to the
daoine sìth
, and will not take a profit from their secret. The fairy dew is necessary for the fairy brew.” He winked.

“Fairy brew,” James said thoughtfully, studying the glass.

“The
daoine sìth
gave him the knowledge of it.” Donal smiled.

“Dowin-shee.
” James attempted the Gaelic, a safer topic than that of fairies making whiskey, in addition to all else they apparently could do. “My sister is fluent in Gaelic, learned from our first nanny, and she’s kept up her study, but I do not have it myself. Though I spent my boyhood in the Highlands—I was born in Perthshire.”

MacArthur nodded. “Good. Then you have a Highland nature at heart, though you be a Lowlander now, and a man of science.”

“I am all of it, I suppose. Sir, you cannot truly believe in this fairy business.”

“Oh, I do,” the older man murmured, and took a swallow or two of the whiskey.

“My grandmother mentioned you in her notes. She was impressed with your knowledge of fairy lore in particular, and she hoped to interview you in more detail. I believe she meant to devote a chapter to your stories and experiences, sir.”

“Did she?” Donal MacArthur carried his glass and the bottle toward the fireplace, where a pair of chairs, covered in threadbare green brocade, flanked the low-burning peat fire. Sitting, he indicated for James to
take the other chair. “Well, I am that flattered. I like to think Lady Struan and I were good acquaintances, and I am pleased to be in her wee book.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Struan, a fine lady and a good friend to the weaver of Kilcrennan.”

“To Lady Struan,” James echoed. “Sir, she also mentioned Niall MacArthur.”

“Niall,” MacArthur said, “was my son. Elspeth’s father.”

“So I understand. A painting of his hangs in the library at Struan House.”

“Ah, the fairy grove. He finished that…in the months before he disappeared.”

“Fairy grove,” James said, nodding. “May I ask what became of your son, sir?”

MacArthur drank quickly, then filled his glass and poured more into James’s own. “He was lured away from Kilcrennan by the charms of a fairy lass.”

“Some women do have a magic about them, like an enchantment.” James thought immediately of Elspeth, though he kept that to himself.

“Some do. And some are of the fairy ilk themselves, whether or not you believe it is possible, sir.” MacArthur shrugged. “Niall used to roam out in the hills sketching from nature, and would come back and paint what he saw. He worked at the weaving, too, though he had a talent for the pictures. One afternoon he went out, and never came home again. He went over to the fairies.”

Unsure how to respond to that, James sipped, frowning. Perhaps the account was an embellishment to disguise the shame of a young man abandoning his family, which MacArthur would not want to admit to a stranger. “It is a tragedy,” he said carefully.

“For us, it is a sad thing, but for him, he enjoys himself where he is. One can lose a sense of time in the fairy realm. A day there could be a year for us. A week could be seven years. I know this, myself.”

James nodded, skeptical, remembering something Elspeth had said, and something more he had read in his grandmother’s pages. “Miss MacArthur never knew her father?”

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

“So she tells me,” James replied.

“It is very strong in her. Some call it the gift of the fairies.” MacArthur sighed. “Mrs. Graeme and I have tried to give her the usual pleasantries a young lass should have, so we took her to Edinburgh for her debut and parties with her cousins, but Elspeth dislikes the city. She prefers to be here, weaving tartan cloth. She’s an excellent weaver, but to be honest, sir, I want to see her married, and happy—and away from here.” He glanced intently at James.

“I believe she considers your happiness, sir, and that of others at Kilcrennan, over her own future.” James did not know that for certain, but suspected her insistence came from love of her family. “She is determined to stay here.”

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

“I cannot force her to change her mind. She knows what she wants.”

“But soon she will turn twenty-one.” MacArthur sighed. “Never mind. The fairies have won, what’s done is done.” The last was almost singsong.

The weaver had imbibed more than that bit in his glass, James was certain, to speak in such riddles and
delusions. “What does her age have to do with it? I will turn thirty next May. I do not understand.”

“It is time she wed, is all. She would be a fine wife for any man, and I intend to find that man,” Donal said. He sipped more whiskey, then leaned close. “Struan, sir, I am relieved she did not want the tailor, for when I saw him last week, I did not like him so well as I had. Now, having met you, I am telling myself, ‘Ah, this is the lad for Elspeth!’”

Steadily, James returned MacArthur’s gaze, and did not answer.

“Good then,” the older man said, half to himself. “You can help us find the gold.” He raised his glass high. “I think you are the one.”

“I would not object to that.” James was certain that the older man had sampled too much of the “fairy brew.” His own head was buzzing, even after a few swallows. He looked askance at what remained in his glass, now wary of its potency. “Gold? My grandmother’s notes mention fairy gold as a common tale. She states there is a legend in this glen, too. But there is not much detail about it in her account.”

“Och, every glen has legends of fairy treasure,” MacArthur said. “Let me tell you ours—ah, Elspeth!” He looked up.

Turning, James saw Elspeth in the doorway, and stood. “Miss MacArthur.”

“Lord Struan.” She approached, limping slightly, her gait improved but the ankle not yet healed. James offered her his chair, and she sat, gray skirts settling around her, feet crossed at the ankle. He slid a footstool toward her, and she rested her foot there; he saw narrow black slippers and a hint of white silk stockings before she dropped the fabric of the gown over all.

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

“He is,” Elspeth said, sounding curt.

James hid a smile as he leaned against the mantelpiece. The whiskey had indeed made him mellow, so that he could almost believe in fairies, and could well imagine Elspeth as queen of that ilk. He glanced down at the delicate grace of her profile, the sweep of dark lashes above faintly pink cheeks. He wanted to touch her hair, knew it would feel soft, cool, thick. She glanced at him, her eyes sparking—and he saw that she was not content in the least.

“Ellie, have some of Dougal MacGregor’s fairy brew. ’Twill take the pain from your foot,” her grandfather said. Then he frowned, having inadvertently revealed the name of his whiskey-making—and no doubt smuggling—cousin.

“Your kinsman’s name is safe with me, sir,” James said.

“I like your new lairdie,” MacArthur told Elspeth. “Will you have the brew?”

“A bit, thank you. A swallow—that’s enough,” Elspeth said as her grandfather poured. “I do hope you warned Lord Struan about the strength of this particular brew.”

“Och, he’s done well with Dougal’s fairy blend. He’s had a dram and a bit, as have I, and no sign of weakness. ‘We are na fou,’” he said. “‘We’re na that fou—’”

“‘But just a drappie in our ee.’” Completing the Burns line, James raised his glass.

MacArthur laughed. “You should marry this lad, Ellie.”

“Aye, Ellie,” James echoed, feeling more comfort
able at Kilcrennan by the moment. Whether it was the easy company or the whiskey that loosened his usual restraint, he was enjoying it. He raised the glass in a small salute that only Elspeth saw.

“Away wi’ you,” she said, and her quick, softened gaze melted his heart.

“Never,” he mouthed, and a pounding began deep within.
Never.
Surely that was the whiskey, he thought, but however teasing the remark, he had meant it. A strong emotion rose in him, near overwhelmed. He straightened, hid it once more.

“Beware that fairy brew, James MacCarran,” she said.

“And the wee fairy herself,” he whispered. She laughed, shook her head.

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

“Women always come up with practical notions when there are good topics and good whiskey to hand,” MacArthur complained. “First I will tell Struan about the fairy gold. He must know the truth of it.”

Gowd,
the man said, as if it were an ancient word. “Go on,” James replied, intrigued.

Dear God, not all the truth
, Elspeth thought in a sudden panic, as Donal MacArthur sat up and cleared his throat. “Grandfather—”

“Long ago they do say,” he began, “the
daoine sìth
of this glen had a treasure so fine it shone like the sun inside the hillside palaces of the fairy ilk. There was gold and silver and precious stones from deep in the earth—there are veins and mines said to be mined only by the fairies—more precious and beautiful than anything imaginable. Well, every glen has its fairies,
and every fairy clan has its treasure, but this, oh this, was something special to behold.”

Elspeth glanced up. James listened intently, arms folded, one shoulder leaned against the mantelpiece. He looked handsome and comfortable in this room, even in Donal’s old suit, as if he belonged here. Her heart beat faster as she studied him, but when he met her gaze, she looked away.

“And long ago, one of our MacArthur ancestors found that hidden cache,” Donal continued. “The Mac Arthurs are the oldest clan in the Highlands, some claim. Likely it is true or we would not be claiming it now, would we?”

James laughed softly, and Elspeth smiled, too, just seeing that. Indeed, the man had some magic about him that made her feel good. All he did was stand there in her home, laughing with her grandfather, and she felt warm and happy, with a precious sort of excitement quickening within. If she married him, she thought, she would have a lifetime of such feelings, and dreams come true. All she had to do was accept his offer.

But the power of fairy in her own life made that impossible, no matter how much she wanted it. She did not know how to explain that to him.

He watched her again, blue eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Even her sense of Highland Sight could not penetrate those inscrutable eyes. The knowledge came to her or it did not; she could not simply summon herself. Did he regard his proposal only as an obligation? Why did he need a bride, as he had hinted?

Yet she had a growing sense, sure and certain within, that he loved her, though he might not know it himself. The sense was warm, open, joyful, like petals
blowing open in the sunlight—and yet she could not acknowledge it. Not yet, if ever. And so it hurt.

“This clever MacArthur clansman found the fairy treasure in the hills,” Donal was saying. “He hid it away to ransom his kinsman, a piper who had been lured into the hillside by the fairies. They would not give that piper back, just demanded the precious lot returned to them, and they began making havoc in the glen, stealing humans and playing tricks. But the thief himself died of a fairy bolt in his leg, and the gold never went back to the fairies. And they have been stealing humans and making wicked bargains with some in this glen ever since, until the treasure is returned.”