Laird of Twilight (The Whisky Lairds, Book 1)

by Susan King

  Bumping against the lush satin-draped curves of a large woman, she stumbled, clutching the flounces of her gown to keep from tripping on her dress’s train. The gown was a confection of sheer silk draped over pale blue satin embroidered with silvery buds. It had been remade for her from a dress belonging to Lucie Graham.

  Turning to avoid yet another substantial woman, Elspeth spun, connecting suddenly with the angular jut of a male elbow.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss,” came a deep murmur. A strong, solid arm clothed in black superfine brushed her bare shoulder, and a hand came swiftly to her elbow in support. She tilted inadvertently against him and looked up.

  A broad chest, wide shoulders clothed in black, a cream brocade waistcoat, snowy neckcloth. He was a tall and muscular man, lean and firm. Afternoon sunlight cascading from tall windows gilded his brown hair, touching the handsome plane of his face, clean jaw, straight nose. His touch through her ivory elbow glove was warm and sure. Her heart jumped a little.

  “Pardon,” he repeated.

  “Quite all right, sir,” she answered. “The crowd—“

  “So true. Enchanted,” he said in farewell, moving past her with the crowd. The mingled scents of spicy soap, of green and outdoors, wafted after him. Elspeth closed her eyes, took a breath, senses heightened.

  For an instant, she felt lightheaded with the odd wavering sensation that sometimes preceded a knowing. The Sight had a way of flashing images in her mind, of whispering a truth about someone rather unpredictably. Touch could trigger it, and the gentleman had lightly grasped her arm.

  Please, not now, she thought. When the Sight came over her, her tongue often loosened with it, and she could speak her mind too freely. Please no—she could not make a fool of herself here and now. Rising up on her toes anxiously, she was relieved to spot Lucie in the crowd at last. She hurried toward her.

  “Oh, Lucie,” she said, reaching her side. “How is Lady Graham feeling?”

  “There you are!” Lucie linked arms with her. “Mother is better now that she’s out of the crowd. John left her with friends and came back with me. But Mother will not return in time to introduce us, and John did not attend the Gentlemen’s Assembly the other day. So he so cannot introduce us here at the Ladies’ Assembly.”

  “Oh dear. We could ask the Lord in Waiting, I think.”

  “That gentleman is simply drowning in requests. But luckily, John found us a substitute, so we may proceed after all. Elspeth, you look a darling, just like Cinderella at the ball,” she added, smiling. “Perhaps we will find you a prince today!”

  “In this crowd? Truly, if I were Cinderella, I would run just to get away from this press of people,” Elspeth half-laughed. “Though Grandfather would be pleased if we found any sort of gentleman. He is absolutely determined to marry me off to any Lowlander who meets his approval. Truly that’s why he brought me with him to Edinburgh, I think. Not to meet the king, but to find—well, a prince of a sort.” She wrinkled her nose, and Lucie laughed.

  “I hope that it happens for you in the very nicest way. Come with me. John has arranged for his friend Lord Struan to introduce us.”

  “Struan?” Elspeth lifted her brows. “Is he a Highland man? Struan House sits at the head of our glen.”

  “He’s from Edinburgh, I think, but inherited the title and some Highland property.” Lucie leaned closer. “He would be anyone’s fairytale prince if he wasn’t such a scowler. Even John says so. Struan teaches at the university, where John attended some of his lectures. He is a very knowledgeable expert in something, but a very somber man, I hear, who keeps to himself. But he is certainly a catch with his title and property, and it is rumored he will inherit quite an income. He attends so few social events that it is surprising to find him here, king or not.”

  “Well, I am not fishing for a catch, so it does not matter. He is Lowland anyway, from what you say. I would be content as a spinster if I could just stay in the Highlands forever.” Grandfather wanted her to make a good marriage in the south, but she did not agree. Her home and her heart were in the north.

  “You are not suited to spinsterhood, my dear,” Lucie said, hugging her arm. “And you will never find a good match if you stay up in the Highlands weaving tartan and hardly ever coming to the city. Nearly two years have gone by since we made our debut together in Edinburgh, and you have not been back since. I’ve been to so many parties that you could have attended as well. Oh look, there is John with Lord Struan now.”

  “Perhaps we should be looking for your prince instead.” Laughing, turning, Elspeth stopped suddenly.

  Beside Cousin John, so blond and attractive in his black frock coat and white waistcoat, stood a dark-haired gentleman: the same one who had brushed against her earlier, the one who had made her heart flutter madly. But her response then had nothing to with him, she told herself; just the mad crowd, the heat, too few open windows to offset perfumes.

  She moved toward them with Lucie. The man with John turned, glanced her way, paused, glanced away. Something rippled through her. He was taller than most, handsome in every proportion, with a classic and pleasing profile, a slightly arched nose, straight dark brows over long-lidded eyes. A sweep of thick, wavy brown hair gleamed with golden threads. But his jaw had a stern set and his expression—brows pulled together, mouth drawn down—was dour despite his rather striking masculine beauty.

  Not that it mattered, Elspeth thought. She was no romantic ninny looking for the attention of a possible suitor. “He is indeed a scowler,” she whispered to Lucie.

  “But so handsome, and his frown rather suits him. So serious,” Lucie said.

  “The room is full of handsome gentlemen, John among them. Many of them are scowling. It is awfully hot in here,” Elspeth replied.

  The strange feeling was returning. Lightheaded, breathless, she felt again that a knowing was on the verge—or else the oppressive air in the room was simply too much. She flapped her painted fan, ivory struts and painted silk, frantically.

  Lucie was not the delicate porcelain doll she appeared to be, all blond and pink silk flounces, for the uncomfortable crowds and warmth did not seem to bother her. She pulled Elspeth forward through clusters of women, as shawls slipped from smooth shoulders, pearls and jewels flashed, and the hooped skirts peculiar to court dress swung, interfering with easy passage.

  “Ah, ladies,” John said as they came near. “Lord Struan, may I introduce my sister, Miss Lucie Graham, and our cousin, Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

  “Charmed,” Struan said, taking Lucie’s gloved hand first, then turned to Elspeth. Offering her gloved fingers, she looked up.

  Breathless indeed. He seemed, suddenly, a stern warrior angel standing before her in a shaft of golden sunlight, compelling, beautiful, glinting with light. But then that frown, cool and reserved. But under the dark, lightly frowning brows, his eyes were the blue of a summer sky.

  “Miss MacArthur.” His voice was deep, harmonic, comforting amid the noise in the room. “Kilcrennan? That sounds familiar.”

  “Miss MacArthur’s grandfather, Donal MacArthur, owns Kilcrennan Weavers,” John supplied.

  “Ah. I know the place and the name. Excellent cloth, I understand. Sir John, I would be glad to include your sister and cousin with my party while you look after your mother. If the ladies do not mind,” Struan added, inclining his head. “I hope Lady Graham feels better soon.”

  “Thank you, Struan, I shall take you up on the offer.” John nodded and took polite leave of them.

  “We appreciate this so much, Lord Struan,” Lucie said. “It is very exciting to be here. King George is the first British monarch to visit Scotland since Charles the Second, they say,” she continued in an overly bright manner, fanning herself. “I do wonder how long it will be before we are admitted to the reception room.”

  “Not long, I imagine,” Struan answered. “The crowd seems to have moved forward an entire inch in the past hour.” Elspeth smiled, listening.


  “We have been waiting simply hours,” Lucie said, “first in that awful line of carriages—miles long, it was—and then these dreadful crowds in the palace rooms. We have been here nearly all day. But soon we shall have an introduction and our kisses.”

  Elspeth blinked. “Kisses?” She glanced at Struan, could not help it. The viscount was watching her with those cool blue eyes.

  “Each lady being introduced receives the king’s kiss of courtesy,” Lucie said.

  “Are we expected to swoon when that happens?” Elspeth said dryly.

  “Only if you feel so moved, Miss MacArthur,” Struan drawled. He offered an arm to each of them. As Elspeth took his left elbow, she noticed that he carried a cane, as did many fashionable men, now hooked over his right elbow. As they walked, she sensed he favored his left leg. Unlike many, he genuinely required the cane’s assistance. She frowned, wondering at the cause of it.

  Suddenly she knew. As she lightly touched his arm, she saw in her mind an image of men running, falling. Saw smoke drifting over a field, explosions in the distance. The images faded, and she gasped. “Oh—the war—”

  Struan looked down. “Miss MacArthur? Pardon, I did not hear what you said.”

  “Nothing,” she said, flushing with embarrassment. Lucie looked over at her, puzzled, but Elspeth glanced away. Though she had known Lucie all her life, her city cousin knew little about her gift of Sight. Lucie had a good heart and a practical head, and never seemed very curious about unusual things, nor had Elspeth ever wanted to share something so private, so precious to her.

  Struan guided them toward an elderly woman standing with two young women, all silk and feathers, elegance and hauteur. Two gentlemen stood with them, one in somber black, the other in a red Highland belted plaid, jacket, bonnet, and stockings, all in various patterns.

  Struan made quick introductions. “My great-aunt, Lady Rankin of Kelso. My sister, Miss Fiona MacCarran, and our friend, Miss Charlotte Sinclair,” he said of the women. He turned to the young man beside his sister. “My brother, Dr. William MacCarran. And this is Sir Philip Rankin of Kinrankin. May I introduce Miss Elspeth MacArthur and Miss Lucie Graham.”

  “Pleased,” Lady Rankin said, not sounding so. She was tall and buxom in brown silk trimmed in flounces, the skirt filled out by the hoops that court dress used to require, and some still satisfied in their dress. Her white-plumed headdress made the lady look like an eight-foot-tall ostrich, Elspeth thought. Feeling a pale mouse beside her in silver blue, Elspeth lifted her chin and smiled.

  Struan and his brother were impeccably but severely dressed in black and cream, without a hint of thistle, heather, plaid or anything Scottish about them, in great contrast to Sir Philip’s Highland excess. Elspeth noticed that Fiona MacCarran wore deep gray satin trimmed in black. Mourning, she thought. She tilted her head, wondering who had passed away that the three siblings looked so somber amid all the festive color and display.

  Ah, Lady Struan, she remembered, having heard of it from her grandfather, who had been acquainted with the elderly lady of that estate. The older woman had passed away in the spring. Surely she was related to Lord Struan and his siblings. Grandmother, the word came to her then, although she did not recall hearing about any of Lady Struan’s kin.

  “Where is Kilcrennan located, Miss MacArthur?” Lady Rankin asked.

  “Close to the Trossachs Mountains, madam, in the Highlands,” she replied.

  “Oh yes. We hope to travel there to visit my nephew at his estate,” Lady Rankin said. “We intend to tour Loch Katrine while we are there, and also see other places described in Sir Walter Scott’s poetry. They say the views are magnificent.”

  “You will find it very beautiful up there,” Elspeth agreed.

  “I was not aware you plan to travel north, Aunt,” Struan said.

  ”Did I neglect to mention it? Yes. So exciting. The Highlands are marvelous to behold, I hear. I have persuaded Miss Sinclair to accompany me, and possibly Fiona as well. Sir Philip, or even your cousin Nicholas, may travel with us.”

  “Fiona,” Struan said to his sister. “If our lady aunt travels north, you must come with her.” Elspeth detected a subtle note in his voice, something between them.

  “I shall certainly try,” Fiona MacCarran replied.

  “Do you know the area well, Miss MacArthur?” Struan asked then.

  “Quite well. Loch Katrine is not far from the glen where Kilcrennan sits.”

  “Then you are not far from Struan House,” he replied.

  “It is a few miles along the glen. My grandfather knew the late Lady Struan. I met her myself. We were very sorry to hear of her passing. She was a kind lady.”

  “Thank you.” Struan inclined his head. “She was our grandmother.” He indicated his siblings in his answer; Fiona smiled, and Dr. MacCarran nodded.

  “Struan holds the estate and title now,” Charlotte Sinclair said, and slipped her arm through his. “But he has had little time to visit there. Perhaps he will go up for an occasional hunting party. He is quite busy as a professor of natural philosophy at the university.”

  “Ah.” Elspeth understood she was being warned away. Miss Sinclair practically glowered at her even as she smiled.

  “Actually I have arranged to take an absence from my lectures,” Struan said.

  “What sort of philosophy do you teach?” Lucie asked. “There is so much of it.”

  “Natural philosophy, Miss Graham. Geology, some call it now.”

  “You will find rather a lot of rock in the Trossachs,” Elspeth said lightly.

  He tipped his head. “Rather a lot of rock sounds intriguing, Miss MacArthur.”

  “Miss MacArthur, forgive me,” Lady Rankin said. “I do not recall your debut.”

  “A quiet debut, my lady,” Elspeth said. “Two years ago I attended two balls in Edinburgh in the company of my cousins. I remember a hunt ball at the Lord Provost’s home.”

  “I remember that,” Charlotte Sinclair said. “I was there as well. My family is very good friends with the Lord Provost. I remember seeing Sir John Graham and Miss Lucie Graham. But I do not remember you.” She gave Elspeth a curious glance and smiled up at the viscount. “Struan was not there. He simply could not attend every ball to meet every new girl. Although he inherited a title and is in much demand at parties and outings, he turns down more invitations than he accepts.”

  “I am not one for social functions,” Struan said flatly. “Ah, look. We are being waved forward to advance to the doors now.”

  He extended an arm to Lady Rankin and then offered his other arm to Elspeth. She did not look toward Charlotte Sinclair, but simply smiled acceptance and tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, feeling solid muscle beneath cloth. Behind them, the others paired up to come forward too. Elspeth could feel a gaze like daggers along her back, and knew Charlotte was watching her.

  They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. When invitations were shown, the guards opened the doors to send them through.

  A large crowd preceded them into the vast room. At the far end, Elspeth caught a glimpse of the king. He was head and shoulders above most men there, a large man in height and breadth, resplendent in black and white with a vibrant red plaid sash. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the very plaid the king wore, a fairly new royal Stuart pattern presented to him that week, was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather—with the help of a little fairy craft, so Donal insisted.

  Glancing up at Lord Struan, she wondered what he—or anyone here—would make of that. Struan seemed a very somber, pragmatic sort who would think fairies utter nonsense. Yet she felt a sudden, quite wayward urge to confide in him about the sash and her grandfather’s special talent. But it would be pure foolishness.

  Lifting her head, she glided into the receiving room on Lord Struan’s arm as if she were a princess, and he, indeed, her prince, if only for the moment.

  Noticing the girl’s fingers tightening on his arm, Ja
mes glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Your hand is trembling. No need to be nervous.”

  “I am a bit,” she admitted. “I hope my manners are adequate for this.”

  “I am sure they are perfect.” He glanced down as she looked up. Her eyes were simply entrancing, an unusual gray-green, almost silver in this light. Her oval face was framed in silken black curls. He wanted to touch the gloss of her hair—what a foolish notion. She was a lovely creature with a natural allure, and now he found himself glancing at her as if there was real sustenance in such pure, innocent beauty. She had a fragile quality with a little touch of fire that made him feel protective and intrigued all at once.

  “I am a Gael, born and bred,” she said. “I do not have the refined English of Edinburgh. Nor am I particularly accustomed to elegant gatherings.”

  “So that is your accent,” he murmured. “Soft and graceful. I quite like it. If I may say, you are refreshing amid all these Englishy Scots. A diamond in their midst, and I assure you it will be appreciated.”

  She blinked up at him. A diamond? He did not generally make such comments. In the next moment, a footman announced his party and they were led forward, heels tapping and skirts swishing across the parquet floor toward the king’s reception line. One by one, each person in the line greeted them, shook hands, took gloved fingers, moved them quickly along.

  King George was tall and portly but impressive in black, with a white waistcoat and a military display of badges and epaulets. He even wore a touch of Scottishness in a red plaid sash, newly designated as the royal Stuart plaid. James doubted there was much authenticity to it, but such things pleased many these days. King George, after all, was king of Scots by lineage and right, though he had not visited before, and indeed showed little interest in Scottish affairs. He did have a strong predilection for Scottish whisky, or so James had heard.

  Coming closer, he could see clear traces of excess in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion. The royal voice was robust, deep, and rather pleasant.