Page 42 of A Rogue in Twilight
“Halloo! Lord Struan, halloo!”
“Who is that?” he asked. Elspeth had noticed two men walking along the mucky road toward the house. One wore a kilt, jacket, and dark bonnet with a plaid over his shoulder. The other was dressed in black with a tall black hat and a plaid over his shoulders for protection.
Elspeth felt her stomach sink. “Mr. Buchanan and his son,” she explained. “He is the blacksmith, and his son is the kirk minister down the glen. They will draw a quick conclusion seeing us together, and news will travel fast. The Buchanans do not guard their tongues well, and neither do their wives.”
“Then we may as well meet our fate.” James took her arm to escort her toward the stile in the low stone wall that separated Struan lands from the road.
“Och, the new laird, and Miss MacArthur too!” the older man said.
Elspeth smiled. “Good day, Mr. Buchanan. Lord Struan, this is Mr. Willie Buchanan, our local blacksmith, and his son, Mr. John Buchanan. He is the reverend in the glen kirk.”
“Good to meet you,” Struan told both, shaking their hands. Looking like old and younger twins, the Buchanans tipped their hats to Elspeth and then to the viscount.
“It is a fine soft day,” the blacksmith said.
“Aye,” Struan said. “Hopefully it will clear soon.”
“The clouds are thick yet, and dark over the mountains to the west there. More rain to come,” Willie Buchanan predicted.
“I would have come sooner to welcome you, sir,” said the younger man, “but for the poor weather and my parish duties. What a surprise to find you here, Miss MacArthur,” he continued. “I thought you would be at Kilcrennan, snug by the fireside. We stopped there this morning to see if all was well after the storm, and Mrs. Graham said you were away to Margaret Lamont’s house. She thought you might be safely there.”
“I—set out for Margaret’s house but had some difficulty in the storm. Lord Struan, ah, came to my assistance.”
“Did he now?” The elder narrowed his eyes. “What sort of assistance?”
“A dry roof and an offer to drive the young lady home,” Struan said.
“I see,” the old smith said. Elspeth wondered what he meant. “We should be on our way, just walking about to see if all is well after the big storm. And off to see that my auld mum is well too. We cannae take the pony cart, see, the roads are that bad. The river and stream are floody, too. And the stone bridge down the way is washed out. Some part of it collapsed, and it is not safe for the time being.”
“Oh! But I would need to go home that way.”
“You will have to take the long way over the hills,” the young reverend said. “No cart or gig can take the road or the bridge until things dry up again and some repair can be made. Perhaps Mr. Lamont can do that, he has a good hand with such things.”
“Is MacKimmie here, then, and Mrs. MacKimmie?” Willie Buchanan asked. “I have greetings for Mrs. MacKimmie from my wife.”
“Not at present, Mr. Buchanan, but I will tell her you called,” Struan replied.
“Not home? Perhaps MacKimmie then.”
“Not here at the moment,” Struan said.
“Ah.” Mr. Buchanan glanced at his son. “Not here.”
Elspeth shivered at the implication and drew her plaid closer, for the drizzle increased while they stood there. The gentlemen adjusted hat brims and jacket collars against the wet and the wind, and she hoped the Highlanders would hurry onward, but they did not seem to be in a hurry. Shifting her weight to her uninjured foot, she glanced up at James, and saw the quick look exchanged between the Buchanans.
“Yer Southron housemaids ran off, I heard,” Mr. Buchanan said. “We saw yer groom taking the lasses down the road just yesterday.”
“Apparently they dislike ghosts and fairies,” Struan said. “I am not much troubled by them myself.”
“Och, Lowlanders,” the blacksmith said. “Well, it is custom in this glen to avoid Struan lands when it is time for the fairy riding. You are a brave man to stay here at this time. Did no one warn you?”
“I am aware of the tradition, but decided to stay.”
The elder Buchanan nodded. “Elspeth MacArthur, are you sure himself understands the whole of it?”
“He does,” she answered, lifting her chin.
“You will find Highlanders a superstitious lot, Lord Struan,” the reverend said. “The people of this glen have their legends and traditions. We are all familiar with them. But some put real faith in them.” He looked at Elspeth. “It is not a matter of religious faith, nor paganism or godlessness, as some suggest. It is part of the unique Celtic character. As pastor, I let it be and find no harm in it.”
