by Susan King
Fergus leaned toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a righteous path,” Dougal murmured. “I learned it from the reverend.”
“Ah. So we are insulted, and carrying a legal amount.”
Dougal nodded subtly, glancing back toward the gaugers sitting their horses in the middle of the road. “Where did they learn about this run?”
Fergus shrugged. “Not from any of us.”
“Kinloch!” Tam called. The sound of a cocking pistol broke the silence.
Dougal touched the gun hidden beneath the swath of plaid that covered him from shoulder to waist. “Mr. MacIntyre, would you disturb the peace of my glen?”
“Bold lad,” Tam growled. He and his deputy—MacCarran, of all lads, Dougal realized—urged their horses forward. “So you are moving the peat reek to a ship on the loch,” Tam said. “We spied one out there earlier.”
“Did you? I know nothing of a ship. Anytime we move whisky, it is from one household to another in lawful amounts. We share it regularly hereabouts.”
“So I am to believe this is all innocent?”
“Believe the truth. Tonight we carry a few bottles of the legal stuff, and sacks of barley kept over the winter. We are taking it to those who need extra stores.”
“Lawful amounts of whisky, with barley to feed the poor?” Tam spat. “Saint Kinloch, is it. MacCarran, I told you to check those panniers. Hurry and do it!”
The younger man dismounted, looking reluctant, and came toward Dougal. “Mr. MacGregor,” he murmured.
“Mr. MacCarran.” Fiona’s brother, he noticed, was a tall, fine-looking young man with dark hair and features that, although longer and harder, looked familiar.
“If I may, sir.” MacCarran walked toward the group of men, and Dougal went with him. Fiona’s brother reached toward the nearest horse, its back strapped with pannier baskets, and peered into the baskets.
Dougal waited as the young man shifted aside small sacks of barley, which was in place merely to serve as packing to stifle the clink of the many glass bottles being transported as that night’s cargo.
Dougal leaned forward. “Patrick MacCarran, good to meet you, sir.”
Patrick looked around. “Have we met?”
“Your sister is the dominie in our glen school. Teaches my niece and others.”
MacCarran frowned. “We have no need to discuss my sister, sir.”
“We do not,” Dougal agreed. “I only want to say she is well thought of here.”
The new guager’s hand stilled on the barley sacks, inches from detecting far too many bottles to pass as local supply. “Say what you mean, sir,” he growled.
“A warning,” Dougal began.
“MacCarran! Hurry up there!” Tam shouted.
“Take your sister away from this glen,” Dougal continued quickly. “There is danger in this glen for her. And for you, sir.”
“Danger! She should stay away from rogues like you.”
“I will keep the rogues away from her myself, I promise you. She should leave here, but she is as stubborn a lass as I have ever met in my life.”
MacCarran almost smiled. “That indeed is my sister.”
“Does MacIntyre know your sister is here?”
“I do not discuss family business with him.”
“Good. See that he stays ignorant of it. Do not trust him in anything.”
“Why should I trust you?” Patrick MacCarran asked low.
“Trust me or not. Just get Fiona MacCarran out of here. It is not safe for her.”
“I will think on it.”
“Just so,” Dougal murmured.
Patrick moved to the next horse, and the next, checking each basket. Dougal knew he must have noted a large number of bottles tucked among the grain sacks that cushioned them. Finally, wordlessly, the young man progressed to Fergus’s pony, opened the panniers and rooted around. He lifted a bottle, upended it to find it nearly empty, and took that and a small grain sack toward MacIntyre.
“What did you find?” Tam demanded.
“A few bottles,” Patrick said. “The panniers hold mostly barley sacks.”
Fergus, standing with Dougal, huffed quietly. “Good lad.”
“Transporting barley is no crime,” MacIntyre growled, “though they will just make more whisky from it. What about the bottles? How many?”
“Not a lot. Most are like these, sir.” He handed the bottle up to his supervising officer, who took it, tugged out its wax plug, sniffed it, and upended it to his mouth to drain the rest of it.
“Bah, already empty!” MacIntre snarled, wiping his mouth. “Good stuff. I doubt they only share it locally. It would sell well, this, and earn good coin.”
“It does seem they are just transporting barley for their own use, which is no crime.” MacCarran handed up the grain sack. “If they carried more whisky than I’ve found, it is in their bellies by now. You can smell it everywhere on them. Some of them can hardly stand upright. A few are giggling like schoolboys. They are fou, sir. Drunk as can be.”
“Fou,” Tam growled, and looked at Dougal. “You devil, Kinloch.”
Dougal grinned, crossing his arms. Fergus wobbled, just then, grabbing hold of his horse’s bridle for good effect. One of his cronies leaned over and retched loudly.
“I will check the damn panniers myself,” Tam said, and began to dismount.
“Take my word, sir,” Patrick said. “It would look better on the report for both of us. I hope you agree that I do my utmost to be thorough and follow orders, sir.”
“So far,” Tam sneered. “But you are an idiot if you think those sneakbaits are not transporting peat reek tonight. Dig deeper into those baskets. Look in the kegs.”
“I took these.” The young officer handed Tam two bottles that he had tucked under his arm—full bottles of Glen Kinloch’s finest. Dougal had not even noticed they had been snatched from the load. Well done, lad, he thought. Bribing his own superior officer, when the fellow did not even realize it, was nothing short of impressive. “Perhaps you will have a use for it,” MacCarran said.
“Hah! But I will look for myself. What the devil—” He glanced past the group at the road. Patrick MacCarran turned, and his mouth dropped open.
Dougal turned, too, and swore under his breath.
A woman walked toward them along the road, leading a dog on a rope. The dark plaid draped over her head covered most of her, but for her skirt hiked high over bare feet. The dog trotted obediently beside her as she neared the men clustered on the road. She kept her head down.
She looked like any Highland housewife, but Dougal recognized Fiona immediately, with Maggie, who too often chased the men through the hills, loving the sport of their nighttime runs. Fiona had not gone home as he had advised her. He began to step forward, but Fergus put up a hand to stop him.
Instead, Patrick MacCarran walked toward the woman, speaking quietly to her for a few moments. She spoke to him softly, then shook her head and passed by him, approaching Dougal, the dog trotting beside her.
“Ah, Kinloch, is it you?” she asked in a clear voice, in good Gaelic.
“You know damn well it is,” he growled in that language, satisfied that MacIntyre, at least, could not understand the words. Maggie bounded around his legs, pleading for the petting he refused her, focusing on the lass. He did not know whether to feel furious, or relieved, or both. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Speaking English? I try,” she said. “Are you bringing the barley for the soup?”
“We are,” he replied, scowling.
“Tapadh leat,” she said, “thank you. My grandmother will be pleased. We have so little. The laird is a blessing in this glen, aye. I am bringing my little dog to the house now. Oidhche mhath, goodnight, sirs.” She walked away, the dog pulling hard on the leash.
Standing by in silence, Dougal felt his heart nearly leap into his throat when MacIntyre looked down at Fiona MacCarran.
“Miss,” the officer
said in a snide growl. “What is your name?”
“Fionnuala. Good evening, sir,” she went on in English, “a thousand wishes for your health and happiness.”
Dougal lifted a brow as the girl murmured the traditional greeting so sweetly to such a scoundrel. As she smiled up MacIntyre, Dougal scowled again. She had never yet smiled at him that way, luminous as sun and moon. Feeling more uneasy the longer she lingered here, he stepped forward. She did not seem to need his protection, but he would be ready all the same.
“Mr. MacCarran,” Fiona said, turning to face her brother directly, “goodnight and a thousand wishes to you as well.” Head high, she walked past them all, tugging the dog firmly along with her.
MacIntyre tightened the reins, turned his horse. He snapped something to MacCarran, who had not yet mounted. The lad walked back toward Dougal.
“Tam says he has no more time for nonsense with you lot,” MacCarran said.
“Good,” Dougal snapped. “What did your sister tell you?” he asked low.
“She wanted to be sure you would be safe tonight. She also said she has no intention of leaving the glen, in case the laird should ask.” Patrick looked hard at him. “Kinloch, keep a care for my sister. And watch your own back.”
Dougal nodded. “I will watch after her. Do not doubt it.”
“Take the barley to the young miss and her grandmother, and to the others who need it,” MacCarran said, loudly enough for MacIntyre to hear. “See to it quick, and return to your homes. From now on, move your goods in daylight. Do you hear?”
“Ah, but young sir,” Fergus said, “we are that busy in the daylight with our flocks and our herds, and we do not have time then to carry the goods we promise to all the homes in the glen.”
“See that you make the time.” MacCarran returned to his horse and mounted.
“You are taking too damn long,” Tam snapped. Then he pointed at Dougal. “You, sir! We will not see you out in these hills again by moonlight or darkness, is that clear? Next time I will bring more men. Mark that well.”
“In my glen I do as I please,” Dougal answered. “Mark that. Goodnight, sirs.”
Tam muttered low, but turned his horse, riding away with MacCarran behind.
Dougal let out a long breath. Fergus glanced at him. “I like your wee teacher. I think she should stay for the whole of her agreement with the reverend. Two months, is it?”
“I may throttle her before then,” Dougal growled. But he breathed out in relief as Fiona and the little dog walked over a rise and out of sight.
Chapter 9
Rain drummed on the windows of the schoolhouse, and the soft squeak and scratch of the chalk added a layer of sound as Fiona wrote on a large, framed slate bolted to the wall. She glanced over her shoulder. The students sat quietly on their benches, working on their assignment to copy her chalked words onto the small slates each one held.
They were concentrating on their work now, and all that morning they had listened intently and seemed happy to be in school, laughing and chatting, passing around slates and chalks and reminding each other to hush.
Fiona added a few more words to her list and drew simple images—cat, chair, cradle and so on. While she worked, chalks squeaked and children whispered.
She was pleased and a bit surprised how quickly the glen school was flourishing. With Kinloch and his uncles seemingly eager for her to leave the glen, she had been uncertain if they might have interfered with progress. But after the events in the moonlight the other evening, she understood. Routine nighttime wanderings in Glen Kinloch might be hindered with a gauger’s sister nearby to see what was happening. They did not trust her—and she could not blame them. Although she would never report what she saw, they could not know that yet.
Her brother, though, had drawn his own conclusions. He had sent a message to Fiona the following day, carried by a man who had beached a small boat in the cove below Mary MacIan’s house and knocked on the door with the sealed note.
Dear Fiona, Patrick wrote, If you are ready to leave Glen Kinloch, send word with Mr. MacGrath, the bearer of this note. He is Eldin’s man. A carriage will arrive for you within a day. If you intend to stay, as I suspect, please tell MacGrath that you are content, and he will understand.
However, should you feel that you are in immediate danger, MacGrath will wait while you gather your things, and bring you to Auchnashee today.
Fiona read the note while the man sat at the table drinking a cup of Mary’s good brown beer, brewed a week earlier. Had the laird of Kinloch told her brother outright that the sister must leave the glen?
That was not going to happen. She looked up. “Mr. MacGrath, please tell my brother that I am content to stay. I will give you a note to deliver to him.”
Now, standing at the slate board, lost in thought, Fiona frowned. Wrong or right, smugglers or none, she would stay, despite other opinions. They were stubborn men, but so was she, and more than a match in determination. She had agreed to teach; she was also here to satisfy the request assigned her in Grandmother’s will—if indeed that could be accomplished at all.
Sighing, she knew very well how complicated that situation had already become. She feared that she had already lost her heart, quickly and unexpectedly, nearly as soon as she had arrived here. But she could not meet Grandmother’s conditions—and help her brothers—by falling in love with a poor Highland smuggler.
Love. The chalk paused on the board. Did she feel that, truly? She longed for marriage, a family, a home of her own. Yet after Archie’s death, she had never expected to feel love, or loved, never thought she might have happiness again.
Not love, but fancy, she assured herself. Just the romanticism of a Highland smuggler on a moonlit night, a man unlike any she had ever known. Whatever feelings she was experiencing sprang from an insubstantial daydream.
Besides, he did not share her feelings. His kisses and kindnesses were only meant to coerce her into leaving the glen, so that his smuggling enterprise would be undisturbed.
Lifting her chin, resolve set, she wrote fiercely on the slate, chalk squeaking.
All of it only made her more determined to stay. She cared about her students, wanted to encourage them, help them learn and improve. She wanted to succeed here. The students and the glen needed a teacher who would stay.
They were quick-witted young scholars and quick learners, and she was working hard to keep pace with them. She spent evenings writing lessons by lantern light until her eyes stung from oil smoke and her fingers were ink-stained. Soon she planned to challenge them further, adding more mathematics, even some geography; she had found a dusty book of maps in a cupboard in the schoolhouse.
Her own work was going well, too, for she was finding time in the afternoons to search for fossils and rock formations, and make sketches and rubbings. Of course she had found no traces of fairies, and never would. But she would find some way to fulfill that request too.
As for the other part of it—marrying a wealthy and titled Highlander—she could not simply find one and demand marriage. And her infatuation with Dougal MacGregor would soon pass, she told herself. She was simply too busy to think about him or look for chances to encounter him. The time would pass quickly until summer came.
If nothing else, she thought with a quick intake of breath, she would consider marrying Lord Eldin—he might be interested, for he seemed to have a fondness for her, a weakness for her, one of her brothers had said once. They were not close cousins. Marriage to the Earl of Eldin would certainly meet the requirement and solve a host of problems.
And stir up others, she thought. Eldin was a cold, mysterious, and selfish fellow, though he had been a good and friendly lad and youth in their childhood. Something had happened to change him. She did not know if she could bear life with a man who had closed off his heart so completely.
Kinloch MacGregor was much the opposite, and no matter how hard she tried, he was never far from her mind.
Still, though she w
alked by his tower house daily going back and forth to the school, she had not seen him for days. When she did next, he would just urge her to leave Glen Kinloch. He did not care about her, she reminded herself. He was only doing what he thought necessary to protect his secrets from a troublesome woman. However unfair his misconception, she should simply ignore it.
Hearing chatter rising behind her, she turned. “Lucy MacGregor, that is enough,” she said crisply. Lucy had been whispering to her cousin Jamie, and now the girl looked up with an innocent smile.
“Lucy, you have so much energy—please fetch fresh chalks from the basket and give them to everyone,” Fiona suggested firmly. Lucy nodded and set to the task. The child had no malice, Fiona knew, only a strong spirit and an impish nature.
She glanced at the two new students who had arrived that morning. Duncan and Sorcha, a young brother and sister, sat quietly working on their slates. She smiled, nodding her approval, and they looked pleased. She was glad that the people of the glen were sending more students as word spread.
Returning to her desk, she took up quill and ink to record a few comments in a leather-covered notebook. Duncan MacSimon, 10, Sorcha MacSimon, 8. Cousins of the laird, she wrote; father is the miller at Drumcairn. They speak a little English. Have a long walk to reach the school, accompanied by an older brother. Starting a new line, she noted, Lucy MacGregor needs more challenges to occupy her mind and energy. Should speak to her guardian.
But the teacher was not quite ready to face Lucy’s guardian.
Standing, Fiona folded her hands calmly. “Good work with the vocabulary, students. Now, let us try something new,” she told them in Gaelic.
Soon she would speak English more often, though she was allowing them time to grow more accustomed to lessons. Picking up a sheaf of papers bound in string, she opened the pages, which she had painstakingly copied one night.
“When I was a girl, I loved the Gaelic songs my Highland nurse taught me. I translated some into English for you. Jamie, please hand the pages around.”
