Chapter Two #2
“An amateur fossilist. I find and study rocks for imprints of ancient life forms.”
“Rocks,” he muttered, pulling along. “Come this way. It is a shorter distance to the road. Is there a carriage waiting to take you to Auchnashee?”
“Auchnashee? No.” The man had the manners of a beast, she thought. “You claim to own this glen, Mr. MacGregor. Are you an earl or a viscount, to have so much land?”
“I do not own it outright. In Scotland, most of the land is owned by the Crown and deeded back to the Scots. I hold the heritable rights to Glen Kinloch. But I have no fancy title if you are looking for such, being a Lowland lady.”
“I am not looking for that at all. You are hurting me.” She pulled against his grip. “How do you know I am Lowland?”
“Speech and manners,” he said. “And you seem like a fine lady. Your father must be someone of note.”
“My father and mother died when I was small. My grandfather was a Highland viscount, a title that went to my brother. Why do you care? We are not a family of note.”
“It is enough, and your family is fortunate.”
“I suppose we are,” she admitted.
He looked at her keenly, head tilted. His irises were a clear hazel green, framed in thick lashes and straight black brows; striking, beautiful eyes for a man, especially a brusque and roguish one, she thought.
“An orphan, hey? My parents died when I was a lad. You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you,” she said, somewhat surprised, still stumbling along beside him.
“My father left me a lairdship with a house and some land. I am a farmer, like most of my tenants. Kinloch is a small glen far from anywhere. Earls and such—none of that sort would come out here. Rocks, hey?” He tilted at brow.
“Many appreciate the beauty of the Highlands. I know an earl who has purchased a hotel at Auchnashee.” She did not add that Lord Eldin was her cousin.
“I know of him. He is one of those who buy up Scottish land to create shooting lodges and sheep runs, wanting to attract tourists who ride through to stare at our hills and homes. None of them belong here, and I will not sell my lands, so if you are exploring to tell your friend the earl about this glen so he can press me to sell, do not. Come ahead. Hurry.”
“I do not intend to spy on your lands. Why the rush? Is someone after you?” She glanced back.
“Bogles, ghosts, and the Fey,” he drawled. “Or perhaps smugglers.”
“Your ilk, sir?” She dug in her heels, forcing him to stop. “Enough! Give me my things and I will go and trouble you no more.” She pulled back, but he held her arm. “If there are rogues about, I suspect you are one of them.”
“If I were, would I say? I would not. Do not fear. I mean only to warn you to leave this place for your safety. People, especially tourists, should not venture through my glen without reason.”
“Why are you here, if it is not safe?”
“I have the right of it. And I keep others, like you, off my lands.”
“I am not a tourist. I am searching for fossils, looking for the imprint of ancient flora and fauna left in masses of rock. They provide a geological record of Earth.”
“Find your fossils elsewhere in Scotland. Not here, not now. Come.”
Tugged by his strength, hurrying in his wake, Fiona concentrated on her footsteps on the rugged terrain. Drifts of mist obscured the way as they walked on.
MacGregor stopped short, fingers tightening on her wrist. Fiona stopped too. Hearing the clop of horse hooves and the rattle of a cart, she looked through the fog, trying to determine the direction of the sound.
“Is that a pony cart?” she asked.
“Aye, coming along the drover’s track that runs to the road and the loch. This way.” He pulled her along. Her booted toe hit a rock, and she stumbled.
MacGregor caught her around the waist, and she leaned against him, off balance. He felt so solid and sure that for a moment she stayed close, breathing hard. Then she straightened away. Once more, he drew with him over hillocks and stones.
Then he stopped quickly. Fiona bumped into his back. He put out a hand to keep her from tilting on the incline.
“Hush.” He looked around warily as his hand found her wrist. Sensing tension in the air, she stepped close to him, blinded in the deep fog on this part of the hill.
To the left, she heard the rumble of the cart, which came into view—a boxy wagon stacked with hay, pulled by a sturdy brown horse.
Two men sat on the crossbench, one in a wrapped plaid, one in trousers, both in dark jackets and dark, flat bonnets.
The driver in plaid was a lean young man, his passenger robust and older.
“Smugglers with a load of illicit spirits?” she asked softly.
“Farmers going home to supper,” he murmured. “But hold.”
“I hear that smugglers go about quite openly. And it is getting dark.” She glanced at the fading light through the fog, wishing she had gone with Patrick after all. “Are they dangerous?”
He huffed. “They are my kinsmen. Not dangerous to me, or you. But those other fellows might be.”
Now he was looking in the opposite direction. Fiona glanced there to see two men on foot emerging from the fog down by the loch road. They wore dark jackets, trousers, and brimmed hats. One had a pistol, the other a cudgel, she saw clearly as they moved.
“Smugglers!” she whispered, unconsciously edging closer to MacGregor. He exuded reliable strength; strangely, she felt safe near him, whoever he was.
“The two on the road? Gaugers.”
“Revenue officers? Then we have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, not a thing,” he drawled. Taking her arm in a fresh grip, he led her down the slope. Between the farmers approaching from one direction and the king’s officers coming from the other, Fiona angled her steps toward the officers. They would know her brother and escort her to safety.
But MacGregor tugged her toward the cart. He gave a low whistle and half dragged Fiona with him, avoiding the gaugers.
With a sinking feeling, she knew then that the laird of Kinloch was not simply the farmer and landowner he claimed. He was the very smuggler that Patrick and Mrs. MacIan had warned her about.
When the Laird walks the mountainside, Mrs. MacIan had said, step aside.