by Susan King
“Mr. MacGregor,” she called.
“Kinloch, if you please. Dougal, if it pleases you more.”
“Kinloch,” she said firmly. “Let us agree to forget what happened this evening.”
“Every bit of it?” He turned and walked backward, the keg casually propped on his shoulder. “I think I will remember some of it always, Miss MacCarran.”
So would she. “It was of no consequence. Just the moment, and the fear, I suppose. Sir, will you stop?”
He did. “I cannot forget it, but trust I will never say a word of it to another.”
Relief went through her. “If we keep that secret, and stay quiet about the incident on the road tonight, everyone will benefit. And I promise not to tell the MacIans.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Tell them or not, as you like. They are kin.”
“Reverend MacIan would go to the authorities.”
“You could try to convince him,” he said.
“Do you mean the reverend is involved in this too?”
“He is a kinsman. That is enough.”
“Is it? He is a man of God.”
“Surely your brother the important excise officer told you that the free trade is common all over the Highlands. It happens now and again in Glen Kinloch as well. Those who run it keep silent about it, while those who see it wisely look away.”
“So everyone in Glen Kinloch is either a smuggler or knows a smuggler.”
“We are hardly a nest of criminals here, Miss. The people of the glen are fine honest folk who do what they must to survive.”
“Are you warning me to look away as well?”
He stepped closer, his gaze compelling in the growing darkness. “Take it as a warning if you will,” he murmured. “Your brother sides with the law, which will not sit well with some of us.”
“True, one of my brothers is involved with revenue collection, but I do not think he is assigned to this glen.”
“Of course he is. Wait. How many brothers do you have?”
“Three. One is a revenue officer. One is a physician in Edinburgh. And the oldest has an estate in this region. So does a cousin of ours. And that makes me less than a stranger here.”
“You have other kinsmen here besides the young gauger?” he asked quickly.
“My twin brother is Viscount Struan. His estate lies southeast of here.”
“Struan! I know it well. I heard a Lowlander had inherited it.” He paused. “Did your brother Struan marry a Highland girl, by chance? I heard that, too. The granddaughter of the weaver of Kilcrennan.”
“He married Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan. Do you know her?”
“Her father is my distant cousin.” He narrowed his eyes. “Twin brother, is it? You will be close, then. No doubt Struan will visit you here and you will tell him all.”
“He has been in Edinburgh for some months. He is a lecturing professor there. We do not tell each other everything.” That was not quite true, but she could hold a secret quite well. She was not sure yet what a bargain with Kinloch would mean.
“And the cousin?”
“The Earl of Eldin. We are not close.”
“They say Eldin purchased Auchnashee to make it into a hotel for tourists.” He frowned. “You keep lofty company among your kin.”
“Not really. But you can see, I have ties to the Highlands.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “The gentleman you were with on the hill today. A kinsman? Your brother?”
“Aye, Patrick, the excise officer. I was not aware that you saw us earlier.”
“I watch over my mountain and my glen. Did Reverend MacIan know your brother was a revenue officer when he invited you here?”
“I did not know myself. Patrick was appointed to the post after I had agreed to come here. But he says his jurisdiction is south of the loch, so you may not encounter him...on your sojourns. He is likely to visit me here, to make sure I am safe,” she added, making that boundary clear.
“As laird here, I will guarantee your safety.”
The Laird. Did he mean laird of the glen or the smuggling laird Patrick spoke of? Something thrilled through her, a yearning for adventure, for excitement. She squared her shoulders against it. “You are the one in danger. The king’s men are eager to find one they call the Laird.”
“So I have heard. They know where Kinloch is if they want to talk to him. They suspect me of much, but I am innocent of much as well. Except for kissing a bonny lass in a moment of weakness. And for that I apologize.”
“No need,” she murmured.
“As for what you witnessed tonight, the excise men are often after me. It is the price of a lairdship in a glen where free trade occurs. The laird is to blame if the offenders cannot be found.”
“And the smuggler called the Laird—is that you?”
“I am laird of this glen,” he said stubbornly, jaw set, brows lowering.
“But you hid, and your kinsmen lied to protect you. Why do that?”
“For your protection more than mine. Some revenue officers are worse scoundrels than the men they chase.” He took her arm, and she felt earnestness in him, and intensity. “My kinsmen and tenants will not harm you, I promise. But other rascals come through these hills, so be wary. If word gets out that your kinsman is an excise man, it could go badly for you as well as your brother. It is not in your best interest to speak of it. And it is not in anyone’s interest for you to stay in this glen.”
“I only arrived today, and already I have been hauled about in most uncommon fashion, threatened with pistols and—and—” She paused. “My brother wants me to leave too, and—”
“Your brother is wise. Listen to him.”
“—and now the laird of the glen wants me to go too! I came here through arrangement with the Edinburgh Ladies Society for the Education and Betterment of the Gaels. And I agreed—”
“The what?”
She repeated the name. He huffed a laugh. “It is not amusing,” she said. “I made a promise. I agreed to teach until summer. School begins soon, and I cannot leave.” She lifted her chin. “I will not leave.”
He set a hand to her shoulder. Again Fiona felt a warm, indefinable magic flow from his touch into her. It had overtaken her earlier and melted reason and resistance. He bent his head. For a moment she thought he might kiss her again. Her head tilted back, her body waited.
“Best you go, lass,” he said softly. “I will speak to the reverend myself. In the morning, I will send a gig and driver to take you to Auchnashee. If there are expenses for your return to Edinburgh, I will cover them myself. You may keep the rocks,” he added.
“You have neither right nor cause to dismiss me.”
“It is for your own welfare that I do.”
“Only Reverend MacIan can excuse me.” She stepped past him, growing angry now. She could not leave the glen. Already she felt drawn to the place—and its laird. Nor could she explain that she was also here to satisfy her grandmother’s last requests. “I am no threat to your smuggling interests, if that is your worry.” She spun away to walk toward the house.
“Miss MacCarran, wait. Fiona, wait.” Spoken in that deep, mellow voice, her name sounded beautiful, soft, magical. She turned. He took her arm.
In the misty twilight, as he loomed over her, all else faded away. Wildly, impulsively, she felt transfixed, as if he were indeed one of the Sidhe. “Listen to me, lass,” he said. “This is not the time for you to be here. Trust me.”
“I will not speak about what happened this evening. We have a bargain. That should satisfy your doubt.”
“Never bargain with the fairies, they say.”
“So you said before. What do you mean?”
He bent toward her, and her head went back. “Damn,” he muttered, and straightened as a woman’s voice cut through the fog.
“Is that you, Miss MacCarran? Who is that with you?” Mary MacIan’s voice broke the spell that held Fiona rooted in place. She glanced toward the cottage, i
ts door open again, revealing a woman and a glowing hearth in the room.
“Aye, Mrs. MacIan,” Fiona called. “I am just coming.”
“Kinloch here as well, Cousin Mary! I met your guest in the hills, and brought her back.”
“Cousin!” Fiona said as she walked beside him.
“We all know each other, and many are related, as in any glen.”
“Kinloch, you rascal! You as well. Come in, both of you.” Mrs. MacIan beckoned and stood back. “Did you bring me a cask? Lovely lad! Is it the fairy sort this time?”
“Just the usual sort,” he answered.
Fiona looked up, curious. “The fairy sort of what?”
“Whisky,” he murmured. “A secret brew.”
“I want nothing to do with it,” she said, head high, and hurried ahead of him.
“Kinloch whisky is always welcome, and so is its bonny braw laird!” Mary MacIan smiled, hands folded, face crinkling. She was a tiny woman with a froth of white hair spilling out from a white cap. Her plain gown and tartan shawl hung loose on her small frame. As Fiona and MacGregor came inside, the laird bent his head to clear the lintel.
Fiona set her knapsack on the floor, and MacGregor set the keg on a table beneath a window. Standing in the small, simply furnished front room of the cottage, he looked large, imposing, handsome and mysterious. He smiled as Mary MacIan embraced him.
“I am sorry, dear, I cannot stay for long.”
“Aye, there’s gaugers about tonight for sure,” Mary said. “The lad was here earlier and told me of officers out on the road. Did you meet them?”
“All is well. Give my best to the lad.” He stepped toward the door.
“The lad?” Fiona asked.
“The Reverend, my grandson,” Mrs. MacIan said. “He promised to take you around the glen tomorrow afternoon, Fiona, so he will be back tomorrow.”
“That is wonderful,” Fiona said, looking pointedly at Kinloch. “I am looking forward to it.”
“A pity Miss MacCarran must leave the glen in the morning,” he said, gazing with equal intensity at her. She narrowed her eyes.
“She just arrived today!” Mary MacIan looked astonished.
“And I am enjoying my stay here. I will not be leaving.” Fiona walked to the door and opened it wide. “Good night, Kinloch.”
“Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head politely, leaned to kiss Mary MacIan on the cheek, and stepped outside. Fiona shut the door firmly behind him.
“I wish he would stay,” Mary MacIan said. “Such a lovely lad, is Dougal.”
Fiona sighed, willing her heart to slow, her hands to stop shaking. The attraction she felt toward him was surprisingly strong, yet she told herself her reaction was just the result of an unexpected adventure in the romantic Highlands. He was a rogue, and she would well to avoid him until she left the glen.
“Och, hear the dog barking outside!” Mary said. “She will have heard the laird and come running. She loves that lad fiercely and would follow wherever he goes if we let her. She has gone all the way to Kinloch House, she has, and he brings her back each time. Och, I must get her in for the night, and out of the dark and the mist.” She opened the door. “Maggie! Maggie, come in!”
Hearing a dog barking out in the yard, Fiona went to the door. “Maggie!” she called helpfully. Through the darkness, she saw the black and white spaniel she had met earlier in the day, tail wagging like quill feathers. The dog was jumping to greet the man walking away from the house.
Kinloch bent to pet the dog. The mist swirled around him, and as he straightened and shooed Maggie home again, he turned to gaze back at the house. Fiona could feel his gaze upon her. He lifted a hand, then strode away, vanishing.
She lifted her chin. She would not leave. The bond she felt with this glen was fixing itself already in her heart, despite her encounter with its laird.
Maggie arrived then, jumping to the step and over the threshold, her tail brushing Fiona’s skirts. Stooping to pat her shoulders and welcome her home, Fiona closed the door.
Dawn’s silvery sheen and the chill of morning woke her early. Soon she was pouring steaming cups of tea for Mrs. MacIan and herself, while the woman cooked savory sausages over the hearth fire. Hearing a clattering of hooves and wheels, Fiona looked up.
“Is that my lad Hugh, come to take you round the glen so early?” Mary asked. Fiona went to the door and Maggie launched past her, barking. Fiona stepped outside and gasped.
A black carriage drawn by two bay horses was coming up the earthen path from the lochside road. Wheels creaking, heaving like a beast, it lumbered forward.
“A coach?” Mary set the sausages on a plate and hurried toward the door.
“Aye.” Fiona folded her arms, scowling as she remembered Kinloch’s promise.
“That’s the old coach from Kinloch House.”
“Is it,” Fiona said, pinching her lips together.
“And Hamish MacGregor driving it. He is one of the Laird’s uncles. What does he want here? Well, at least Kinloch is getting some use out of the old thing. The laird’s grandfather won it after a night of playing cards. But fine coaches are not meant for Highland roads,” Mary added. “Perhaps they are carrying a load o’ whisky. We could all make a profit. Oh,” she said, glancing at Fiona as if she had said too much.
“I believe Kinloch is sending his coach for me,” Fiona said. “He wants me to leave the glen. He says the school does not need a teacher at this time.”
“Ha! He knows how much we need a teacher,” Mary muttered, stepping into the yard. The coach drew up in front of the house, shuddering to a stop, horses blowing and shaking their heads, thick manes gleaming. The old vehicle swayed, joints and brakes squealing.
“Hamish MacGregor, get down from there!” Mary called.
“Greetings, Mary MacIan. I prefer not to get down. I am in a hurry.”
“Then I will pull your ears off when I see you next in kirk, for ruining my yard,” Mary said. The coachman sighed and began to climb down.
Maggie barked and ran circles around the coach while Fiona walked outside. She lifted a hand against the morning sun, looking up at driver and coach.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran,” the driver said as he stepped to the ground. He was a solidly built man of middle age with a round, mild face and a wild mane of silvery hair. He wore the shabby but comfortable outfit common to many Highland men—old jacket and trousers, plaidie across his chest, flat bonnet tilted on his head. “I am Hamish MacGregor, uncle to the Laird o’ Kinloch. He sent me here.” He doffed his cap briefly.
“How nice to meet you,” she said.
“Why did Kinloch send you here?” Mary asked.
“He said the lady wants to leave the glen. Pity, with her just arriving, and we needing a teacher, but if she wants to leave us, she shall.”
“It is no pity at all,” Fiona said. “I am staying.”
“Och, the Laird told me to take you to Auchnashee. I will wait if you need time.”
“Thank you, but you may go, Mr. MacGregor,” she said. “Please tell Kinloch that I am content to stay.”
“And tell him his coach is better used to carry whisky about,” Mary said.
“Hah!” Hamish looked at Fiona. “Miss, are you certain of it?”
“I am.”
“These are Kinloch’s best packhorses,” Mary said, walking over to pat their noses, two handsome bays with long pale manes and creamy feathering around their ankles. “Groomed very fine, I see, all combed out.”
“Aye, Andrew and I did that, and greased the wheels o’ the carriage so the lady could ride in comfort, rather than be embarrassed riding in a plain cart.”
Fiona blushed. So he had heard about that. What else had he heard?
“Well, take it back to Kinloch,” Mary said. “And let those horses out to graze. They are not used to harnessing. Just pannier baskets,” she added wickedly, and Hamish chuckled.
“Och, very well. But the Laird will not like it.”<
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“Tell him you did your best, and it is no fault of yours,” Fiona said.
“And tell him he will see Miss MacCarran on the first day of school,” Mary said. “The lad is out reminding families in the glen to send their young ones to the glen school to meet the new dominie. I will not tell the lad his visits were in vain!”
“So be it. Miss MacCarran, I am sorry,” Hamish said.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Will you have tea and sausages with us?”
“Oatcakes too, and plenty to spare,” Mary added.
“Aye, and thank you. If I may, I will bring some back to the Laird. He likes Mary’s cooking.”
“Take some to him and Lucy too,” Mary said as she ushered Hamish into the cottage.
Following them, Fiona wondered if Lucy was the laird’s wife. At the thought, her stomach wrenched. If he had a wife, she thought, the man was indeed a rascal.
Again she reminded herself that she had been wrong to accept and enjoy his kisses, and very wrong to dream of him last night, waking in a warm haze of pillows and plaid spread, and thinking herself still in his arms.
“Come, Maggie!” She whistled the dog inside. Hearing a sound in the distance, Fiona paused to glance over her shoulder. Was that—bagpipes? Already the note was fading. She saw only the shabby coach, two horses nuzzling at grass, and far blue hills beneath a blue sky. A few sheep ambled like pale dots high on the steep slopes. Perhaps their shepherd played for them, she thought.
The sound came again. A tune. She stood listening, glancing. No one was about.
She would not have been surprised, just then, to see a tall, dark-haired man in a rumpled plaid watching from a distance to make sure she boarded his coach. Let the infuriating Laird of Kinloch assume she would do his bidding, and let him go about his day. No doubt that day included something illegal.
She smiled. Let him be surprised to find her disobediently still here, she thought, shutting the door firmly. He had no right to expect her to obey his demands, even if this was his glen.
Chapter 5
Drone and melody filled the air, cresting off the mountain and returning faint and rich, a quavering that soared over the glen. The sound filled him inside so that he need not think, nor watch for the coach rolling toward Auchnashee carrying the bright and lovely lass he would never see again.
