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Authors: To Wed a Highland Bride
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fascinated by Donal’s tale of his son, who Donal said had chosen to stay in the fairy realm forever.
Well, at least the fairies would be dry and out of the rain, Elspeth thought wryly. She stood, wiping a muddy hand over her brow, and studied the high rock. Shivering, she gathered her green plaid shawl snugly over her short jacket. Of the long sort called an arisaid, the shawl covered her head to knee in old Highland tradition. Pinned at the neck, it protected fromthe elements, but it was growing as soggy as the hem of her dress.
Spanning her hands over the rock, she moved along, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed then, and she jumped a little. She had to hurry, and find shelter soon until the storm abated. It was not safe, now, for her to travel over open moorland.
Just then she heard a dog bark, and a man call out. She whirled to look through the sheeting rain, stepping forward, her foot placed just where muddy water sluiced down the hill. Her heel went out from under her, and she tumbled and slid downward. Bumping, shrieking, she soon landed at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled around her, legs sprawled. Slowly she sat up and pushed the plaid away from her face.
And saw black boots standing an inch deep in mud. Looking up, she gazed at buff trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves on strong hands, a brown jacket, and a fine but damp neck cloth—
Lord Struan stared down at her.
No garden statue, no fairy, nor an eldritch hag sprawled at his feet, James realized: just a wet, bedraggled girl in a muddied plaid and gown. Her face was obscured by the green plaid, but he quickly noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from neat ankles and calves encased in soggy stockings and sturdy leather shoes to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts straining against wet fabric. The rest of her, under the bedraggled tartan, looked to be enticing as well.
“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “May I help you?”
Gasping, she shoved her skirts down rapidly, and pushed back the plaid. He saw a heart-shaped face and black hair in curling tendrils; then large eyes of a gray-green, just now the silvery color of the rain, looked up at him.
“Miss MacArthur,” he said, hiding his astonishment behind nonchalance. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”
“Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”
Stifling his next response, he offered his hand. She refused and stood, wincing. “I’m fine, sir,” she said, as he extended his hand again.
He doubted that, judging by the way she favored one foot and hopped about a little. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?”
They were both drenched, and water ran from the brim of his hat. When she moved, muck sloshed his boots, her shoes. He waited with a polite smile, despite the absurd circumstances.
“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said, as if they stood in some gas-lit parlor in Edinburgh rather than in a soaking rain while muddy water runneled around their feet, and thunder rumbled. “I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.”
James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”
“Excellent. I must go. My apologies for intruding.” Turning, she stepped, winced again, one arm flailing as her heel faltered in the mud. James snatched at her arm.
“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk off in a thunderstorm.” He turned with her toward the house.
As they took another incline and followed the stoneterraced steps that led through the wet, raggedy garden, he noticed that the girl was having real difficulty walking. The rain was lashing nearly sideways now. Elspeth MacArthur drew the plaid over her head, and hurried alongside him toward the house.
Oddly, James realized that they were both limping, almost in a rhythm. But the girl was having trouble—she paused more than once to rest. Lightning cracked nearly overhead, and the wind whirled about
Well, at least the fairies would be dry and out of the rain, Elspeth thought wryly. She stood, wiping a muddy hand over her brow, and studied the high rock. Shivering, she gathered her green plaid shawl snugly over her short jacket. Of the long sort called an arisaid, the shawl covered her head to knee in old Highland tradition. Pinned at the neck, it protected fromthe elements, but it was growing as soggy as the hem of her dress.
Spanning her hands over the rock, she moved along, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed then, and she jumped a little. She had to hurry, and find shelter soon until the storm abated. It was not safe, now, for her to travel over open moorland.
Just then she heard a dog bark, and a man call out. She whirled to look through the sheeting rain, stepping forward, her foot placed just where muddy water sluiced down the hill. Her heel went out from under her, and she tumbled and slid downward. Bumping, shrieking, she soon landed at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled around her, legs sprawled. Slowly she sat up and pushed the plaid away from her face.
And saw black boots standing an inch deep in mud. Looking up, she gazed at buff trousers, a walking stick, gray gloves on strong hands, a brown jacket, and a fine but damp neck cloth—
Lord Struan stared down at her.
No garden statue, no fairy, nor an eldritch hag sprawled at his feet, James realized: just a wet, bedraggled girl in a muddied plaid and gown. Her face was obscured by the green plaid, but he quickly noted that she was slim and well-shaped, from neat ankles and calves encased in soggy stockings and sturdy leather shoes to her slender frame, small waist, and full breasts straining against wet fabric. The rest of her, under the bedraggled tartan, looked to be enticing as well.
“Miss.” He leaned down to extend a hand. “May I help you?”
Gasping, she shoved her skirts down rapidly, and pushed back the plaid. He saw a heart-shaped face and black hair in curling tendrils; then large eyes of a gray-green, just now the silvery color of the rain, looked up at him.
“Miss MacArthur,” he said, hiding his astonishment behind nonchalance. “How pleasant to see you again. What the devil are you doing in my garden?”
“Lord Struan,” she said. “You need not swear.”
Stifling his next response, he offered his hand. She refused and stood, wincing. “I’m fine, sir,” she said, as he extended his hand again.
He doubted that, judging by the way she favored one foot and hopped about a little. “Are you sure? Well then, what can I do for you?”
They were both drenched, and water ran from the brim of his hat. When she moved, muck sloshed his boots, her shoes. He waited with a polite smile, despite the absurd circumstances.
“Welcome to Struan, my lord,” she said, as if they stood in some gas-lit parlor in Edinburgh rather than in a soaking rain while muddy water runneled around their feet, and thunder rumbled. “I hope you are enjoying the Highlands.”
James inclined his head. “I’m quite enjoying them now.”
“Excellent. I must go. My apologies for intruding.” Turning, she stepped, winced again, one arm flailing as her heel faltered in the mud. James snatched at her arm.
“Come along,” he said firmly. “I am not about to let you walk off in a thunderstorm.” He turned with her toward the house.
As they took another incline and followed the stoneterraced steps that led through the wet, raggedy garden, he noticed that the girl was having real difficulty walking. The rain was lashing nearly sideways now. Elspeth MacArthur drew the plaid over her head, and hurried alongside him toward the house.
Oddly, James realized that they were both limping, almost in a rhythm. But the girl was having trouble—she paused more than once to rest. Lightning cracked nearly overhead, and the wind whirled about
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