Chapter Two
In the mist, the woman moved like a dream, a fairy queen in a fog-colored gown. Just a glance told him she was beautifully made, graceful, and had a mysterious allure. With a woman like that, his days, nights too, might be filled with elusive happiness.
Enough, he told himself. Whoever she was, it was imperative he convince her to leave these hills and the glen quick as she could.
Dougal MacGregor, laird of Kinloch, leaned a shoulder against the cave entrance and watched the young woman.
She climbed the slope steadily, closer to the surge of the great, dark mountain behind him.
Inside, the cave held a valuable cache. Within arm’s reach was a loaded pistol with which to protect it. He stood still, silent, wary.
The lass had come too far and too high into the foothills and was alone now. Odd that her companion had left her to go about on her own. What sort of fellow would leave a lady in the wild hills, where rogues even worse than the laird roamed day and night?
Perhaps she was a willful creature and had insisted. Dougal thought the young gentleman had asked her to go with him, but she had staunchly refused, and the lad had gone on his way. Strangely enough, the lady stayed to chip away at rocks. He did not know her, but the young man looked familiar.
“Damn. The new gauger,” he muttered.
Recently, a new excise officer had been installed at the southern end of Loch Katrine.
Dougal had seen him once or twice; they had not met yet, and he hoped that would never happen.
But why would a government excise man escort a lady into these hills?
Every customs officer in the region knew smuggling scoundrels lurked here.
Was the lad so green that he was unaware of the danger and so took a lady on a jaunt?
As one of those scoundrels, Dougal frowned. Whatever brought the couple into these hills was not simple tourism.
With a charming disregard for her pretty skirts, the young woman sank to her knees, reached into her knapsack, and took out a small hammer. She struck hard at a rock, breaking off pieces efficiently. Chink, chink, thunk.
Dougal winced in silent amusement, seeing the pretty lass wield a hammer so smartly. Then he reminded himself she had no business here—especially if she knew a customs man.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no tourist admiring the scenery; she had a purpose and it had something to do with rocks. Now she examined the ground, then took a notebook from the knapsack and wrote or sketched. A map?
If she and the gauger were spies, that was concerning. With a decent map, excise officers could find caves and niches where goods were hidden.
Gaugers—and willful young ladies—must be prevented from sketching and exploring here. Dougal would have to dissuade her, and fast.
But when had she arrived in the glen? Ah, he thought.
Could she be the teacher Reverend MacIan had hired for the glen school?
But they were expecting an older woman. For years, the dominies who came to teach in Glen Kinloch were either male or middle-aged females.
None of them had stayed long, and for good reason.
A tourist, then? She was climbing again, lifting skirt hems over sturdy boots. She had dressed pragmatically for hillwalking, he would give her that. But each step brought her closer to where he stood. He stepped into the shadow of the cave entrance, watching.
In her gray dress and bonnet, with her nimble grace, she seemed part of the mist and the rock.
And his dreams. For a moment, he thought of the sylph-like fairy folk, the Daoine Sìth said to inhabit the hills and hidden places in Scotland.
If he still had a romantic nature, he might believe she was part of the magic of these hills.
A sprite. A pixie. The very queen of fairies.
Years ago, he sometimes thought he glimpsed the ones who inhabited the hills; she was none of those. Earthly, she was, and beautiful. Then she removed her bonnet and looked up at the mountain.
Dougal sucked in his breath. That bit of haberdashery was unworthy of her.
Oval face as serene as a Renaissance Madonna; delicate features; soft, large eyes under dark brows; the dark gleam of hair coiled in braids.
He wanted to loosen that thick silk in his hands, cradle that exquisite face in his hands.
Time for her to go. Easing away from the cave, Dougal set out down the hill.
*
Fiona knelt on the ground, absorbed in the work, heedless of mud and ignoring the breeze that played her dark hair into loops.
With her fingers and a small brush, she gently swept a cluster of stones, recognizing the preserved exoskeletons of tiny trilobites, sea creatures whose tracks were clear to a practiced eye—and evidence that the area had been covered in water a long time ago.
“James will be so pleased,” she murmured, tapping the hammer around the edge of a bit of stone. Limestone was grainy and soft, as rock went, so the piece broke away easily and she tugged it free.
“Miss.”
The male voice, deep and rich, startled her. She gasped and looked up.
Wrapped in fog, a man stood on the rise above her, one booted foot propped on a rock, kilt draped over the powerful thigh. Leaping to her feet, nearly tripping, she gazed at him.
“Who—are you?” she asked breathlessly.
He stepped down and extended a hand toward her. “Come up to me,” he said, fingers beckoning.
Fiona stared at the man who stood on the rocky slope.
He seemed fierce, powerful, and wholly not of this earth.
Tall and dark haired, in a kilt of muted dark tones with a brown wool jacket, he looked like a Highlander from long ago, as if he had stepped out of time.
His legs were strong and muscled, swathed in thick stockings to flat knees.
Chestnut brown hair sifted in waves to his shoulders, and the shadow of a dark beard dusted his jaw.
His eyes, narrowed beneath a smudge of straight black brows, had a greenish hue. He glared at her, hand still extended.
“Come,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked, heart pounding.
She had heard stories of the Sidhe, an ancient fairy race of tall, magnificent beings.
They sometimes appeared to humans, even stole them away.
James’s wife Elspeth claimed that her grandfather and father had been taken by fairies.
Elspeth was a charming storyteller, so Fiona did not entirely believe it.
But this handsome stranger appearing out of the mist made it seem very possible.
“Are you one of the Fey?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He beckoned again with long, nimble fingers. “Miss. Come up to me.”
She stepped back, her gaze on his—somehow she could not look away. Then she whirled to run, stumbling on the rocky slope. The Highlander was instantly there, taking her arm to draw her toward him in a strong grip.
“Come with me, Miss,” he said.
“No!” She pulled back. “You would steal me away!”
“What?” He looked down at her, like a giant on the steep angle. “Who the devil do you think I am?”
“One of the—er, Sidhe.” Then she realized how foolish it sounded.
He chuckled. “Not bluidy likely.”
A hot blush rose in her cheeks. The man was real, and she was an idiot. “What was I to think when you appeared out of the mist looking like a ghost, or a mythical being?”
“I would credit you with more sense. You seem a practical woman. Have you never seen a Highlander wearing the plaid, walking the hills?”
“Of course! But you could have given me a warning before startling me like that.”
“I beg your pardon.” He inclined his head, dark hair sliding over his brow. He seemed amused. “Truly, I did not mean to startle you.” He had the soft, elegant lilt of one who had spoken Gaelic before learning English. He released her arm.
Holding her bonnet tight against the wind, she stepped back. “I must go.”
“I am thinking you will come with me.” He reached out. She evaded him, snatching up her knapsack and hammer, and turned to run. Again he had her by the arm, his hold firm—and yet not threatening. It felt almost protective.
“My companions expect me. They are looking for me even now,” she insisted.
“Aye so? Where are they?” He turned with her and walked across the shoulder of the slope. Fiona tried to break free, but his grip was strong as he took her along.
“Let go!” Clutching the hammer in her free hand, she struck his forearm with the bruising thunk of iron smacking thick wool and taut muscle.
“A mhic Ifrinn!” Son of hell, she understood. “Give me that thing,” he barked, snatching the hammer. “I mean you no harm. I only want you gone from here for your wellbeing. These hills are not safe.”
“I was quite safe until you accosted me,” she pointed out, trying to keep pace with his long, purposeful stride. Where was he taking her? “You have no right to handle me so, or to order me out of here.”
“I do. This is my glen. I am Dougal MacGregor of Kinloch.”
“Are you laird of this glen?” Laird of Kinloch—Patrick had warned her about him.
“I am Kinloch, for the glen is deeded to me, aye. Tourists are not allowed here.”
“I am not a tourist, Mr. MacGregor. I am staying nearby.”
“The terrain is treacherous here. Visitors do not know the safe paths through the hills. And rogues and smugglers are often about, night and day.”
“Are you one of them?” She looked up at him. He had dropped her hammer into a pocket, but her bag held some hefty rocks that could serve as weapons.
“Give me that bag,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He took the knapsack off her shoulder and hoisted it to his own, its contents clunking. “What in the name of the devil is in here?”
“Rocks.”
“From my glen?”
“I will put them back if it troubles you.”
“Keep them. We have plenty of rocks. If it is gold or treasure you search for, there is none of that here. We would all be wealthy in this glen if so.”
“I am not looking for gold. I am a fossilist.”
“A what?”