Laird of Secrets (The Whisky Lairds, Book 2): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)

by Susan King

  “She gets plenty of exercise at night, roaming about,” Fiona said. “Which sort of whisky does the Laird give you?”

  “His very best, the Glen Kinloch brew,” Mary said. “And he gives me an even better brew once a year, at Yuletide.”

  “Is that what they call the fairy whisky?” Fiona asked.

  “Och, no! That stuff is not so good. I have tried it and do not see the fuss. Too sweet, and flat. No strength to it, despite its reputation in the glen.” She wrinkled her nose. “I like the Glen Kinloch sort, and the older the brew, the better. The Laird is saving the oldest stuff for—” She stopped.

  “Saving it?”

  “Aye. They all keep some back, of course. How did you hear about the fairy brew?”

  “Kinloch told me about it,” Fiona said.

  “Did he! Interesting. Did you taste it when you stayed the night at Kinloch House? Perhaps Maisie gave you some. She might mix them up, silly lass that she is. I suppose the Laird was not there, with the fire that night.”

  “I tasted it,” Fiona said vaguely, deciding to let Mary believe that Dougal had been away from the house with his kinsmen that night. “It was quite nice.”

  “If you enjoyed it, then the fairies favored you. I hear that some see the fairies when they drink it, a sign that the fairies give their blessing to that person. Did you see them? They never blessed me, I can tell you.”

  “See them?” Fiona laughed.

  “Then you saw what I saw when I drink the fairy brew. Nothing much.”

  Fiona smiled. She looked across the meadow that filled the bowl of the glen, scattered with wildflowers in the morning sunlight. On the other side of the valley, a league’s walk across the meadow, a hill rose toward the larger mountains behind it. There, the tower of Kinloch House stood tall, its stone walls catching golden light.

  She wondered if Dougal was there, or already out at this hour. Two days ago she had been alone with him there, gloriously and privately, and nothing she would ever talk about. She had returned to Mary’s house the next morning as if nothing had gone on at the laird’s tower. But the night, the whisky, and the man had taken her over, heart and soul.

  She had seen him at the kirk session that day when she had attended with Mary to hear Hugh MacIan’s sermon on responsibility toward one’s neighbors. Restless, she had looked around and had seen Dougal, had caught his gaze. Her heart had near leaped into her throat. She had looked away calmly, but that spark between them, gazes touching across the church, had been filled with yearning.

  Outside in the kirkyard, although she did not see Dougal, she felt truly welcomed by the locals. Perhaps it was the reverend’s sermon about helpful neighbors; perhaps her presence at the fire at the laird’s side had assured the glen residents that the teacher could be trusted.

  Grateful for that, wanting the acceptance of their laird too, she knew she had to keep her distance now. Both of them needed time to think. She had much to explain to him about her grandmother’s will, her need to comply to allow her brothers to inherit—and the requirement that she marry a Highlander of means. That alone would give him pause.

  She must wait and keep her silence. His status as a laird, poor or not, did not matter to her, but if he regretted what they had one, if he was uninterested in marriage, the dilemma would be solved. She wanted to be with him, and that would not change now. Her thoughts tumbled with possibilities, her heart with feelings.

  Maggie barked and launched past them, racing toward the glen slopes. “She has found something to chase,” Mary remarked.

  Fiona nodded, then noticed people moving over the slope higher up, running quickly. She heard distant shouts and laughter. “What are they doing there?”

  Mary shielded her brow and watched for a moment. “Playing at the ba’.”

  “Oh, the ball game—they played it in the schoolyard. Why are they at it so early this morning?” As she and Mary walked closer, she recognized some of her students and their kinsmen.

  “They are practicing,” Mary said. “There will be a game soon, for all the glen.”

  Fiona raised her brows in surprise. “The whole glen?”

  “It is a tradition in Glen Kinloch to play on New Year’s, and also in the spring on the first of May. It is nearing May now, so the laird has called for a game.”

  “I heard nothing of it.” She watched the players as they ran in a cluster that seemed characteristic of the ball game they favored in Glen Kinloch.

  “Word went round with the men. The women do not generally play.”

  “I played at the football with my brothers when I was young.”

  “You may have, but this sort of game is different. They play from the east side of the glen to the west. All the men and boys, a hundred and more, with the one ball.” Mary gestured wide to indicate the whole of the glen. “They form two packs, those from the north glen and those from the south, and they start in the center—there, where the burn crosses past those rocks,” she said, pointing.

  “They play over the whole glen?” Fiona asked, incredulous. “All of them?”

  “Aye, from the fieldstone wall below Kinloch House, across the glen floor, and down near the lochside road, where the standing stones are.”

  Fiona knew the place. “That’s about two miles.”

  “Not far for this game.” Mary nodded as if it was nothing much.

  Astonished, Fiona watched the players on the hillside. “And one ball?”

  “Just the one. ‘Tis sturdy leather stuffed with goose feathers, and hardly survives the day, let me tell you, with two enormous teams playing the length and breadth of the glen. It goes on all day and into the night, sometimes the next day.”

  “Does the laird play too? His house is in the middle of the glen. Which side does he take?”

  “The previous lairds did not always play, but our Dougal does—no one could keep him out of it. He is strong and good at the ba’ and both sides want him. So each year he plays a different side. He will play for the North this year. The South has more players.”

  “Are they not even, the two teams?” Fiona said.

  “Oh no, it is decided by where a person is born. All but the Laird, born in the midst of it.”

  As they crossed the glen and began to climb the slope toward Kinloch House and the school, Fiona could see the spaniel chasing back and forth, and the men and boys hooting and pushing. Somewhere in the middle of the pack she saw the ball thrust upward triumphantly, only to sink into the cluster of players again. “When will they play this game?”

  “The laird called for the game on the Thursday, I think.”

  “But the lads have school!”

  “Oh, there will be no school that day. All the glen will either be playing the game, or watching it. The laird did not tell you?”

  “He did not.” Again Fiona felt that tiny, sharp pull of separation, and with it a tug of sadness and hurt. Despite feeling better accepted by the glen folk, she sighed, knowing she was still very much the outsider again. Yet it felt even more important to be included lately.

  “It sounds like good fun. I am sure you will all have a wonderful time.” She forced a smile.

  “You will be there, too,” Mary said. “We will go watch and cheer them on. We could not miss a game of the ba’!”

  “I would like to see it. Thank you.”

  “The Laird would want you there, no doubt. Tcha,” Mary said. “Do not feel the outsider here. Himself thinks very kindly of you now.”

  Fiona slowed, staring at Mary in wonder, then hurried along.

  In the dim blue light of dusk, Dougal stood on the hill above Kinloch House, bagpipes tucked under his arm as he lifted the chanter to coax out plaintive, haunting notes. He had spent most of the day out in the hills, and earlier he had seen Mary MacIan with Fiona as the two women crossed the glen toward Kinloch House. He had guessed that Mary was bringing her rent, but he did not go to meet her. Some urge, perhaps the preservation of heart and hope, told him to keep distan
t from Fiona for a while yet. He needed time to think.

  And his heart needed to cool from its ember stage before he could be certain what he felt for her. The passion that had blazed between them was the sort that would burn steadily for a very long time. But he had to know for sure.

  Lifting the chanter again, taking a breath that filled the rounded bag under his arm, he set his mouth to the reed and exhaled, long and steady. The sound grew, rising and lingering, echoing outward.

  He played the tune, marshaling his breath, listening as it flowed across hills and glen, he realized that he wanted freedom—the sort of freedom that only love could bring to one’s life. A solid foundation of partnership and support that grew from a love that would last forever. He could find that with Fiona MacCarran.

  Lovesick or not, he was a cautious man. He would wait, not yet ready to rush headlong. He could more easily take risks with smuggling than in this matter of love and marriage, which needed to be just right for him, for her, and for the people of the glen as well.

  But his heart was sure and decided. The fairies had shown the way from the first. He realized that now. Fiona could see them—they had chosen her.

  That was the best proof any laird of Kinloch could have.

  Chapter 16

  “When we play the ba’,” Dougal told Ranald and Fergus later that evening, while Hamish stood by the cave entrance, listening while he watched the hills, “we must work all the details carefully. We all know our parts.”

  “Aye, we each join the game, play a bit, then get out and set off to the caves,” Fergus said. “With so many playing and all the rest watching, no one will notice who is in and who is out. But what of the gaugers?”

  Hamish huffed, arms folded. “They have been in the glen too often lately, with the gauger’s sister being here, and after the fire as well. I wonder if they have heard some rumor about our plans. Do you suppose the lass might have told her brother what she has seen here?”

  “She would not do that,” Dougal said.

  “We cannot be sure,” Hamish said. “You must admit there are more gaugers about now than before.”

  “True, but there are other reasons for that. They say that the government has hired more gaugers than ever these days, sending them to every region where there has been smuggling. And those in the Loch Katrine area know we have been active in these hills,” Dougal said.

  He refrained from saying that he trusted Fiona. His uncles knew that he rarely felt secure of anyone’s loyalty beyond their own support. Ever since the day his father had been killed, quick and cruel and without justice, Dougal had not allowed himself to believe that life could turn out for the better.

  Now he wanted very much to trust Fiona. He loved her and yearned for dreams he had never dared to claim—a wife, a family of his own. He was ready, yet he hesitated.

  As if he stood on a precipice, he knew life could be joyful on the other side of the gap, and realized that the jump was not so far after all. But he still felt unsure of the leap, and made no move.

  Clearly, he was obligated to the girl now and should marry her. Clearly he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her. Yet he waited. He had devoted his life to the glen and its people, and to the production and the trading of whisky in order to protect the glen. He was just a Highland laird, a farmer, a smuggler, a distiller. He had little to offer a Lowland lady of fine family—a bit of a university education, but no fortune, no high title or accomplishments. Only the glen, a simple life, an earnest enterprise, and his heart. Those were his to give, and he would freely offer them to her.

  But he did not know if she would accept him. Perhaps she would prefer to return to her fine life in the city. Perhaps all of this had happened too quickly for both of them. He had been so determined to send her away from the glen, but then he had succumbed to some indefinable magic that had spun him about, heart and soul. Now he could not imagine life in Glen Kinloch without her.

  But unanswered questions remained, unsettling him. What had Fiona meant by her remarks about fairy drawings, money, even Sir Walter Scott? Had she simply babbled nonsense due to the whisky, or was it more substantial than that? Lord Eldin said that his cousin had come to the glen for a purpose other than teaching, and she had hinted at something too. Did it have to do with her brother the customs officer, or her brother the viscount, or Eldin himself?

  Right now, Dougal dared not risk the imminent transport of a very valuable cache of whisky. But that would be resolved soon, once the ba’ game was in progress and the expected cutter sailed up the loch to fetch the cargo and depart.

  “Hugh is down the glen,” Hamish announced from the cave entrance, looking back at Dougal. “And he is not alone.”

  “Who is with him?” Dougal joined Hamish to stand looking out.

  “Eldin.”

  The high vantage point provided a clear view down the slopes toward the road and the loch beyond. Along the road, two men walked toward the glen meadow. Dougal huffed, shook his head.

  “Why is Hugh with Eldin?” Fergus asked.

  “Hunting,” Ranald said. “Eldin is carrying a gun. And look, a young lad is following them, see, leading a horse. There is a brace of game on it, looks like.”

  “So he’s come up the glen for a wee bit of sport,” Dougal growled. He left the cave entrance to make his way down the slope, soon striding toward the road to hail the men with a raised arm.

  Eldin and Hugh saw him, waving, stopping to wait while the lad with the horse caught up to them. Slung together, while a lad followed, leading a horse. Slung over the saddle was a brace of hares and another of birds. Two hounds trotted along beside the horse. Dougal walked briskly toward them.

  “Kinloch! Nearly shot you, man.” Eldin propped the butt of his long gun against the ground. He was dressed as a Lowlander might for hillwalking and hunting, in a brown coat, trousers and waistcoat of fine wool, neat neckcloth, high black boots. Even Lowland men who came into the Highlands for hunting most often wore the kilted plaid—yet Scottish as Eldin was, he did not. Hat in hand, gun in the other, Eldin waited.

  “Greetings,” Dougal said, shoving back his long windblown hair, his plaid rippling about his knees, his sturdy tweed coat practical yet rumpled. If Eldin was the sort Fiona MacCarran was accustomed to knowing, he was no match for that. Enough, he told himself. “What is your business in my glen today, Lord Eldin?”

  “Greetings, Kinloch. Reverend MacIan and I came out for a bit of hunting. I thought you would not mind.”

  Hugh, dressed as usual in a plain black suit, looked uncomfortable, neck reddening above his collar. “Eldin took down a couple of hares and some birds, but that is all,” he explained. “The curlew are flying today, returning for the summer, nesting in the hills. He got two already. A wicked shot, is the earl.” Hugh’s frown and sidelong glance seemed to convey distrust.

  Nodding slowly, Dougal thought perhaps Hugh only disliked the earl, not in itself surprising. “Here on my land, in my glen,” he told Eldin , low and fierce, “my permission is needed for hunting.”

  “Is it? The lower section of the glen is mine now,” Eldin said. “I am purchasing the government deed to the southern end of Glen Kinloch. As you must know, it is now available.”

  “Not yours yet. The deed will not be released until next month, to be exact,” Dougal said tightly. “This Kinloch is a peaceful glen, sir, and we do not condone hunting for sport. The glen folk are going about their daily work, and no warning was given that there might be shooting in the hills.”

  “I explained that to Lord Eldin, and suggested we ask your permission,” Hugh said.

  Dougal was familiar with Eldin’s arrogance, and knew the haughty barrier Hugh must have faced. “I have to deny it today.”

  “A pity. I have enjoyed the day so far. Glen Kinloch has such an idyllic atmosphere,” Eldin drawled. “It will be so pleasing to tourists who come up to see the famous loch. Though I understand that in the dead of night,” he continued, “it is not so p
eaceful here as one might hope.”

  “Tourists will not be about in this glen, day or night, if I have anything to say about it,” Dougal replied.

  “Is it so? By the way, I applied for the full deed rights. Since there has been no offer made from any other quarter, they will certainly come to me. I assume you have not yet applied to buy back your own deed?”

  “There is time yet,” Dougal growled. Truth was, he needed to wait for funds from a profitable source once the ship picked up threescore and ten kegs of whisky to be sold at a generous price.

  “I offered to buy a portion of your excellent whisky for a good sum,” Eldin said, as if he had read Dougal’s thoughts. “Had you accepted, you might have bought the deed back already. So I can now lay claim to it. You were to send word about selling some valuable casks to me, but as I did not hear, I presumed your refusal.”

  “You will hear my decision soon enough,” Dougal said, drawing a breath to cool his temper. “Here and now, this is still my land. And there will be no hunting today. Good day, gentleman.” He turned and walked away.

  Mary’s house was quiet at night, the little mantel clock ticking, fire crackling, soft rain falling outside. Fiona enjoyed the peacefulness as she sat at the table, leaning forward, pencil to paper. Her braid slid loose over her shoulder as she tapped the pencil thoughtfully against the table, studying her work. Rubbing at the drawing with a fingertip, smudging here, adding a light, airy line and then darker line, she made small changes.

  The image looked nearly like the fairy she had seen in Kinloch House. Yet something was missing. She was drawing from memory, trying to capture in pencil tones that sparkling, delicate, translucent lady she had seen in Kinloch’s library.

  She sighed, setting the page aside for a fresh sheet, sketching loosely, quickly, coaxing the image out with strokes of the pencil. Still, it was not quite right. Over a few days she had made several sketches, drawing the fairy lights as bright bits in pale watercolor and pencil, dabs of gentle color floating over flowers and streams. And she had attempted to create the beautiful, ethereal creature from the library.