The Highland Groom

by Sarah Gabriel

  That would be tomorrow if Kinloch had his way, Fiona thought. “Highland schools are generally in session six months out of the year in most areas.”

  “True, as they need to take time for planting and harvesting, and allow months for the young people to take the cattle into the hills in the summer to graze on the higher grasses. Here, as in other small glens, we cannot afford a yearly fee to retain a dominie, and rely on the Highland societies to send teachers.”

  “I understand that there was a lady here from the Edinburgh charity last year who stayed only a few weeks.”

  “Aye. She changed her mind about the assignment. The glen was…too remote for her taste, from what I understood.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The Kinloch smugglers.”

  He looked startled. “Perhaps. But I heard she also had a terror of ghosts and fairies.”

  “I am rather interested in those myself. That would not scare me away.”

  “There are plenty of legends here for you, then. We’ve had several teachers over the years, and sometimes none at all. For a time, the laird’s sister acted as our dominie.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Dougal MacGregor’s sister?”

  “Aye. She died a few years ago, a sudden fever. The laird took on the care of his niece, and took more of an interest in the school when the child came of learning age. We had no teacher until we learned about the Edinburgh society that sent you and the others.”

  “He has a niece in the school?”

  “Aye. He is raising her himself—well, he and his uncles. Kinloch, good morning!” MacIan called.

  Fiona turned to see Dougal MacGregor approaching them. His stride was brisk enough to set his kilt to swinging, and his dark hair wafted in the breeze, the whole a very attractive picture of a strong Highlander—but his expression was set in a frown that did not match the occasion. “Good morning, sir,” she said quietly.

  “Miss MacCarran, Hugh,” he answered. “I see you are ready to begin this morning.”

  “Despite attempts to the contrary,” she replied, smiling brightly. His scowl deepened.

  “Luck to you, then,” he said mildly. “I see your scholars have arrived.”

  “So it seems. It is a beautiful morning,” she said as she turned to walk between both men. “I have enjoyed crossing the glen with Mr. MacIan.”

  “I could have sent the carriage for you,” MacGregor said, and tipped a brow.

  “No need, as I told your uncle, Hamish MacGregor. I will enjoy walking back and forth to the school. Your glen is lovely, and so peaceful. The Highlands are growing in popularity for a good reason—there is such powerful, yet tranquil beauty in the Highland regions of Scotland.”

  “Aye.” His sudden smile was crooked and appealing. “Glen Kinloch is a small and forgotten place, I suppose, but it is one of those romantical Highland glens that people wax on about—not only for its wild setting and its majestic views, but for its good, hardworking people.”

  She wondered if he partly teased her for admiring the place like a tourist, for she heard a wryness in his voice—but she could tell that he genuinely loved his glen. “I agree. It has a wonderful quaint aspect. Coming here is a bit like traveling back to an earlier time in the Highlands, if one could do so but in books and paintings.”

  “Back to the days of cattle thieves and rogues?” MacGregor glanced at her quickly.

  “I was thinking of something more idyllic, Mr. MacGregor.”

  “Ah, she is an idealist,” he said softly. His eyes, when the sunlight fell full upon his face, were a soft, mossy green.

  “Of course,” she said. “Are you, Mr. MacGregor?”

  “Not anymore,” he answered.

  “By idyllic, I believe the lady means the Highlands as described in Sir Walter Scott’s grand poem The Lady of the Lake,” Hugh said.

  “I do mean that. Do you know the poem, either of you?” She smiled at him.

  “I have read it several times,” MacIan said. “Some of the verses remind me of our very own glen.” He drew a breath and began to recite.

  The wanderer’s eye could barely view

  The summer heaven’s delicious blue;

  So wondrous wild, the whole might seem

  The scenery of a fairy dream.

  “Oh, perfect!” Fiona applauded a little. “I am fascinated by the fairy lore of your lovely glen—” She stopped, wary of giving away her very keen interest.

  “Ask Kinloch about our local fairy legends,” the reverend said. “He is quite the expert.”

  “I know no more or less than anyone else here,” MacGregor said.

  “He knows quite a bit,” MacIan told Fiona. “But he is not a boastful fellow. Miss MacCarran, I am inspired to read Sir Walter’s magnificent epic again.” He swept an arm wide in a grand gesture. “‘On this bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady’s bower—’”

  “Finish reciting the blasted poem later. There’s not time for it,” Kinloch said.

  Fiona glanced at him. “Do you not like Sir Walter’s poem, Mr. MacGregor?”

  “I read it once,” he replied. “It did not enthrall me. I lacked patience for the length. Though I agree with Hugh, some of the lines remind me of Glen Kinloch. For example—

  But hosts may in these wilds abound,

  Such as are better missed than found;

  To meet with Highland plunderers here

  Were worse than loss of steed or deer—

  “—or something to that effect.” He tilted his head as he looked at her.

  “I see.” Fiona knew he had quoted exactly, despite his protest, and she understood the implication of the lines he had chosen. “You are right, Mr. MacGregor, we should move along. The scholars are waiting.”

  Kinloch nodded and set a hand to her elbow, and she felt a sort of gentle lightning go through her. She had not felt anything like that when Hugh MacIan had taken her arm earlier; in fact, she had only felt that way when Dougal MacGregor had touched her.

  Nor had she felt much of that sensation in all the while she had been engaged to Archibald MacCarran, her lost fiancé. She gasped a little at the unexpected realization. Flustered, she shifted her bound packet to her other arm, and walked onward, head high.

  As they neared the large stone house, Fiona looked up at its turrets and massive walls, and saw a shabbiness she had not seen from a distance—stone blocks crumbling in places, corners covered with ivy, broken trim features, a roof in need of repair.

  “There’s the school. It was once a weaver’s cottage,” Hugh MacIan said as they walked down the earthen lane that ran past the tower grounds.

  “The place is old,” Dougal said. “We’ve kept it up best we can.”

  Under the clear blue morning sky, the white building and greening hills made a lovely picture, but as they came nearer, she saw that the schoolhouse walls showed patches of limewash and plaster, and there were areas of new thatch on the roof. The door sagged a little, and the stone of the threshold step was deeply chipped. A goat and a couple of sheep wandered in the yard chewing the grasses, and the people gathered there moved aside when a ewe settled down on the ground nearby. “It will do nicely,” she said.

  “The roof leaks,” Dougal said.

  “We will find buckets if it rains,” she said.

  “The walls are crumbling in places. Do not lean against the back wall, I warn you.”

  “Mr. MacGregor, I never lean, nor would I allow my students to do so.”

  “It is an old place. There may be mice underfoot.”

  “I will get a cat,” she said, laughing. “Mr. MacIan, do you know of a cat I might borrow?”

  “I am sure we can find one for you,” he answered.

  “Miss MacCarran,” MacGregor said, bowing a little, “I believe you will fend for yourself in Glen Kinloch, despite all.”

  She smiled without answer—and as he returned the smile, for a moment she felt as if she saw only him, and he only her. The feeling was so unexpectedly heartwarm
ing that she held his gaze, and then suddenly looked away, blushing.

  “The students are all there now, I think,” the reverend said. “Oh, and there is Mrs. Beaton. I promised to speak to her about her daughter’s wedding service. Please excuse me.” He smiled at Fiona. “The laird, who owns the school, should rightly introduce you.”

  Fiona nodded, and paused beside MacGregor. “Tomorrow I must be here ahead of the students. I had no idea they would arrive before me. Mr. MacIan said we would be early.”

  Kinloch smiled. “They are eager today, and curious about the teacher. You would have to rise very early to be here first, since most of the students will be up before dawn to take care of milking and chores, and to take the livestock out to the fields. They head to school for part of the day, glad to escape some of their chores. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  He took her elbow again, and she felt once again that curious and keen inner tug, and she silently welcomed the strength she sensed in him, though the man was a smuggler and a scoundrel. She walked ahead, determined to let nothing—and no man—distract her further.

  Chapter 7

  Dougal glanced down at Fiona MacCarran as she smiled, nodded, and carefully repeated each name as she met the glen folk gathered in the schoolyard. She spoke in soft Gaelic, her fluency not perfect, but good enough to please anyone, he thought, even those who were suspicious of outsiders and Lowlanders. He thought each person seemed more at ease after speaking with her.

  “This is Pol MacDonald, and my young cousin Jamie Lamont, and another MacGregor—Andrew, Ranald’s son,” Dougal said, indicating the boys, tall and small, standing together. Expecting Fiona to recognize Andrew after their adventure in the cart, he wondered what she might say.

  Greeting the others, she smiled at Andrew as if she had never seen him before, though the boy blushed. Seven-year-old Jamie, his thatch of red hair bright in the morning sun, straightened his small shoulders and shook his new teacher’s hand, while Pol MacDonald, with scant new whiskers showing along his jaw, spoke so fast his voice cracked.

  Dougal went on to introduce her to all who had arrived that morning to see the teacher; they each murmured a welcome, among them Pol’s father, Thomas MacDonald, a farmer with a rough voice and a kind nature; Ranald’s wife, Effie, and Fergus’s daughter Muriel, with red hair like her son Jamie; and shy Helen MacDonald, cousin to Pol and Thomas, who welcomed Fiona quietly and introduced her daughter, Annabel, who at twelve would join the class, too. The girl was as timid as her mother, with a fairylike appearance and fine, pale hair like sunlight.

  Pol’s sister, Mairi MacDonald, and Lilias Beaton came forward; the girls were old enough to be married, and Dougal knew that Lilias was promised to a young man who lived in the next glen. It was that wedding that Hugh MacIan discussed with the girl’s mother.

  Fiona then looked up at Dougal. “I am surprised that boys and girls will be together in the school. Genders are usually separated in other glen schools where I have taught, with classes on alternating days, or in mornings and afternoons, for the two groups.”

  “We have so few students just now that it is sufficient to put them together,” Dougal replied. “It is not always easy for them to find time for school, with chores to do at home. And most of them are kin, and used to being together.” Seeing his niece, Lucy, standing with Annabel, he beckoned her to come toward him.

  “And who is this?” Fiona asked, smiling.

  “My niece, Miss Lucy MacGregor,” Dougal said, touching the child’s shoulder. Lucy looked up at the teacher, smiling sweetly, her hazel eyes sparkling, dark hair gleaming with brushing, which pleased him to see; impatient Lucy did not always take time with her appearance.

  “Good morning, Miss MacCarran, and welcome,” Lucy said in perfect English.

  “Thank you,” Fiona said, greeting her in return. “Your English is very good.”

  “It is. So I do not need to go to school,” Lucy replied. “I speak Gaelic and English, and can read a little of both. Uncle Dougal taught me.” Fiona glanced up at him, looking surprised.

  “She is a quick study,” Dougal explained. “Away with you, Lucy—go inside with the others.” The girl scowled, but ran toward the schoolhouse.

  Dougal walked with Fiona toward the school, and she glanced at him again. “There are only seven children. I expected to see more.”

  “The other families will wait,” he told her. “Highland people are cautious and practical. They want to know if the lessons will be worth their children’s time away from chores. And they wonder if you will stay. Most previous teachers have not remained for long.”

  “Of course I will stay,” Fiona said. “I gave my word to do that.”

  He nodded in silence, impressed by her calm reply and the steadiness behind it, yet realizing again that sending her away—due to the unforeseen complication of her kinsmen—would not be an easy thing.

  “It is to the benefit of all Highlanders nowadays,” she went on, “to understand and read English. And I am glad to see that the laird of this glen encourages education in his tenants.”

  “For all his sins,” he answered quietly, “he does.”

  Fiona gazed at him then, long enough that Dougal felt, once more, that strange sense of being drawn to her. Despite the logical protests of reason, he felt oddly protective of her and in need of an intimate connection with her—he wanted to know her as a woman, and suddenly, sharply, as a friend. He wanted her to thrive here; he wanted her to stay.

  Without comment, he stepped ahead and held the door open for her as she entered the schoolroom. Her shoulder brushed his chest in passing. The clean, womanly scent of her was so enticing—he closed his eyes, feeling a quick tug within at the casual touch.

  She looked back at him. “I confess I am nervous,” she murmured, and half laughed. “Will you come inside, too?”

  He had not planned to do that. But he nodded, and stepped inside.

  While the students settled on benches in the room, Fiona set her packet down on the sturdy, somewhat battered table meant to serve as the dominie’s desk, with a high-seated stool beside it. She stood at the front of the room and folded her hands in front of her, forcing herself to at least appear clam. She had taught classes before and was not nervous about that. What distracted her most, even now, was the man who remained in the open doorway—yet she wanted him to be there.

  Dougal MacGregor stood with a shoulder leaned against the jamb, the sunlight falling on his wide shoulders and long-limbed body, his dark hair haloed by the light, the colors of his plaid kilt—deep maroon and green—warm, earthy and handsome, like the man himself. She glanced away when he met her gaze.

  The children, from small Lucy and Jamie to lanky Andrew and Pol, sat on plain benches, looking awkward and expectant. She smiled and began.

  “Good morning,” she said in Gaelic, and they murmured in return. Later she intended to speak mostly in English so that they would have to communicate in that language, but now was not the time for it. “Let us bid good morning to Mr. MacGregor of Kinloch as well.” The children complied, while Fiona noticed Lucy squirming in her seat and waving to her uncle. Dougal MacGregor walked closer to Fiona.

  “Miss MacCarran is your teacher now,” he said, also speaking in Gaelic, which Fiona had already noted was the primary language in the glen. “May I remind you of the rules of our schoolroom? We do not want Miss MacCarran to think that Highlanders are savages without manners.” Some of the children giggled, and Fiona smiled.

  “Obey your teacher,” Dougal began, and Fiona recognized the familiar rules given in so many other Highland schools. “Do not run inside, or in the yard. What else?” he asked.

  “Neither shout nor stare at others, nor quarrel while you are here,” Jamie supplied.

  “Be sure to bow or curtsy when you enter, and go quietly to your seat,” Lilias Beaton said.

  “Good. No doubt Miss MacCarran has rules of her own.” MacGregor bowed toward her.

  “Thank you, sir.�
� Fiona folded her hands before her. “I expect you to treat others with respect,” she said. “Wait your turn to speak and raise your hand when you have something to say. And please pay attention to your schoolwork and to your books.”

  A hand rose at the back of the room. “Miss, we have no books,” Andrew said.

  Fiona blinked in surprise. “None?”

  “None in English here, and not enough in Gaelic for all of us,” Andrew answered.

  “There are only seven of you.” She walked toward MacGregor so that the class would not overhear her. “Mr. MacGregor, I know that translated texts are scarce for teaching English reading skills to Gaels. But Mr. MacIan gave me the impression that we would have books. The school has been established for a long while.”

  “Only a few books have been translated into Gaelic, as you no doubt know,” he said. “The last teacher who was here took the books I had ordered. I apologize for not having others—your quick arrival was a bit of a surprise. Hugh MacIan made the arrangements, and I am sure he meant to ask me to acquire some books for the schoolroom.”

  “The Bible and several religious texts have been translated,” she said. “Most Highland schools I have visited have several copies of those on hand, at least.”

  “This is a school, not a kirk.”

  “Grammar books are not available, and scholars need texts to improve their English skills.”

  “I own some translations if you would like to look at the library at Kinloch House.” He tilted his head. “I own a good copy of the writings of the American Thomas Paine, translated into Gaelic, which I would be happy to lend.”

  “That is not what I had in mind,” she said. “They must have proper texts, or they may as well stay home.”

  MacGregor nodded, and smiled slowly. “True.”

  She gasped. “Do you see this as some chance to close the school so I will leave?”