Sarah Gabriel

by Highland Groom

  “Could you patch it for now?”

  “A patch will not do. It needs a new roof, slates like our other buildings here, or at least a new thatching,” Ranald told her. “And the rooftree needs replacing. There is some rot up there, see.” He indicated the roof beams overhead.

  “Can you not repair it now, and replace it properly later?”

  “We cannot wait that long,” Ranald said quickly. “A week, no more.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling, where the underside of the sturdy thatch roof showed above bare roof beams, for the building was that old. “Are we in danger from this?”

  “Och, could be,” Ranald said.

  “Oh dear!” Fiona glanced through the window, hearing shouts outside. Most of the students had finished eating, and the boys were gathered in the center of the yard, kicking a ball among them. She turned back. “But we are just getting started with our lessons. It would not do to interrupt them now.”

  “It would not do for the roof to fall on their heads, miss,” Fergus pointed out.

  “Perhaps you can return to Glen Kinloch later for the teaching,” Ranald added.

  Suddenly suspicious, she folded her arms. “Did the laird send you here to tell me this?”

  “Not at all. We knew the roof had some damage,” Ranald said.

  “Then why were we allowed to start up school sessions again?” she asked.

  Fergus shrugged. “It is not for us to say. You must ask the laird.”

  “I will,” she said firmly. The shouts from the yard were growing louder, distracting her with thoughts of her class. She stepped back. “It is time for the scholars to come inside. Thank you, sirs. May we talk about this later?”

  As Fiona opened door, the MacGregors behind her, she saw that near pandemonium had taken hold in the yard, as the students—boys and girls—still kicked the ball among them, yet seemed to have lost any sense of manners and decorum. Shoving and shouting, some of them fighting and tugging on one another, they jammed together in a group, tussling over the ball, so that Fiona could barely identify each one.

  And she stared, feeling a quick excitement that she recalled from childhood, when she and her brothers had played similar games with the children on their Perthshire estate. But as teacher, she could not let it continue. “It is time for class,” she said, stepping outside quickly. “Time for this to end!”

  Ranald and Fergus ran past her toward the group, and she waited, thinking they would quickly end the rough play. Instead they joined in, laughing and calling out.

  And then, in the midst of the group, Fiona recognized the laird of Kinloch huddled with the boys, striving with the rest for the ball.

  “Where is that ba’!” Ranald shouted as he shoved his way into the thick of the group, and Dougal looked up to see two of his uncles shouldering their way through.

  “Watch the girls,” he growled to Ranald, putting up an arm to protect Pol’s sister Mairi as the expanding group jostled and enlarged. He knew how seriously his uncles took any game of football. “Fergus, mind the wee ones. Jamie—Lucy—out with you,” he ordered. “The game is too rough now.” Ignoring him, the younger ones scrambled on with the rest.

  “Da, what side are you on?” Andrew called to his father. “We need more men!”

  “What sides do we have today?” Fergus asked.

  “Kinnies and Glennies,” Pol answered. “Those related to Kinloch, and those not.”

  “Then we are all on the same side,” Ranald called, amid laughter. He hunkered down and swept at the ball with his booted toe. “Nearly had it—damn!”

  “What is this?” Hearing the female voice, Dougal glanced up to see Fiona MacCarran standing at the outskirts of the circle. “Watch the little ones, if you please!” she called.

  He straightened, looking toward her, seeing her distress—she was pink in the cheeks from shouting. Blasting out a sigh, he stretched out his arm to slow down those nearest him, including Andrew and Mairi. “Stop,” he said. “Enough.”

  “But we only started—” Pol began, looked up, and stopped.

  Fiona clasped her hands in front of her. “Time for class to resume,” she said. “Come inside.” Around Dougal, the others slowed, stared, and did not respond. A few of them still pushed the ball around with their feet. She walked forward to the edge of the cluster.

  “It is time for class,” she said sternly, hands folded.

  “Och, just a bit longer,” Fergus said, and one of the younger ones laughed—Duncan Lamont from down the glen side had joined in, Dougal saw, while his sister Sarah and Annabel MacDonald hung back, not taking part. “Please,” Fergus said, to more laughter.

  Fiona’s frown grew, hands folded. “It is time for lessons to start, or the day will be very long,” she said.

  “Enough, lads, lasses,” Dougal said, and stepped back, drawing with him the ones standing nearest to him. The ball, abandoned for a moment in the center, rolled. He shooed the students away. “Listen to your dominie,” he said, and looked at his uncles. “You, too.”

  “Back to work for us and to lessons for you,” Fergus said, and ruffled his grandson Jamie’s red hair. “Good work at the football, lad.”

  Jamie grinned and ran forward with the others as the students trudged past their teacher, who stood silently in the middle of the yard, hands folded, mouth set in a prim line as they filed into the school.

  Dougal fisted his hand at his waist and watched her. “Good day, Miss MacCarran,” he called. “It is a fine day for a game of the football.”

  “It is,” she said, “but far better done after school, or on a Saturday. There are lessons to be learned, and hard play comes later.”

  “Just as in life—work first, play later,” he drawled. “Until later, then, Miss MacCarran.”

  “Mr. MacGregor.” A smile quirked her lips, the luscious lips he had tasted and wanted to again; the feeling tugged at him, as often happened when he saw her, was close to her.

  The ball was at his foot. He kicked it with his toe and sent it toward her.

  Quickly she raised her skirt hems and punted the ball back to him with ease, scooping the ball with the top of her foot and sending it upward to land softly, just at his feet. Dougal halted the ball with his toe and looked up at her, impressed.

  “You see, Kinloch,” she said, “I am not afraid of the games you play here in the glen.”

  “So I see,” he murmured, and inclined his head. “But are you equal to them?”

  “I believe so. Do you?” She turned away, smiling. Once again, wistful and quick, Dougal wished that smile was for him, but this time it seemed hers alone. The lovely expression disappeared as she entered the classroom, in its stead a stern dominie who would no doubt treat her scholars to an extra lesson.

  Dougal chuckled to himself, picked up the ball, and walked back toward Kinloch House. He saw Ranald and Fergus standing in the yard there, waiting for him.

  “That’s a good lass,” Ranald grunted.

  Dougal threw the ball toward him. “Keep this, we will need it,” he told his uncles, both of them. “And start spreading the word—we want to form a game. A serious one.”

  “When, and played by whom?” Fergus asked.

  “Soon enough, and everyone,” Dougal said, and went into the house.

  Once the students were settled in their seats, Fiona asked Lilias Beaton to pass around a second set of pages that Fiona had copied the previous evening.

  “This is a new verse for us to try,” Fiona told the class. “It is called a fith-fath.”

  “Fith-faths! They are old charms,” Mairi said. “My grandmother recites them. Why should we learn those in English?”

  “Because these verses contain lists of words that are easy to learn in translation. Listen,” she said, and began in Gaelic:

  Fith-fath ni mi ort

  Bho chire, bho ruta,

  Bho mhise, bho bhuc…

  “A fith-fath I make on you,” she then said in English, “from sheep, from ram, fro
m goat, from stag…” She had chosen the ancient Gaelic household blessing for its common form—lists of animal names and plain nouns that were simple enough to teach in English, both verbally and written. And she had counted on the fact that many of the students would find the verses familiar and the form quick to absorb.

  Now she wished that she knew a blessing charm for a roof; it seemed they could use one. She glanced up at the ceiling uneasily, not sure if it was indeed so precarious, or if Ranald and Fergus MacGregor were leading her on in another scheme.

  As the students repeated the lines, Fiona heard the thunk of boots on the step. Thinking Ranald and Fergus had returned, she turned, intending to ask them to wait until the class was excused.

  Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway, arms folded as he quietly listened. Fiona felt her heart leap in her chest, but she squared her shoulders. Still in the middle of the lesson, she did not want to interrupt the students, and when MacGregor motioned for her to continue, she calmly turned back to her class and finished the word lists, aware all the while that he was watching.

  She walked toward him. “Mr. MacGregor,” she said warily.

  “Pardon the interruption, Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head. “I thought class might be ended by now. I would like a word with you.”

  Her heart gave a little fillip of excitement and dread—she surely needed a word with him, and beyond that, she would admit no need where he was concerned. Then she nodded. “Very well. We are not done with our lesson yet. Can it wait until after class?”

  “Let it be another day,” he said. “I have some business to tend to very shortly.”

  “Another day, then,” she murmured, wondering if that business had to do with smuggling, and silent treks over the hills at night. “I will be here tomorrow, as always.”

  “Tomorrow, then, after class. I have something to discuss with you.”

  Excitement stirred in her again. “Oh? Do you want to look at the roof, too?”

  “Not that. Other matters.”

  She leaned forward. “Illicit ones?”

  “You,” he said, leaning toward her, “are far too eager.”

  “I rather enjoyed myself the other night,” she murmured, and felt herself blush.

  “Did you?” He smiled down at her, and she suddenly wished for more from him, hoped he would return the interest that was ever-increasing within her. She wanted him to take her into his confidence—and into his arms again. “I am glad.”

  “Did you?” she asked. “Enjoy…the other night?”

  “Watching you stroll between gaugers and smugglers?” he hissed. “I did not.”

  “Not that!” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Besides, my brother would never have arrested you.”

  “He would not have had a choice, if Tam had ordered it done, or had done it himself. There would have been a skirmish, and you in the middle. I did not enjoy that,” he said, low and urgent.

  “What of the…other, the—” She stopped glancing away.

  “Ah, the kiss,” he whispered. “That was a taste of heaven, Miss MacCarran.”

  She looked up at him in silence, blushing furiously, astonished with herself for even asking him, and now feeling her breath quicken. She nodded.

  “But you should not be here, should you, with a smuggler tempted to kiss you again, and bring no good to your life. No doubt your brothers would agree that you ought to be safe in Edinburgh, behaving yourself. Until later, miss,” he said, and inclined his head. “A fith-fath on you and yours.”

  She leaned forward through the gap in the door, close enough to feel the powerful draw the man had on her, despite his words, which had turned her around like a top. His eyes seemed so green, reflecting the forest hues in the plaid wrapped about him, one end draped over the shoulder of his jacket. Under dark brows drawn together, his gaze was striking, unfathomable.

  She felt, wildly, suddenly, as if he spun a spell around her with just a look—like a man of the Fey rather than of the earth. She remembered again the kiss behind that standing stone, and drew a breath. Taste of heaven, indeed.

  And yet, even when she had helped the smugglers, he had not spoken of it until now. He had avoided her, she realized, and now wanted to speak with her at last. Clearly he was determined to send her away from the glen. She squared her shoulders against the sudden hurt of the sensation.

  “Sir,” she said, “if you and your uncles are set on being rid of me, I have need of a fith-fath of protection.” She kept her tone crisp to prove to him—and to herself—that she did not care if he would not.

  “Being rid of you? Fiona,” he murmured, “tomorrow I want to show you something. Go inside now,” he said, his tone gone gentle. “They are waiting for you.”

  Chapter 10

  Dougal sat alone at one of the four tables in the front room of the small inn kept by Rob MacIan. The only patrons other than himself were three of his tenants gathered around a front table, discussing how soon they could send their cattle into the glen’s higher slopes to graze on the sweet hill grass there. The winter had been harsher than usual, Dougal overheard them say; the cattle were thin still, though it was nearly May.

  His own cattle were also in need of the better nutrition of the higher slopes, where sunlight and clear mountain streams fed the grasses and flowers, and livestock could grow healthy after a long winter and a wet spring. The Highlands of Scotland did not produce good hay for cattle, though there were oats and barley for them.

  Soon enough, the daughters and wives of these men, and some of the younger men, would drive the cattle into the hills to stay in shieling huts, modest cottages used in spring and summer by those who brought the cattle to the high slopes for weeks at a time. With the hills more populated than usual, moving great lots of whisky kegs about would not be as conveniently managed as now, before the shieling time began.

  The men had invited Dougal to join them earlier, but he had smiled and declined. He had agreed to meet someone at Rob MacIan’s inn, but the man had not arrived as yet. He sipped a tankard of ale in silence, watching through the small window near his corner seat. Along the road, he saw a black coach—not the shabby beast that Hamish drove, but a trim barouche pulled by four sleek bay horses.

  He nodded to himself. Hamish would be disappointed to miss seeing such an excellent vehicle, he thought. Outside, the black coach drew up in front of the inn rather grandly, and while the tenants stopped their chat to look out the window, Rob MacIan emerged from an inner room. The innkeeper—who like his son the reverend was a tall, fair sort, though age and ale had made him big and ruddy—hurried to open the door and step out into the yard. Dougal heard Rob call to one of his sons to see to coach, horses, and driver; Rob would escort the passenger inside, offering his guest food, drink, and lodging if needed.

  Sipping the ale again, a fine and fresh brew—by its taste, he knew the household in the glen where it was made—Dougal waited.

  When Rob returned, he was accompanied by a tall, lean, dark-haired man in a black double-breasted frock coat, neat gray trousers, and high black boots. As he entered, he removed his tall black hat, holding its curved brim, and ducked his head slightly beneath the lintel. He carried a cane that he clearly had no need of, as he had an athletic, restrained fitness in both form and movement.

  The tenants watched in surprise and then glanced at one another. One of them looked outside again, probably expecting a tourist party, or perhaps a pack of revenue agents. He shot a look toward Dougal that expressed doubt and suspicion, and the laird nodded once.

  The Earl of Eldin was certainly a handsome fellow, Dougal observed; striking really, his eyes piercing enough to take in the room and assess everything and everyone in it with a swift glance. Seeing Dougal seated alone, he advanced to the table.

  “MacGregor of Kinloch, I presume,” he said.

  “Lord Eldin,” Dougal said in greeting, and rose to his feet, for Eldin seemed to expect some sort of fancy greeting. He offered his bare, rough hand, gr
ipping the earl’s gloved fingers, and was surprised by the strong handshake he got in return.

  As they sat on opposite benches, Eldin put his hat on the table. Rob came toward them. “Sir, you must be thirsty after your journey,” he said, setting down a tankard of ale.

  “From Auchnashee to here is not that far,” Eldin said, looking at the tankard with mild disdain. “I will have a dram of whisky, if you please. That local brew you recommended once before to me—ah. Kinloch. It is the finest in the Highlands, I hear.”

  Dougal tipped his head as Rob hurried away. “My thanks,” he said.

  “No thanks necessary,” Eldin said. “I am not flattering you, sir. If the brew is indeed that good, then I am merely stating a fact.”

  “Indeed,” Dougal said. He sipped his ale again.

  Eldin lifted his own tankard to drink as well, then set it down. “I am quite surprised,” he said. “That’s more than passable stuff.”

  “Far more,” Dougal said. “A cousin of mine, Helen MacDonald, makes it.”

  The earl swallowed from the tankard again. “It is light for an ale, and…delicate. Quite refreshing. I’ve never had the like. What makes the difference in the brew?”

  “Heather flowers, I believe. Helen uses an old recipe known to the family.”

  “Ah, heather ale! I’ve heard of it. This is excellent. Does she sell it?” he asked quickly.

  “She does,” Dougal answered. “Though she does not produce it in much quantity, so of course the price goes higher for that.”

  “No matter. I will seek out the woman and request that she provide ale for my hotel.”

  “I will ask her,” Dougal said cautiously, “and send her answer to you.”

  Rob returned quickly with a dark bottle and two glasses, which he poured out, the liquid golden, its familiar fragrance wafting as the drinks were poured.

  “Sláinte,” Dougal said, lifting his glass as Eldin lifted his. The earl sipped the whisky, and Dougal studied him: wealth and elegant lifestyle were apparent even in the smallest immaculate details of the man’s garment, from the snowy linen neck cloth tied high and close, stuffed beneath the high lapels of the woolen coat, whose precise cut flattered a wide-shouldered torso and narrow waist, to the polished beaver hat set on the table, and the gold-headed cane leaned beside it.