by Susan King
Content enough for any man, yet lately he wanted more. He had always wanted a family of his own, and being around Fiona had only made that longing more clear. He felt a tumult of desires and dreams, but by the time he sorted them in his mind and heart, the girl would be gone from the glen, and it would be too late for him.
Footsteps crunched on rocks nearby, and Dougal straightened, whirled to see a tall man approaching.
“Kinloch!” Reverent Hugh MacIan smiled a greeting as he came closer, and gestured to the kegs stacked outside the cave. “Nearly done with the storing and stacking, then?”
“Almost. Those are the last of Thomas’s casks.”
“Aye, good. What of the rest of your cache?”
“Some of the lads have taken a number of kegs down to the lochside. Once Thomas’s kegs are inside here, it is enough work for one night, I think.”
“More than enough. And too much movement in the hills can catch attention we do not want, hey. We cannot risk having the lower caves discovered. How much have you left of what was here?”
“A good bit has gone down to the loch,” he said vaguely.
“Ready for shipping when the time comes. I see,” Hugh said.
Dougal nodded, but did not want to share much detail. He trusted Hugh and others he worked with, but was reluctant to share accurate numbers with anyone but his uncles. He kept count of his whisky in his head, and in journals tucked among the books in his library. And—unknown even to his closest kinsmen—he never kept his whisky all in one place. On his father’s example, he stored it here and there, moving it around from caves high in the hills to down by the loch, and kept some of it hidden under the floors of his house. It does not do, John MacGregor had told his son, to trust everyone, lad.
“Sounds efficient. Good,” Hugh murmured. “The sale will be made soon, and the glen will benefit.” He took a leather flask from his pocket and offered a drink to Dougal, who swallowed and handed it back with a grimace.
“MacDonald whisky,” Dougal said. “Not bad, but newer stuff.”
“It has more peat to the taste than I generally like,” Hugh replied.
“Thomas and Neill add peat from the north glenside when they toast sprouted barley over the fires,” Dougal said. “It adds a fine flavor, to my mind. This batch has simply not aged long enough, I think.”
“Glen Kinloch whisky has a more delicate taste,” Hugh agreed, taking another swig from the flask.
“The flowers,” Dougal explained. “This year, the burnside was thick with primroses before we filtered it through. It should be an excellent whisky in three years’ time, and if we can keep it longer, better yet. Generally I like to take the water from higher up the burn in the late summer, when the heather is blooming. Then it gives the brew a honey flavor, but the spring primroses add a light and subtle taste.”
“The heather whisky—that reminds me. The twelve-year batch. Have you been able to set aside casks for Lord Eldin?”
“I have not yet decided if I will sell to him,” Dougal answered.
“The fellow can be unpleasant to deal with,” Hugh said. “Yet he has basic decency, I suppose, despite his cold manner. The money he is offering could rescue this entire glen from the devastation that has plagued other regions in Scotland.”
“Aye, we could possibly have enough to buy back the deed. But it may not be enough to save Glen Kinloch in the future. I want a guarantee. I want all the deeds back, signed in perpetuity to me and to my heirs. And that will take more than Eldin is offering, I think.”
“A fine dream, Kinloch,” Hugh said. “Do not let go of it.”
“Just so,” Dougal said.
Fiona sat up, startled out of a dream that felt so dear and intimate that she clung to it, to the swiftly vanishing sense of being in Dougal’s arms, feeling his hands on her like heaven, playing over her body like a harper caressing strings, so that the heat of it lingered even as she woke. Sighing out, she saw that the room had gone dim, and she reached to the table beside her, looking for flint and candle.
Footsteps on the stone stair—that was the sound that had woken her. She glanced up, hoping to see him. Maisie entered, holding a glass in one hand and a lantern in the other.
“I brought you whisky and honey,” the girl said, crossing the room to set the glass on the table beside the chair. She bustled about, set the lantern down, lit two candles, and turned. “Miss, the laird asked me to stay, but my brother has just come. He says our Da is doing poorly.”
“Oh dear, what is it?” Fiona asked.
“Da was helping to fight the fire earlier but was overtaken with smoke, just as you were. I would like to go to him, but I promised Kinloch that I would stay here with you tonight.” As she spoke, one of the dogs padded into the room, curious. “Try the warmed whisky, Miss, do.”
“Thank you. Maisie, certainly you must go to your father.” Fiona picked up the glass to sip the concoction. The warm remedy slid down her throat, its sudden heat spreading. She coughed, but almost instantly felt her chest clear a little as her breathing deepened and opened.
“Helps the lungs and throat, see,” Maisie said approvingly. “It is what my father needs, but my brother is too much of a dimwit to make it for him. My mother is no longer with us, and so I do for them both.”
“Please do not stay here on my account, I am fine,” Fiona said. The dog came to her side and nudged at her hand. She patted the gray head. “I have Sorcha and Mhor to protect me.”
“Mhor is a great coward,” Maisie said wryly. “Sorcha is the braver, though that is not worth much with those two. If all is well with you, then, I think I will leave. Your bath is filled and hot. I set a blanket over it to keep the heat until you are ready.”
“Thank you. I would enjoy a bath.”
“Your room is ready too, as you saw. I keep a clean house here, though the laird and his uncles are a wretched lot to tidy after sometimes,” she went on in her breezy way. “The tub is in the kitchen, Miss. I would not drag buckets of hot water up those wicked steps for anyone, and no offense. Well, I do that for wee Lucy, but the laird helps with the buckets. Not for me, all that sort of work.”
Fiona pinched back a smile. “Is the kitchen private enough for a bath?”
“It is. They are all gone and away ‘til dawn or morning, I am guessing. Set the dogs outside the door for a guard, if you like. For supper, there’s soup and porridge in the kettles,” Maisie went on. “I do not always cook an evening meal, though tonight the lads are away to the fire. But often on other nights they are not here either, making runs until dawn and such, as they do. So I leave them soup or cold meats and cheese before I go home, and—” She stopped, as if realizing she had said too much. “Sorry, Miss. I will go, then, if you truly are fine here.”
“I am.” Fiona stood. If Dougal and the others were planning a run, as Maisie called it, that surely meant smuggling. “Thank you. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I will stay with my Da for a bit. I left a few clean garments for you in your room.” At the door, she turned. “Miss, please do not go out tonight. Much wiser to stay inside when the moon is out, and when the laird is out as well.” She paused as if to say something more, but turned and left, footsteps light on the stairs.
Fiona looked down at Mhor, curled at her feet, resting his head on his paws and contemplating her. “What shall we do, sir?” she asked. “I wonder what your master is up to tonight. Such secrecy,” she murmured. “I do wish he trusted me better.” As if in happy agreement, the dog thumped his tail.
Sitting again, she picked up a book from the side table and read a little by candlelight while she sipped the rest of the whisky. The book was James MacPherson’s Ossian, a stirring but controversial collection of ancient Celtic tales. She remembered reading some of it with her brother William. Despite having a physician’s pragmatism, William was fascinated by ancient myths and legends.
Intriguing, she thought, to find this book and so many others in the keeping of a whisky smu
ggler who claimed little interest in such things.
Chapter 14
After a warm, soothing bath while the dogs kept lazy watch in the outer hall, Fiona dried herself with a linen towel and then pulled on the things that Maisie had left near the tub: a soft, loose nightgown—a man’s shirt, rather large on her—and a dressing gown of red brocade. Her own things needed a good airing, still smelling strongly of smoke. She was glad, too, to have washed the clinging odor out of her hair and off her skin with the very nice lavender soap Maisie had provided.
The brocade robe carried the scent of the man who had worn it before her, a drift of pine, spice, a hint of woodsmoke. Sure that Dougal MacGregor was the owner of both robe and shirt, she pulled the brocade snug about her for a moment, inhaling its faint, comforting aroma. Rubbing her wet hair with the towel, she hesitated to leave the bathwater for someone to empty in the morning, but she saw no bucket with which to try to do it herself.
She ate a quick meal of porridge and barley soup, washed down with water poured from a jug. Noticing that the simmering kettles had cooked down a bit by now, she realized that the MacGregors might be very hungry when they returned later, and so she searched for something to add to the soup.
Finding root vegetables, seasonings, and barley in the larder, she chopped carrots, onions, and potatoes and tossed those and the other ingredients, including more water, into the soup. As the kettle simmered anew, she glanced through the window to see that the night sky was inky black now, and the hour quite late. The bath and her brief nap earlier had revived her, and she did not feel tired enough for sleep. Instead, she went up the steps to the small library, followed by the deerhounds.
Exploring the shelves, she set a large volume of the old encyclopedia on the table and settled down to read sections on natural physics and geological sciences, hoping for information about fossils. Though not as dedicated a geological scholar as her brother James, she was fascinated by the particular subject, and she looked forward to her next chance to walk the hills in search of more discoveries.
Besides, she reminded herself, Lady Struan’s will required Fiona to find evidence of fairies and make sketches of them for her grandmother’s book, which her brother James had been asked to edit. Having no idea how to supply such drawings, Fiona frowned. She wished her grandmother had shared more of her belief in fairies and such, beyond childhood stories. The lady’s eccentric will was causing a kerfuffle for her grandchildren now.
Stepping over the dogs curled snoring at her feet, she replaced the book on the shelf and searched through other titles. After a while, tucked in a corner, she discovered a slim volume of one of her grandmother’s own books, Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland. With a delighted gasp, remembering the book from childhood, she took it with her to the red wing chair and sat to read.
A little whisky mixture remained in the glass Maisie had brought earlier, so she swallowed a bit as she read about the fairies and pookahs of Ireland. As she set the glass down, the dogs woke, leaping to their feet, woofing loudly.
Startled, Fiona missed the table, and the glass tilted and crashed to the floor. As the dogs tumbled eagerly out of the room, loping down the stone step, she heard booted footsteps somewhere below and a deep voice greeting the animals. Heart hammering, she stood and went to the library door.
She could see little beyond the shadowed landing. Again she heard a deep, resonant male voice speaking calmly to Sorcha and Mhor.
Dougal MacGregor.
His voice faded as he walked away with the dogs, perhaps to the kitchen. Not eager to be caught improperly dressed—in the laird’s very clothes—while raiding his library, with broken glass and whisky on the carpet. She ran back into the room to kneel and pick up the shards. But she had nothing to contain them, or to mop up the liquid spill. Whirling, she pulled open drawers in a side cupboard, finding only paper, ink, and sundry items. Turning again, she stopped, startled.
Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway. He held a bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he regarded her silently, and she saw a smile play about his lips as he ate a spoonful or two. His hair was damp, curling along his brow and framing the strong column of his neck. He wore shirtsleeves and wrapped plaid with stockings to the knee and leather shoes. All seemed fresh, not dingy with smoke and dirt as before, when he had left the house.
“You changed your clothes,” she blurted.
“So did you,” he said, lifting a brow as he looked at her.
Fiona pulled the robe closer. “I bathed and changed to be rid of the smoke.”
“As did I,” he said. “Thank you for leaving the bathwater. You look very nice in those things, Miss MacCarran.” He took another spoonful of soup from the bowl. “The soup is excellent,” he went on. “Too good to be Maisie’s work. If she cooks, most of her soups are mush by the time we eat. She tries, bless the lass. The rest of the time we are left to our own attempts. Did you make this?”
“I added a little to what Maisie prepared to extend it. I am glad you like it.”
“I do. Cooking is a rare and welcome skill here at Kinloch House. Ever since Hamish’s wife Jean stormed off and left, we have had very little good food, I think.”
“Stormed off?”
He shrugged. “Now and then she and Hamish go round about his smuggling. She wants him safe at home making legitimate whisky. And one cannot blame her for it.” He smiled. “But Hamish loves the free trade as much as he loves Jeanie. She has a temper, but she will be back. So we hope. I thought you would be asleep by now,” he added.
“I could not sleep and came in here to read. But I must apologize for breaking a glass.” She pointed toward the shards on the floor, and pulled the robe tighter when it gapped open. “Maisie gave me some whisky. I hope the glass is not an irreplaceable piece. I could not find a cloth to clean the carpet—”
“Fiona, it is a small thing and no matter,” he murmured, coming into the room. He set down the bowl and unfolded a cloth that he held beneath it. “Will this do? Let me help.”
“I will do it. Thank you,” Fiona said as she took the cloth and knelt to wipe the carpet stain and pick up the shards. She realized her hands were shaking. His unexpected arrival, and his nearness, flustered her. As she picked up glass, a sharp point stuck her finger, and she cried out suddenly.
Dougal dropped to a knee beside her, reaching for her hand, turning it over in his to look at her bleeding finger. “That will need a bandage.”
“It will soon heal,” she said, pulling back her hand, rising to her feet quickly. Dougal did as well, and their heads knocked audibly. “Oh!” She touched her forehead, more embarrassed than hurt.
“Let me see.” He brushed his thumb over the sore spot, sending shivers through her that erased the ache, but caused other sensations. His fingers slid down to cup her cheek, lingered, traced to her shoulder.
Slowly, Fiona touched his forehead, where his head had bumped hers. His dark hair felt cool and silken under her fingers, still damp. He smelled clean, she thought, a warm mingling of soap and his own natural masculine scent. She closed her eyes, sighed, opened them. He stood watching her, silent.
She reached up to trace her fingers gently over his brow and down to his jaw, its lean shape roughened by beard growth. The texture was bristly yet soft, his skin warm beneath the prickle, so masculine and intimate. She thrilled to touch him with such freedom, while he watched her in silence as she cupped his bearded cheek, surprised by her own boldness.
In the candlelight, his eyes were green and beautiful, edged in black lashes under black brows. She leaned close to the breathing warmth of his body, and he bent down, leaning with her in a shared and natural curve.
She longed for the heart-melting kiss he could give her, the chance of that drawing her nearer still. Logic fell away. He was a scoundrel, and she was a guest in his house, only partially clothed, and should not be here, doing this.
Yet the blood in her veins pulsed, and the urge in
her body was subtle, then stronger. She caught her breath against it, summoned resistance. But it would not come. He inclined toward her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, his breath soft upon her lips. When his nose nudged at hers, she tilted her head back, desire swirling deep in her body. She forgot the sting of the cut finger, her aching head, forgot embarrassment and uncertainty. She forgot who she was, why she was here, lost awareness of her scant garments, or that she was inviting this man in a tender way, her hand lingering along his jaw, her gaze locked in his.
But he drew a breath and pulled back. “Your finger must need tending.”
Gathering her wits, she nodded, glancing down at her clenched fist to see her wounded finger still bleeding a little. “I suppose it does,” she admitted.
Dougal went to a narrow cupboard that was held a few small bottles of whisky and some glasses, and opened a drawer to remove a folded napkin from a stack of linens. He tore a strip of fabric. “Give me your hand, lass.”
She might have given him anything just then, he need only ask. Sighing, she opened her hand in his offered palm and he wrapped her finger gently with the cloth. Simple enough and soon done, but even that touch sent shivers through her.
“I am sorry about the glass,” she said. “I should not have had it in here.”
“It is nothing to fret over. Dishes break often enough in this household, and can always be replaced. We are not fussy here—a houseful of rogues, remember.” He gave her a smiling glance as he bent over her finger. “We eat where we like, and take a dram or a meat pie in the parlor or the library or bedroom as much as the dining room or kitchen. My uncles and I have all broken more glasses and dishes than we can count.”
