The Highland Groom

by Sarah Gabriel

  “It is,” Dougal answered. He had not finished his own dram, and set the glass down.

  “Legal or illicit?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might,” Eldin answered.

  “You sent a message requesting that we meet here, Eldin,” he said. “What is on your mind?”

  Eldin turned the small, thick-stemmed glass in his hand. “This is a coaching inn,” he said. “But it does not seem busy. Does it do much trade?”

  “Rob MacIan’s inn has been here a long while,” Dougal answered. “His father and grandfather tended it before him. Most days its patrons are local men of the glen. Occasionally a coach will come by, filled with tourists who have read Sir Walter Scott and have come to take a look at the scenery of Loch Katrine and the surrounding hills.”

  “And they are treated to this fine whisky?”

  “If they order more than ale or wine, aye,” Dougal said. “Providing Rob has a store of Kinloch brew. Other local whiskies are available here as well. The MacDonald family in this glen make a particularly fine one, too, as well as the Lamonts, and MacIan himself produces a few hundred gallons a year of his own whisky.”

  “Near everyone in this glen makes it, from what I hear,” Eldin said, “and most of it is illicit.”

  Dougal sniffed, leaned back, propped a foot on the opposite bench, beneath the table. He regarded the man across from him. “What is it you want of me, sir?”

  “You are the laird of this glen.”

  “I am.”

  “So you know all that goes on here.”

  “Within reason. Why?”

  “I have a hotel at Auchnashee, ready to open to tourists and travelers by summer,” Eldin said. “I would like to obtain good whisky for that establishment.”

  Dougal nodded. “There is plenty of good whisky obtainable in this glen. If it is Glen Kinloch brew you want, then tell me what quantities you have in mind, and we can come to some bargain.”

  Eldin sipped again, stared at the glass, considered something. “What is the finest you have ready for purchase? The very finest,” he added with slight but noticeable emphasis.

  Dougal leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table as he studied the gentleman. This was Fiona’s cousin, he reminded himself, and he narrowed his eyes, seeing a resemblance, despite the differences gender made, in the fine cut of the features, the dark glossy hair, the direct, intelligent stare, the warning hint of stubbornness in the lean, firm jaw. But he saw something more in this fellow’s eyes that he had never seen in Fiona—a cunning, calculating layer of thought behind the polish of courtesy. Eldin might be a decent sort, but there was something Dougal did not trust about him—something secretive.

  “The finest we have,” he said then, “depends on what price is offered.”

  “A handsome price,” Eldin said. “Name it.”

  “We have a batch that has been stored three years in oak casks,” Dougal said, and mentioned a price that was high, but not exorbitant.

  “Is it legal, that brew?”

  “From a licensed still,” Dougal said. The distillery had recently obtained its license, a detail he did not bother to add.

  Eldin made a dismissive gesture. “What more do you have? I expected to hear about something more…valuable.”

  “Something illicit?” Dougal cocked one brow and waited.

  Eldin leaned forward. “Sir, I do not care a whit about the law. If the whisky is the best you can claim, then how it is obtained is of no matter to me,” he said, very low.

  “We have something else,” Dougal said, making a quick decision. “Twenty years if it is a day, made with barley grown in fields my father planted, and with clear Highland water passed through heather blooms plucked at their height. Proofed to perfection, this spirit has been stored in sherry casks turned regularly, so that the richness of the old Spanish Shiraz, and the passage of the years that it takes a babe to become a man, mellows the whisky to an exquisite degree.”

  “And?” Eldin waited.

  “Very expensive,” Dougal said. Dipping a finger in the whisky, he wrote what seemed a considerable number on the table with the tip of his finger.

  Eldin waved a hand. “Affordable. Is the revenue paid?”

  Dougal stared at him. “What do you think?”

  “I see. Too good for the government, a typical Highland sentiment. How many casks?”

  “Seven are available.” Dougal had more, but would not let on.

  Eldin sat back. “I will think about it.”

  “Think all you like,” Dougal said. “Within the month, it will be gone.”

  “Into England?” Eldin asked quickly.

  “London is a lively market for good Highland whisky,” Dougal said.

  “The blight in the French vineyards has reduced the amount of wine a man can obtain there,” Eldin agreed. “And the grain whisky made in England and Lowland Scotland is poor indeed, once one has tasted Highland malt whisky. A whisky that is hand nurtured and aged, kept in store as long as twenty years, and still has not been found by the revenue men—that is rare stuff.”

  “Thus my price,” Dougal said.

  Eldin nodded, played with the brim of his hat, then looked at Dougal. “And my cousin, Miss MacCarran? Have you met her? How does my fair Fiona, there in Glen Kinloch?”

  “Well enough, I suppose,” Dougal said, startled. His fair Fiona? What the devil did that mean? “We have met. The schoolhouse is on my estate. My niece and cousins attend there.”

  “She is quite busy with the teaching, I imagine.”

  “Miss MacCarran seems dedicated to her work.”

  Eldin asked. “Does she wander the hills much?”

  “She has a hobby of rock collecting, I understand,” Dougal said carefully. He did not want to reveal his interest in the lady, given the way Eldin watched him.

  “Has she asked you about fairies?”

  Dougal blinked. “She expressed curiosity about our local legends and folklore.”

  “Tell her nothing,” Eldin said. “If you know fairy legends, do not share them with her.”

  “I see no harm in it.”

  “Be wary, nonetheless,” Eldin said. “Do you have a personal fortune, sir?”

  Dougal bristled. “I find it none of your concern, with due respect, Lord Eldin.”

  “It is of no interest to me,” he said. “But to Fiona…do not let on if you have wealth. Play the pauper.”

  “Why?” Dougal asked sharply.

  “She has other reasons to come to the glen besides teaching the children. That is sincere enough, do not doubt it,” he added. “But she has an undue interest in…fairy treasure, shall we say, gold in particular. And she has it fixed in her head that she will marry a wealthy Highland man, and none other.” He laughed. “Lofty aspirations for a girl whose family has little legitimate fortune of its own.”

  Dougal leaned forward, feeling a sudden urge to throttle the man. “I find it surprising that a man would blacken the reputation of his own lady cousin,” he said. “And I would gladly blacken your face with my boot, sir, if you give me but half an invitation.” He stared at him, poised to rise.

  Eldin smiled, shrugged. “I am merely warning you, sir. I am offering advice.”

  “I hardly know her,” Dougal said. “I have no interest in the lady.”

  “That,” Eldin said, “is not quite the truth, is it.”

  “Whether it is or not, I do not see it as your concern.”

  “She is my cousin.”

  “Then treat her with the respect due her, or any woman.”

  “Well,” the man said, “I rest assured in your sense of honor, and I am certain that imbues your whisky as well. Will we bargain further?”

  “I may not sell it to you,” Dougal said.

  “Excellent, the honor is of a righteous kind. All the better for the whisky the man makes,” Eldin said, while Dougal stared, eyes narrowed. The earl leaned toward him. “I suspect the pauper status is the true o
ne,” he said then. “I will pay your price for the Kinloch twenty-year, all seven casks of it.”

  “It’s more than you can pay,” Dougal said. “Priceless, now.”

  “Indeed? That whisky is not the most priceless you have, is it,” Eldin said.

  “Twenty-year-old whisky is rare, as you have said yourself.”

  “I have heard of a legend of another sort of whisky brew,” Eldin said. “An ancient secret given to the MacGregors by the fairy ilk themselves.”

  Dougal huffed. “Legends,” he said, “do not produce marketable whisky.”

  “I hear that the lairds of Kinloch have always produced this secret brew. If you do have any of that sort, I would be willing to pay…whatever amount you need.”

  “Need?” Dougal frowned.

  “To free your glen.”

  For a moment, Dougal stared hard at him. “My glen and its tenants,” he said, “have always been free.”

  “The government deed office does not think so.” Eldin stood then, lifting his hat and snatching his cane. “Think on it, Kinloch.” He inclined his head, then opened his hand to deposit several coins on the table—Dougal saw the glint of gold sovereigns and silver shillings. The earl turned away and left the inn, shutting the door behind him.

  Rob approached. “He wanted no supper? But we have a fine roast ready—”

  “No supper,” Dougal said, standing. Through the window, he saw the black barouche leaving the yard, driver leaning forward, whip cracking, and the silhouette of a tall man in a tall hat visible inside the carriage. “He came here to bargain. Serve supper to our friends with the compliments of the earl,” he said, pushing the coins toward Rob, the amount far more than the price of food, drink, and lodging, too.

  Going toward the window, he looked out at the vivid sunset over the mountains. What the devil did Lord Eldin want with fairy whisky, and what had he heard about it?

  And he wondered, as he returned to his seat, what Eldin had meant by such sly remarks about Fiona MacCarran. Sighing, he drank the rest of the Kinloch whisky on the table. The batch he had sold to Rob for the inn’s patrons was good—but not the finest that Kinloch’s stills produced.

  He did not understand Eldin’s warning about Fiona, but the effect was the opposite of what the earl might have intended. Dougal’s sympathy warmed to her; Fiona had a devil of a cousin in her life. He could not imagine the schoolteacher, so serene, intelligent, forthright—and so damnably alluring—ever scheming to marry wealth. Particularly Highland wealth.

  He nearly laughed aloud. If wealth and Highland life were what she wanted, she would have to look elsewhere. Marry that blasted cousin of hers, for example.

  But if the schoolteacher should ever decide that a Highland laird, one as poor, plain, and solid as the gray rocks that studded his land, was to her taste—he would be there for her, waiting and ready.

  That thought was more revelation to him than anything Eldin could have said.

  Late the next afternoon, when the door to the schoolhouse opened and the students poured out, Dougal waited in the yard. He had just come up from the nearby distillery, which was hidden behind a thickness of evergreens on a hillside. All was progressing well in the stillhouse, with Fergus working on the new batch of whisky started that week, and Hamish’s sons, Will and John, testing the proof on another batch. Dougal had stayed long enough to approve the batch with his cousins before heading toward Kinloch House and the school situated on the farthest edge of the vast yard.

  Ever since the first day school sessions had begun, he had intended to speak with Fiona MacCarran, but other matters had come along, and he had let them interfere. The barley laid down to germinate for the new batch required shoveling and turning, though Hamish had two grown sons capable of doing that; and he had traveled out of the glen for two days to go to an inn alongside Loch Lomond, for a previously agreed and discreet meetings with English clients interested in his next shipment.

  Yesterday, when Ranald and Fergus had told him of their awkward attempt to oust the lady from the school, he knew he would have to talk with her. He had avoided her ever since school had begun, though she walked past his tower house each morning and afternoon.

  More than once he had watched from a window as she went past, his heart thumping as if he was a half-bearded youth. Her graceful movement and lush figure, her face lifted to sunlight or bowed in rain, every sight of her stirred him. He had denied his interest, and though his desire to be near her grew keen and intense, he found excuses to keep away—accounts to be checked in the distillery office, though that had been done days before; a pressing task at the distillery, despite his competent, vigilant kinsmen; tenants to visit; herds to count despite shepherds to do it.

  Even yesterday, he had put off waiting for her, instead heading for his arranged meeting with Eldin. Dougal was glad, now, that he had met Fiona’s cousin. Some mysteries had cleared for him, although others had deepened.

  There seemed little question that she should leave Glen Kinloch. Yet Dougal felt torn over that—compelled to be near her, and turned about as well. His body was responsive and craving, his mind and heart resistant, his loneliness profound.

  He wanted her, and now, perversely after talking to Eldin, he wanted to protect her from that one’s cunning—and he wanted to know why the earl had said such things about her.

  Shaking his head, he turned, almost tempted to walk away. Leave the matter of the teacher to his uncles, he told himself. If they bumbled it, so be it, so long as the girl was gone, and with her the threat of her brother’s presence in Glen Kinloch.

  But just then, she emerged from the school, and walked toward him.

  He watched her, his heart thumping. She wore, once again, the gray gown, jacket, and bonnet she had worn when he had first seen her on the hillside. The wind blowing against the fabrics revealed her curving and womanly form; she moved with subtle rhythm and airy confidence, head lifted, shoulders slight but square, hips swaying. He smiled, folded his arms, waited.

  “Mr. MacGregor,” she said. “You wanted a word with me today?”

  “I do,” he said smoothly. “I understand my uncles came by the school.”

  “They say there is something amiss with the roof. I asked them to postpone repairs and patch things in the meantime, until my weeks here are done.” She lifted her chin.

  “And when will that be?” he asked mildly, knowing the question might rile her.

  “Two months at least, unless you have your way with—” She stopped, blushing under the golden shadow of her gray bonnet. Her eyes were a clear blue, snapping really, and he saw the stubbornness in her gaze.

  “If I was to have my way with you, Miss MacCarran,” he murmured, “we would not be talking about a roof right now.”

  She blinked, and her cheeks glowed like pink fire under the sunlit hat. But she turned her head and pinched back a smile; he was sure of it. Where tendrils of her hair escaped the bonnet, the locks had a warm walnut sheen, and he felt a sudden urge to remove the hat and loosen her hair—and then pull her long-legged, lush body close—

  “About the repairs,” she reminded him.

  “Aye,” he said, recovering. “The thatch needs replacing. But we had planned to give the schoolhouse a slate roof, and that would take some time.”

  “It will have to wait until school is done for the year.”

  “But some basic repair must be done before then, if it is leaking. Another good rainstorm, and you will have the roof down over your heads.”

  “If you knew the schoolhouse was in such condition, why was I invited to teach there? Why were repairs not made beforehand?”

  “My uncles assured me that adequate repairs had been made to the school last month. We did not expect you so soon,” he added.

  “Perhaps the need for a new roof is another way of telling me that I am not wanted here in Glen Kinloch.”

  “You are wanted,” he said, “here in the glen.”

  She tilted her head. “But no
t by you, sir.”

  He drew breath. “As I told you, the glen is not safe for the sister of a gauger. It can be, in fact, quite a dangerous place. You saw that last week,” he added.

  “There was no danger to me that night, except from those who want me gone. Do not send me away when I do not want to go,” she added bluntly.

  Dougal sighed. “I will admit that you are a fine teacher, and needed here at the school.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at him.

  “Lucy has told me and her great-uncles, too, about her school lessons. She is truly enjoying the class, as are the others, I understand.”

  “She is a bright child, and quite delightful.”

  “But she has always loathed school until now.”

  “At first she claimed to need no lessons, but since then she seems content to learn. Though I must find more for her to do. She works quickly, then sets to bothering Jamie, who is an easygoing lad and puts up with her pestering.”

  “I know,” he said, feeling a bit helpless, having little idea how to manage a small girl as bright and willful as Lucy. “Poor Jamie adores the lass.”

  “And she knows it, which only makes it worse. And she adores him as well.”

  “Does she?” He tipped his head, watching her steadily.

  “Otherwise she would ignore him altogether.”

  “I will speak to her about it again, though I have tried before. Someday Jamie will decide to give Lucy a reckoning. It may be worth the wait if she learns it from him.”

  “True. What interests her most? If I knew, that might help.”

  “I am not sure you want to hear it.” Dougal paused. “She intends to be a smuggler when she grows up, and she is convinced they have no need of studies.”

  “Ah. And what have you told her about that?”

  “Of course I want to set a fine example,” he said wryly. “So we are reading a little poetry at home. Sir Walter Scott,” he added, looking at her. “A few verses. She enjoys it. But now she is convinced that smugglers may enjoy poetry, but do not need maths.”

  She laughed outright, and Dougal smiled, finding the sound unexpectedly enchanting. “You ought to know better than I what smugglers need to study.”