by Susan King
“Is it whisky that burns there?” Fiona asked. She coughed again, waving her hand in front of her face, blinking as the smoky air stung her eyes. The odor of the burning was strong, and the air was hazy with smoke. Dougal coughed too.
“Aye. When whisky is poured into a stream,” he told her, “it can catch a spark and burst into flame, and the stream will be covered in flames until the spirit burns out. In shallow water, like this stream, the fire can burn the length of the spill as it pours downward.”
“A terrible and beautiful sight. Like the end of the world,” Thomas said.
“It just looks like a waste of good whisky to me,” Hamish said pragmatically.
“You have seen this before?” Fiona asked. Dougal and the other men nodded.
“Most distillers will make a mistake at least once that sets a stream burning like hellfire,” Thomas said. “It is part of the risk. But do not be afraid, Miss MacCarran. You are safe with us. Just stay back.”
“I am not afraid. Just—amazed to see this.” Her gaze lingered on the bright dragon’s tail of the burning stream.
Dougal glanced around while they spoke, taking account of those along the banks and the others among the trees. He knew each one—kinsmen, tenants, comrades, young Neill MacDonald, too. The lad stood alone at the top of the stream near the smoldering remains of the hut and his black pot still.
“I will have a word with Neill,” he said quietly, stepping away, then turned back on a sudden thought. “Miss MacCarran, come with me, if you will.” He wanted to keep her near him. This night was fraught with too much risk.
She came with him, plucking her skirts free of the ground, neat boots and ankles, a quick and fit step, a strong and lovely woman—but he could not think about that now. Possibly he should never think on it again.
“Can I help in some way?” she asked, walking beside him.
“Just stay close while I talk to Neill,” he replied. “You have seen more of our enterprise than you should have. I am sorry.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, hoping he could rely on her silence. Hoping he truly could trust her. Certainly he wanted to—but the girl had one brother a gauger and the other a viscount, and she herself was prone to taking notes as she wandered hills where smugglers roamed. He could not risk trusting too soon, but must remain vigilant to protect his friends and the glen. His frown deepened.
“Why would Neill MacDonald pour whisky into the stream?” Fiona asked.
“He may have been testing a sample, and it poured out. Accidents happen too easily at that stage, since we use black powder and flame.”
“Gunpowder?” She sounded surprised.
“Commonly used for proofing spirits, but it must be handled carefully. If the whisky is weak, the gunpowder will not ignite. If the whisky is the proper strength, it will burn clean and go out. But if the brew is too strong, it explodes.”
“And if whisky is in the stream, it catches a spark.”
“Aye. But Neill MacDonald is young and inexperienced as yet. Something similar happened to me when I was near his age.” Dougal held up his left hand, splaying the fingers where a patch of small scars crisscrossed his palm. “I was lucky not to be blinded, or killed outright.”
“Oh, Dougal!” She touched his hand, smoothed her fingers over his palm. The feeling plummeted through him. He drew back his hand even as she spoke. “That must have been painful. Neill is fortunate, then.”
“He is. If all goes well, the batch is proofed, and sealed up in kegs to age. Sometimes it will be aged for years.” He waved to Neill, who raised a hand. “But accidents can happen when proofing a strong new whisky.”
“I wonder if he saw excise men coming, and poured it out into the stream.”
“That can happen too. He might have poured out the proof in haste to avoid being caught with too much of it. Stay here, if you please, Miss MacCarran. I will be back shortly.” Fiona, mo nighean, he had said before, and had nearly said more. Now he felt the need to retreat into caution. He stood too close to the edge, heart in hand, and must step back.
She nodded, coughing again, setting a hand to her mouth against the smoke. He turned away.
As he approached Neill, the lad watched him, eyes wide in distress. Ash smeared his face, hair, shirt. The stream burned less fiercely here, sluicing past the charred hut, while thick smoke drifted on the breeze.
“I am so sorry, Kinloch,” Neill said. “I am so sorry!”
Dougal patted his shoulder. “We all know the risks, lad. I am only sorry that you lost your whisky stores, and glad no one was hurt.”
“I saw MacIntyre,” Neill explained. “I was proofing, and the spark caught, and the fire began. I poured the brew into the stream quick as I could, but it caught flame and spread through the water.”
“It is burning off now and will go out soon. Where did you see the gauger?”
“Coming from that direction.” He pointed south. “When I ran to get water for the fire, I saw the signals out in the hills. The washing was spread out on the hillsides between here and the south end of the glen. I had not seen them earlier.”
“Ah. The linens.” Dougal knew, as they all did, of the simple system long used in the glen to alert others that excise men were in the area. Bedsheets would be spread hastily along the slopes as if drying and bleaching in the sun, a signal method that gaugers often overlooked. “How many customs men?”
“Three along the ridge of a far hill. Big Tam MacIntyre was with them. I could not mistake his size,” he added.
“They may be nearby. If they come this way, there is no evidence of a still, hey. Just a fire in a storage building. Barley and other grains. Understand?”
“Aye. And our good copper still was destroyed,” Neill said glumly. “Blew up. My father paid a good deal for that fine still and copper coil.”
“It can be rebuilt and a new coil purchased. For now, hide away any pieces that survived the fire.”
“Geordie has gone off to do that,” Neill said, referring to one of his brothers. “I am sorry, Kinloch.”
“I blew up my still when I was a lad. You will make more whisky.”
Neill laughed ruefully and peered past him. “Is that the schoolteacher? Pol and Mairi like her very much. They talk about lessons at supper. They have never been interested in schooling before.” He seemed relieved to talk about something else.
“Aye. She is a fine dominie for this glen.” Dougal glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to Fiona, who walked toward them.
“Da says he hopes this one will stay for a while,” Neill said. “He wants me to go to school too. But I am a man now, with no use for schooling.”
“Age makes no difference in education, lad. Take what learning you can get, and you will be a better man for it.” Neill nodded.
Fiona joined them, eyes red-rimmed from the smoke. She held out her hand as Dougal introduced her to Neill. “I am sorry for your troubles,” she said.
The lad shrugged. “As the laird says, we will build another still and make more whisky, and soon have a new batch.”
“Good,” she said. Dougal cocked a brow and smiled a little.
“My uncles and I will stay and help clear the debris as soon as it cools enough,” he told Neill. “Miss MacCarran, the smoke is making you cough. You should go down the hill, and home.”
“I am fine. Neill, you should rest. Come away from here, lad.” Fiona spoke calmly, touching the boy’s arm. Neill seemed to relax a little.
The woman had a serenity about her, Dougal thought appreciatively, and a quiet, capable air that could bring peace to others. He felt that influence himself, he realized. When he was with her he felt good, solid, focused. He had seen her quiet strength the night she had approached the excise men, and saw it again tonight when she had not flinched or crumbled in the midst of chaos and disaster. He was glad she had come with him to follow Hamish.
“Miss MacCarran,” Neill said, “it is not the time to ask, but perhaps I could attend your school? It wi
ll be a while before I have a still again. And it would please my father.”
“You are more than welcome, Neill. Come to school whenever you like.”
In that moment, Dougal realized how deep his own dilemma had just become. He and his uncles agreed the teacher must go. But each moment with her showed that it would be better for many if she stayed. Her pupils needed her.
He needed her.
Scowling against the thought, he quickly changed to a flat smile just as Fiona looked up. Tilting her head, she gave him a puzzled expression.
“I had best go to school,” Neill said. “I am not much of a brewer.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Dougal said. “It will all come right again. Here is your father—we will leave you two to talk.” He turned as Thomas came toward them. Saying his farewells, he took Fiona’s arm as they left.
Although the stream had absorbed most of the burning fumes, sizzle and smoke lingered in the air and patches of flame still burned on the water and along the bank. Hamish, Pol, and others were stamping out small flames on the turf as Dougal and Fiona walked toward them.
She began coughing in earnest. Dougal rubbed her back, thumping gently, then dropped his hand away. “You need better air than this.”
“The wind is clearing the smoke away—oh!” She gazed up, eyes wide. “Look!”
“What is it?” He peered upward, expecting to see smoke or flame.
“Those tiny lights, just there! I saw them earlier and thought they were sparks or a reflection. Do you see them?”
He saw them, but would not say so. He knew very well what they were. “I am not sure,” he said carefully, astonished. Could she see them too?
“Could they be fireflies?” Her shoulder pressed his arm. “So lovely!”
Lovely indeed, he thought, but he was staring at her. She saw them, the fairy lights he had seen as a boy. She saw them too. His mind whirled. He had believed that he alone could see them, as his father had seen them too.
Glancing toward the lights that swirled and glittered like dabs of sunlight, he tilted his head. He had noticed them earlier in the glen, sparkling and spinning among the trees. Whether a warning or a lure, he did not know, but he had thought he was the only one aware of them, magical and mysterious, in the air tonight.
To be sure, he had not seen them often in his life. First with his father, who had explained that the tiny lights were visible only to a special few who could perceive them. They marked the presence of fairies, John MacGregor had said. They were not the fairies themselves, somehow, but signified they were close by, like guardians to that sort. The Fey themselves kept hidden, so legend claimed, and so his father had said. Dougal had seen them only a few times since then. Until now.
Yet Fiona could see them too. Dougal watched her, wondering. She smiled up at him. “Do you see them, there? What are they?” she asked.
“Sparks, or reflections from the fire or the sunset. It is growing late, Miss MacCarran. We should not linger here. Pol can walk you back to Mary MacIan’s.”
He took her elbow to guide her away from there, away from the Fey. They were calling to him after a long absence—and calling the schoolteacher as well.
What that was about, he could not begin to guess.
Chapter 13
“Pol cannot walk the lass home, he has gone with his brother to hide parts of the copper still,” Hamish told Dougal. “And Miss MacCarran cannot walk the glen alone, with Tam MacIntyre out and about.”
Dougal sighed, glancing at Fiona, who had insisted she was fine. Now she stood at the stream bank watching the last of the flames flickering into darkness. She was coughing, holding a kerchief to her mouth. “The smoke is affecting her poorly,” Dougal said. “I will take her up to Kinloch House myself.”
“I wonder if she could cook some supper,” Hamish said.
“She is our guest, Hamish. If Maisie is there, we will ask her to stay and cook a meal, or we will fend for ourselves again. Lucy has gone to Helen MacDonald’s for the evening, and we cannot have it said that the teacher stayed at Kinloch House with only the laird and his kinsmen there. Nor that they treated her like a servant and had her do the cooking.”
“Then see if Maisie is about. But hurry back. We have much work to do here.”
Dougal nodded. “Miss MacCarran,” he called, walking toward her. The sunset poured golden light over her face and hair, and illuminated the gentle curves of her body. She was a vision of grace and beauty, so much so at that moment that Dougal stopped, forgetting his resolve to keep his heart distant.
“Mr. MacGregor?” She turned. “All is well?”
“For now. Come to Kinloch House for a bit to rest and recover from the smoke. I will take you. It is not wise for you to cross the glen alone just now.”
“I thought you were needed here to help the MacDonalds.”
“I will return here. A local girl, Maisie, helps us in the house. I will see if she can stay there the night. You and I would not be alone in the house, if you are worried. My uncles and I will likely be away much of the night dealing with the damage from the fire. You are welcome to stay the night at the house, and we will be sure that you have a companion.”
“Thank you, I would like to rest a bit. But I cannot stay. Mrs. MacIan would worry about me, especially if she hears about the fire.”
“I will send someone to tell her you are safe at Kinloch House.”
“I will go back to her cottage later this evening.”
“Not on your own. Gaugers will be about.”
“I am not afraid of them.”
“You should be. They are unlikely to treat you with respect, even if your brother is with them. And that would cause a problem for you, and your brother—and myself, I assure you.”
She paused, coughing again. “Very well. I will stay for a bit, and we shall see.”
“Aye then. Come with me.” Dougal escorted her out of the smoky woodland and down into the open glen. Taking that route was dangerous enough, he thought as he walked beside her. Though she coughed and sniffled, she kept pace. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw smoke rising and drifting above the trees. Tam MacIntyre and his men would surely investigate it.
“This way.” He walked with Fiona past the trees that hid the distillery and toward the broad path leading to Kinloch House. As they crossed a terrain rough with rocks and uneven ground, they came to a narrow burn. He took her hand to aid her over the water, stepping stone to stone. When they reached the other side, he did not let go of her hand, nor did she pull away. She accepted the support and comfort of clasped hands even once it was unnecessary.
She glanced up. “The lights,” she said. “I see them again, there. How odd.”
“Just the sunset.” He did not look, only tightened his fingers over hers.
The moment she entered Kinloch House, climbing the few steps to its worn oak entry door, Fiona felt at home. Until now she had seen only the crumbling exterior of the tall peel tower, formed by two rectangular sections constructed to form an L-shape. The entrance opened into a stone-floored foyer, with a curving stone stair to the left and to the right, several doors along a corridor.
Sunset light spilled into the hall from windows along the turning stair, turning whitewash and wood to a rosy gold. Once inside, she saw small rooms along the corridor furnished with old, shabby pieces, worn patterned rugs, scarred wood floors. The entry walls were paneled wood, with other walls whitewashed or painted in earthy tones. All seemed simple, worn, comfortable, and inviting.
“It’s lovely,” she told Kinloch. Just then two large hounds careened around a corner and loped forward so fast that Fiona stepped back. Kinloch took her arm.
“Steady,” he said, and she was not sure if he spoke to her or to the dogs—tall and gray, the sort of noble beasts she had seen in old portraits. Despite their majestic appearance, they were clumsy gluttons for their master’s affection as he rubbed their heads and shoulders vigorously. She did, too, laughing when the dogs butted
against her seeking more petting and licking her hands.
She coughed again, for the irritation in her throat had not yet cleared. Kinloch reached out to pat her back and rub her shoulder. Warmth flowed through her, wonderful and indulgent. She sighed, rolling her head, feeling a little like one of the dogs begging for his touch and affection. As his hand briefly comforted her shoulders and neck, Fiona wanted very much to turn into his arms.
But he dropped his hand away and gave the dogs his attention again. “This is Sorcha and Mhor,” he said. “They are useless creatures, but we love them. Let me show you the house. There is not much to it. A simple place, and very old.”
She followed him, the dogs bumping between them as they turned a corner, and looked around. “This is a lovely place!”
“Do you think so? It is just two upright towers with a turning stair between them, and a few rooms off to the sides. Here is the parlor.” He gestured.
Fiona peered inside the small room, with its pale walls, bare planked floor, a worn Oriental rug. It looked well-used, with a settee covered in faded green damask, a red wing chair, an old table with two wooden chairs, and a stout Jacobean cupboard under a window. The fireplace crackled with flames and the musky scent of peat bricks. The table held a stack of books, and a child’s toys occupied the floor in a corner of the room. A modest chamber by many standards, but so cozy and inviting in its simplicity that Fiona longed to sink onto the threadbare settee, pick up a book, and relax. She turned away with Dougal as he crossed the hall.
“The dining room,” he said. Here, a long table and several chairs sat on a shabby rug and corner cupboards were crammed with mismatched porcelain. A fire flickered in the hearth and the room filled with golden sunset light—another cozy, shabby, inviting room, and she longed to sit and rest there. But Kinloch beckoned her along the corridor.
The kitchen had whitewashed stone walls, an arched fireplace, a jumble of cupboards, and a long, heavy worktable. On the hob, a kettle of soup simmered, savory and enticing. Fiona felt so hungry that she licked her lips and hoped her guide would invite her to eat.
