by Susan King
“Not you,” he said. “You are too strong.”
Fiona shook her head. She had come close to being a widow rather than a bereaved cousin. Archie had been everything to her, and they had talked of marriage, even elopement, being third cousins. But she had been young, and now she was determined never to make the mistake again of loving someone so completely that she would give up her life for him—only to lose him so suddenly. She should have learned to avoid hurt when her parents had died, and she and her brothers so small. Well, now she knew to steel her heart against loving too much.
“Patrick, do go and meet your boat,” she urged. “I promise to return to Edinburgh by summer, with or without fairy drawings.”
“What about the required wealthy Highland husband?” Patrick lifted a brow.
“Is that a contradiction in terms these days? There will not be one here in this poor glen, as you say. I consider many other qualities far more important in a husband than wealth. Though I may yet resign myself to spinsterhood.”
“You are a lovely, intelligent lass. And you have rejected every suitor so far.”
Not Archie, she thought, glancing away. “They were interested in what I might inherit from Lady Struan. Truth is, we all lack a fortune until her will is satisfied.”
“Nonsense, however well meant, is still nonsense.”
A breeze stirred her bonnet ribbons. “It is so beautiful and mystical here, I think I could believe any legend in this place.”
“Not I,” he said. “How much longer will you be?”
“A little while more—it seems a good area for fossils. They could help prove a new theory that a catastrophic flood brought primeval waters as high as these very mountains.”
“No more talk of ancient marine insects,” he groaned, then sobered. “Be careful, Fiona. Glen Kinloch is not all pretty legends.”
“Aye, sir.” She kissed his cheek, and he turned to descend, waving a hand.
Retrieving a small hammer and chisel from her canvas knapsack, Fiona knelt to angle the chisel point against a rock, smacking the handle with a hammer.
Her grandmother’s intentions were not entirely demented, she thought as she wrapped the dislodged stone chunk in a cloth and tucked it in the canvas sack. She would not mind finding a Highland husband with a title and fortune if he was a good man with a good heart.
But her grief over losing her fiancé, Archibald MacCarran, her distant cousin, lingered still. Eight years earlier, he had died a hero on a bloody field of Quatre Bras, just before Waterloo. Her brother James had been injured in the same battle. And she had her own wounds, carrying hidden scars of the heart.
But she had learned to accept her situation, accept losing her dreams of a husband, family, and a home in the Highlands. Grandmother may have wanted her granddaughter to find happiness again. But no magical solution would bring that bliss to her again. Love’s magic was surely gone. She hefted the hammer and chisel again, resuming her work.
Moments later, she stopped as a strange prickling ran along the back of her neck. She felt as if someone was watching her. Then she heard a sound like a crisp footfall.
“Who’s there?” she called, looking around. “Patrick?”
Her voice echoed softly. Shivers ran down her back. Though she breezily dismissed such things, she secretly believed in the possibility of haunts, bogles, and fairies. She was not always the practical, calm, capable—and dull—girl most thought her to be. She still had a bit too much imagination, though she had tucked dreams and hopes away.
The hillside suddenly seemed eerie and deserted. Fiona shivered, thinking of Patrick’s stories of rascals in the hills. Seeing a glint among the rocks, she gasped. But it was just the glitter of quartz crystal, so common in deposits of limestone and sandstone.
She had work to do. Lifting her knapsack, she walked upward.
Chapter 2
The woman moved like a dream through the mist, like a fairy queen in her fog-colored gown. Just a glance told him she was graceful and beautifully made, with a mysterious allure he could sense from where he stood. With such a woman as that, his days, nights too, might be filled with the happiness that eluded him.
Enough dreaming, he thought. Whoever she was, it was imperative to convince her to leave the hillside, indeed the glen, quick as she could.
Dougal MacGregor, the laird of Kinloch, leaned a shoulder against the cave entrance and watched the young woman. She climbed the slope steadily, closer to the surge of the great, dark mountain behind him. Inside, the cave held a valuable cache. Within arm’s reach was a loaded pistol with which to protect it. He stood still, silent, wary.
The lass had come too far and too high into the foothills, and on her own. He found it odd that she had not gone back when her companion had left not long ago. What sort of fellow would leave a lady in the wild hills of Kinloch, where rogues even worse than the laird himself roamed day and night?
Perhaps she was a willful creature. Dougal had noticed that the young gentleman urged her to go with him, but she had staunchly refused, it seemed, until the lad had gone on his way. The lady had stayed to chip away at rocks, strangely enough. He did not know her, but the young man had looked familiar—
“The new gauger,” he muttered.
A new excise officer had been installed at the southern end of Loch Katrine. Dougal had seen him once or twice, although they had not encountered one another yet; he hoped that would be never. Why would a government excise man escort a lady into these hills? Every customs officer in the region knew smuggling scoundrels lurked here. Was the lad so green that he was unaware of the danger?
As one of the worst of those scoundrels, Dougal frowned. Whatever brought the couple into these hills, he would wager it was not tourism.
With a charming disregard for her pretty skirts, the young woman sank to her knees and reached into her knapsack, taking out a small hammer. She struck hard at a rock, breaking off pieces efficiently. Chink, chink, thunk.
Dougal winced in silent amusement. He enjoyed the sight of a pretty lass wielding a hammer so smartly. But he reminded himself that she had no business here, especially if she knew a customs man.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no tourist here to enjoy the scenery; she had a purpose, something to do with rocks. Now she examined the ground. Next she took a notebook from the knapsack and wrote or sketched. A map?
If she and the gauger were spies, that was of utmost concern to him. With a map, excise officers could locate caves and niches where goods were hidden.
Gaugers—and willful young ladies—must be prevented from sketching and exploring here. Dougal would have to dissuade her—and fast.
But when had she come to Glen Kinloch? He had not heard a report of recently arrived strangers—Ah, he thought then. Could she be the teacher his cousin, Reverend MacIan, had hired for the glen school? No, they were expecting an older woman. For years, the dominies sent to teach in Glen Kinloch were either male or middle-aged females. None of them had stayed long, and for good reason.
A tourist, then? She was walking upward again, lifting skirt hems over sturdy boots—she was dressed pragmatically for hillwalking, he would give her that. But every step brought her closer to where he stood in the recess of the cave. He stepped into shadow, watching.
In her fog-colored dress and bonnet, with her nimble grace, she seemed part of the mist and the rock. And his dreams. For a moment, he thought of the sylph-like fairy folk, the Daoine Sìth said to inhabit the hills and hidden places in Scotland. Had he still possessed the romantic nature of his boyhood, he could believe she was part of the magic of these hills. A sprite. A pixie. The very queen of fairies.
Years ago, he had imagined that he had glimpsed the ones who inhabited the hills, and she was none of those. Earthly, she was, and beautiful. She removed her bonnet then and looked up at the mountain.
Dougal sucked in his breath. That bit of haberdashery was unworthy of her. Oval face as serene as a Renaissance Madonna, features delicate;
soft, large eyes under dark brows; the dark gleam of smooth hair coiled in braids. He wanted to loosen that thick silk in his hands, cradle that exquisite face in his hands.
The sooner she left the better for all. Easing away from the cave entrance, Dougal set out down the hill.
Absorbed in her work, Fiona knelt, heedless of mud on her skirts, ignoring the breeze that played her dark hair into loops upon her shoulders. She focused on what lay impressed in the rock. Sweeping her fingers gently over stone, she saw excellent preservations of the exoskeletons of tiny trilobites, little sea creatures whose preserved tracks were clear evidence that the area had been covered in water a long time ago.
“James will be so pleased,” she murmured, tapping the hammer around its edges. Limestone was grainy and soft, as rock went, and the piece broke away easily. She tugged it free.
“Miss.”
The male voice, deep and rich, startled her so that she gasped, looking up.
A man stood on the rise above her, one booted foot propped on a rock, a kilt draping over the powerful thigh. Leaping to her feet, nearly tripping, she grabbed the edge of an upright boulder to keep from falling.
“Who—who are you?” she asked breathlessly.
He stepped down through thick fog to extend a hand toward her. “Come up to me,” he said, fingers beckoning.
Fiona stared. Standing above her on the rocky slope, he seemed fierce, powerful, and wholly not of this earth. Tall and dark-haired, in a kilt of muted dark tones with a brown wool jacket, he looked like a Highlander from decades ago, as if he had stepped out of time. His legs were strong and muscled, swathed in thick stockings to flat knees. Chestnut brown hair sifted in waves to his shoulders, and the shadow of a dark beard dusted his jaw. His eyes, narrowed beneath a smudge of straight black brows, had a hazel green hue. He glared at her.
“Who are you?” she managed again, heart pounding. She had heard stories of the Sidhe, an ancient fairy race of tall, magnificent beings. They sometimes appeared to humans, even stole them away. James’s wife Elspeth claimed her own grandfather and father had been taken by fairies. Elspeth was a charming storyteller, and no one believed it was true.
But this handsome stranger, appearing out of the mist, made it seem possible.
“Are you one of the Fey?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He beckoned again with long, nimble fingers. “Miss. Come up to me.”
She stepped back, her gaze never leaving his—somehow she could not look away. Then she turned, ran, and stumbled on the rocky terrain. The Highlander was instantly there, grabbing her arm, drawing her toward him in a strong grip.
“Come with me,” he said.
“No!” She pulled back. “You would steal me away!”
“What?” He looked down at her, the steep angle making him seem like a giant. “Who the devil do you think I am?”
“One of the—er, the Sidhe.” She realized how foolish it sounded.
He chuckled. A warm, delightful laugh. “Not bluidy likely.”
Fiona felt a hot blush rising. The man was perfectly real, and she was a perfect idiot. “What was I to think when you appeared out the mist, looking like a ghost, or a mythical being?”
“I would credit you with more sense. You seem a practical woman. Have you never seen a Highlander wearing the plaid?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “You could have given me some warning before startling me like that.”
“I beg your pardon.” He inclined his head, dark hair sliding over his brow. He seemed amused. “Truly, I didna mean to startle you.” He released her arm.
Setting a hand to her bonnet against a gust of wind, she stepped back. “I think I must go.”
“I think you must come with me.” He reached out. She evaded him, snatching up her knapsack and hammer. Before she could turn to run, he had her by the arm, drawing her to him, his hold threatening—and yet, somehow, she felt something protective in it.
“I am expected by my companions. They are looking for me even now!”
“Aye so?” He turned with her and walked across the slope rather than down. Alarmed, Fiona tried to break free, but his strong grip guided her quickly, half dragging her with him.
“Let me go!” Still clutching the hammer in her free hand, she struck his forearm, hearing a bruising thunk as the iron head hit thick wool over taut muscle.
“A mhic Ifrinn!” Son of hell, the man swore in Gaelic. “Give me that,” he barked, snatching the hammer. “I mean you no harm. I just want you gone from here. These hills are not safe.”
“I was quite safe until you accosted me,” she pointed out, stumbling along beside him, trying to keep pace with his long, purposeful stride. Where was he taking her? “You have no right to handle me so, or to order me out of here.”
“I do. This is my glen. I am MacGregor of Kinloch.”
“Your glen?”
“It is deeded to me as the laird. And tourists are not allowed to wander here.”
“I am not a tourist, Mr. MacGregor. I was invited to stay here in the glen.”
“The terrain is treacherous,” he was saying. “Only the locals know the safe paths through the hills. Rogues and smugglers are often about, night and day.”
“Are you one of them?” She looked up at him. He had dropped her hammer into a pocket, but her bag held some hefty rocks that could serve as weapons.
“Give me that bag,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He took the knapsack from her shoulder and hoisted it to his own, its contents clunking. “What the name of the devil is in here?” He muttered part of it in Gaelic.
“Rocks.”
“From my glen?”
“I will put them back if it troubles you.”
“Keep them. We have plenty of rocks. If it is gold or treasure you search for, there is none of that here. We would all be wealthy in this glen if it was so.”
“I am not looking for gold. I am a fossilist.”
“A what?”
“An amateur fossilist. I study rocks for imprints of ancient life forms.”
“Interesting.” He did not sound interested at all as he pulled her along. “Come this way. It is a shorter distance to the road. Is there a carriage waiting to take you to Auchnashee?”
“Auchnashee? No.” The man had the manners of a beast, she thought, unlike any privileged landowner she had ever met. “You claim to own this glen, Mr. MacGregor? Are you an earl or a viscount, to possess so much land?”
“I do not own it outright. In Scotland, the land, but for certain regions, is owned by the Crown and deeded back to the Scots. I hold the inheritable rights to Glen Kinloch. But I have no fancy title such as you are used to in the Lowlands.”
“I am used to no such thing. You are hurting me.” She pulled against his grip.
“Your father must be someone of note to have a fine lady for a daughter,” he continued.
“My father and my mother died when I was small. My grandfather was a viscount, and that passed to my brother. Why are you curious about it? It is not a great inheritance.”
“It is enough, and your family is fortunate for it.”
“I—well, I suppose we are,” she admitted.
He looked at her keenly, head tilted. His irises were a clear hazel green, framed in thick lashes and straight black brows; striking, beautiful eyes for a man, especially a brusque and roguish one, she thought. He nodded thoughtfully.
“An orphan, despite your fine upbringing. My parents also died when I was a boy. My sympathies to you and yours.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised at his gentle tone.
“My father left me a simple lairdship with a house and some land. I am a farmer, as are most of my tenants and my kin. Kinloch is a small glen far from the main roads and civilization. Earls and such—few of that sort would live here.”
“I know some who would like it very much. An earl of my acquaintance has purchased a hotel at Auchnashee.” She did not add that he was her cousin.
“Then that is where you should be staying. I know of him. He is one of those who buy up Scottish land to put up shooting lodges and sheep runs, or to attract tourists who come to stare at our homes and our hills. None of them belong here and I will not sell my lands. So if you mean to tell your friends about this place, so that they can press me to sell, do not. Now come ahead, and hurry.”
“I have no such intention. Why such a hurry? Is someone after you?” She glanced over her shoulder.
“Bogles, ghosts, and the Fey,” he answered wryly. “Or perhaps smugglers.”
“Your own ilk?” She dug in her heels, forcing him to stop. “Sir. Enough. Give me my things and I will trouble you no further.” She pulled back, but he held her arm. “There are rogues about, so I understand, led by the laird of the smugglers, or some such. I suspect you are one of them.”
“If I was, would I say? Certainly not. But have no fear. I mean only to warn you to leave this place for your own safety. People, especially tourists, should not venture through these hills or through my glen without good reason.”
“Why are you here, if it is not safe?”
“I have the right of it. And I like to keep others, like you, off my lands.”
“I said I am not a tourist. I am here to search for fossils,” she said. “The imprint of ancient flora and fauna left in masses of rock. They provide a geological record of the earth.”
“I know what fossils are,” he said impatiently. “You can study them elsewhere in Scotland, not here, not now. Come.”
Tugged along by his strength, hurrying in his wake, Fiona concentrated on her footsteps along the rugged terrain. Thin, drifting mist obscured the way as they rushed along.
MacGregor stopped short, fingers tightening on her wrist. Fiona stopped too. Hearing the clop of horse hooves and the rattle of a cart, she moved her head, trying to determine the direction of the sound through the fog.
“A pony cart?” she asked.
“Aye, coming along the drover’s track that runs to the road and the loch. This way,” he said, pulling her along. Her booted toe hit a rock and she stumbled.
