Sarah Gabriel Read Online Free PDF

smiled at Elspeth, and Miss Sinclair frowned. “Ah, we may now advance to the doors.”
    He extended an arm to Lady Rankin, and offered his elbow to Elspeth. She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath. Behind them, his brother and Sir Philip escorted Lucie, Fiona, and Charlotte.
    They approached the doorway where the Royal Archers stood, bows crossed. Once invitations were shown, the doors were opened and they were waved through.
    Beyond the crowd preceding them, Elspeth could see the king, taller than most men there, resplendent in black and white with a sash of red Stewart plaid. Elspeth smiled to herself, aware that the plaid presented to the king that week was of Kilcrennan make, woven by her grandfather, with the help of fairy craft.
    Glancing at Lord Struan, she wondered what he, or anyone, would make of that.
    He seemed the sort of somber, perfect gentleman who would think fairies utter nonsense, yet she felt a wayward urge to confide in him. Instead, she pressed her lips together in silence, lifted her head, and glided into the receiving room on Lord Struan’s arm as if she were a princess, and he, indeed, her prince—just for the moment.
     
    Noticing the increased pressure of the girl’s fingers on his arm, James glanced down at Miss MacArthur. “Nervous?” he asked.
    “A bit,” she admitted. “I do hope my manners are adequate for this.”
    “Why so?” He watched her, entranced by her beautiful eyes—gray-green, almost silver. Her heart-shaped face was framed by hair so glossy black, silken-rich, that he wanted to touch it. The lovely creature had such a natural allure that he looked at her again and again, as if he could take sustenance from her pure and unassuming beauty. A fragile quality, coupled with a touch of fire, made him feel protective and intrigued all at once. He knew Charlotte, just behind them, must be fuming. “Your manners are perfect.”
    “I am a native Gaelic speaker,” she said. “I do not have the refined English of Edinburgh, let alone England, and I am not accustomed to elegant gatherings.”
    “I rather like your accent,” he murmured. Her soft, graceful manner of speech was refreshing in this gathering of boisterous, Englishified Scots. “You would shine in any gathering, Miss MacArthur, like a diamond. Here we go, then.”
    They were announced by a footman who led their party forward, heels tapping on the parquet floor. Tall King George was portly in black cutaway and trousers, white waistcoat, and military touches on his costume in plaid sash, badges, and epaulets. James, coming closer, could see the traces of excessive lifestyle in the king’s jowly face and doughy complexion; the royal voice was loud, deep, and surprisingly pleasant.
    James quietly introduced the ladies in his party, and as each was presented, King George gave the lady a kiss on the cheek, quick passing brushes that barelytouched. “Pleased,” the king said to Lady Rankin, “enchanted. Charmed.”
    “Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan,” James said. The girl stepped forward and made a pretty curtsy, bowing her head, dark curls teasing her slender neck, feathers bobbing. When she rose, King George leaned to kiss her cheek; James heard the moist smack of it from where he stood.
    “Pleased,” the king said, his gaze traveling down, then up to her face. “Lovely.”
    “Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head.
    James introduced the others, then led Miss MacArthur and Lady Rankin toward the man waiting in the receiving line beside the king. Sir Walter Scott, a tall man with gray-blond hair and an amiable face, greeted James with a nimble smile.
    “Struan, excellent to see you here,” he said, extending a hand.
    “And you, sir,” James said. “Sir Walter Scott, you know Lady Rankin. And this is Miss MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”
    “Oh sir, I am very pleased to meet you,” Elspeth MacArthur said, sounding genuinely delighted. “I so admire your