Chapter Three
Dougal stopped short, the lass bumped into his shoulder, and he set his hand firmly on her arm. He did not intend to let her go. Not yet.
Narrowing his eyes, he estimated the revenue men to be a half mile or so away along the loch road.
From the slope’s angle, they were clear enough, though distant.
The drifting mist and the rocky angle of the slope would hide him and the girl for a bit.
Nor would the man have seen the cart yet, though they might hear its creaking progress.
Taking the lass with him, Dougal ran down toward the approaching cart.
“Let go,” the girl said. “The officers will take me to Mrs. MacIan’s home.”
“Mrs. MacIan? Is that where you belong?” Was she the teacher? That was different, then. “I will take you myself. You would not be safe with the gaugers.”
“I am hardly safe with you,” she pointed out.
He gave a low whistle, a soft trill like a curlew’s call. The squeak of wheels slowed, for the driver knew the signal. Dougal hurried down the slope, towing the lass along.
“I do not need a ride, I can walk—”
“Hush,” Dougal said, hurrying with her, hoping the curve along the base of the road would hide them from the gaugers.
The vehicle rolled to a halt, and Dougal waved, hauling the girl with him. She was not eager to go. Not that he could blame her, but he had no time to explain.
“Miss, this is Ranald MacGregor and his son, Andrew. My uncle and cousin,” he said. “Ranald, Andrew, this is—ah—” He did not know her name.
“Miss Fiona MacCarran.” She gave his kinsmen such a warm smile that Dougal wished she had blessed him with a smile like that. But he had hardly earned it; in proof, she sent him a furious side glare.
“Miss MacCarran,” he said. “Into the cart. Now,” he added.
She blinked. He noticed then her eyes were the deep blue of a sparkling mountain loch. Something intangible within him shifted, a need, a craving. He frowned and offered his hand. She ignored it and gave his kinsmen another smile.
“Gentlemen, I am so pleased to meet you. I have come from Edinburgh to Glen Kinloch to teach at the glen school.”
So she was the teacher they were expecting. She had not said so, Dougal thought with a scowl. But he had not asked, he reminded himself.
“Our new dominie! And such a bonny lass too. Not like the last one, hey.” Ranald nudged the lad beside him on the crossbench.
Andrew nodded. At fourteen, swathed in plaid like a Highlander and trousered like a Lowlander, the lad looked dumbstruck by the bonny lass. “We thought the teacher would be old and ugly,” he said, blushing.
“Young or old, still a problem for us,” Dougal snapped. He took the girl by the waist, his hands neatly fitting her slim, taut curves. “Up you go.”
“No,” she said as he dumped her over the side into the hay.
Dougal tossed her heavy knapsack after her, set a foot to the wheel hub, and leaped inside beside her. His kinsmen looked back. “Gaugers on the road,” he explained. “Two coming this way. Hurry!”
“Och! Hide, then!” Ranald said. “Cover up in that old plaidie back there. If they see the new teacher in our cart, they will ask too much.”
Dougal snatched a rumpled plaid lying in a corner of the cart and tossed it over the girl and himself. She gasped as he pushed her down beside him in the hay and pulled her close under the musty tartan covering.
She shoved at his chest. “What are you doing!”
“Hush. You are safer with us than with those gaugers.”
“Even if one of them is my brother?” She pulled away.
“Ah, so your brother is the new gauger down the loch?”
“Aye, and you will regret holding me against my will.” She shoved at him. Dougal caught both her hands in one of his, and peered out from under the blanket.
“Do either of you know the gaugers up ahead?” he hissed at his kinsmen.
“Too far to see who they are yet,” Andrew answered. “Why?”
“Her brother is the new excise officer.”
“Och, that’s trouble then,” Ranald growled.
“What sort of trouble?” the girl asked in Gaelic. Dougal and his kinsmen had used a quick, fluent mix of Gaelic and English. Dougal sighed. He should have known the dominie would understand everything they said.
“Hush,” he said, “if you can.” She shoved at him again.
“Hide, both of you,” Ranald said. “I see them now. Andrew, take the reins.” Dougal felt the cart lurch as the horse stepped forward.
Dougal snugged the blanket over his head and hers. “Hush,” he repeated, his face close to hers in the shadow of the woven covering.
“I need not hide from my brother or his men.” She struggled, and the blanket slipped.
Click. Hearing a gun latch, Dougal glanced up to see a glinting barrel poke through an opening in the folds of the plaid. Ranald, leaning over the back of the bench, held the pistol. “No word from you, lass. Do as the laird says.”
“What the devil, Uncle,” Dougal muttered.
“Mr. MacGregor,” Miss MacCarran said crisply in Gaelic, “put that pistol away.” She reminded Dougal of a teacher he once had: a handsome woman, strict but kind, whom he had unabashedly adored as a lad.
His big, beefy, fearless uncle hesitated. “Begging pardon, Miss, but you must do as the laird says, or we will all have trouble.”
“I need not hide. Those officers are colleagues of my brother. And now I know you are all scoundrels,” she snapped.
Dougal heard the indignation in her voice. Impressed with her ire as well as her deft command of Gaelic, he was not about to debate gaugers versus smugglers just now. Clearly she was disposed to favor one over the other. And his idiot uncle waving a pistol about did not help.
“Ranald, set that thing away,” he snarled.
As he spoke, Miss MacCarran got hold of her knapsack and swung it hard enough to knock the weapon out of Ranald’s hand.
Snatching the bag, Dougal fell across her and held her down, losing the plaid in the process.
Ranald was swearing a fair storm, shaking his hand.
The horses sidestepped, and Andrew mastered the reins.
“Och, what an excellent lass!” Ranald crowed as he stretched back, grabbed the pistol, and stashed it under his jacket.
“You are mad, the both of you!” Dougal growled at his uncle and the girl both. He threw a leg over hers while she writhed beside him. Somehow he pulled the plaid high again, then flipped down an edge to glare at Ranald. “Uncle, what in hell was that?”
“Sorry, Kinloch. I thought to keep her quiet so she couldna make trouble.”
“Yet she is. Stop it, you lass!” Dougal added as the girl pushed hard against him. “That pistol could have gone off and killed someone.”
“Then he should not have pointed it at anyone. Get—off!” She shoved hard.
He shifted his weight a bit but kept his leg over hers, additionally pinning her down with an arm over her chest. Her breath heaved under his entrapment.
He regretted using his strength and ought to apologize, but it could not be helped in the moment.
He closed his eyes—she was soft, curvy, and fit. Damned distracting.
“Why would smugglers care if someone is killed?” she asked. “Kidnapping, murder, smuggling, breaking the king’s law—it is nothing to such as you.”
“Ruthless, we are,” Dougal drawled. “Blackguards, we three.”
“Wretches,” she agreed. “Scoundrels.”
“Och, we are not so bad as gaugers,” Ranald said, leaning back to talk to her.
“I believe it is just the opposite,” she rasped.
“Whisky smugglers are not all bad sorts,” Dougal murmured. “Often they are decent men who simply correct bad governmental regulations.”
“You mean blatantly ignore the law.”
“Highland whisky makers have a right to do what they want with barley they grow on their land.”
“The new regulations—”
“The Crown has no right to tax anything a Scotsman makes from his barley.”
“You cannot argue with that, lassie,” Ranald said as the cart rolled slowly on.
“Revenue men earn an honest living upholding the law,” she answered.
“Hah!” Ranald grunted. “She seems a good Scottish lass, speaking the tongue of the Gaels, but she defends English law over Highlanders.”
“I respect and appreciate Highlanders. I do,” she added.
“If you do,” Dougal said, “then know you are safe with Highland men of good character, and unsafe with gaugers who would kill a man just to snatch a keg of whisky.”
“So you are smugglers,” she said.
“I never said either way. But we are no friends of customs men, those paid by the government to enforce limits on Highland whisky making and take the excess.”
“My brother is a fine officer who is only interested in bringing criminals to justice.”
“That says he is green and will soon learn that justice is often injustice here. If I were you, lass, I would not speak of your brother to Highland folk.”
“I, for one, dinna want to hear about him again,” Ranald said.
“Ranald, keep quiet or you will be heard,” Dougal said.
“King’s men just ahead,” Andrew said.
“Lay still,” Dougal told the girl, who struggled again. Tugging the blanket securely over both of them, he slid down to lie flat in the straw, pressing her tightly against him. Like lovers, he thought, bundled and courting. He scowled at the thought.
“Oof,” she said. “Beast,” she hissed in his ear.
“This is for your safety as well as ours,” he murmured. “We must get past those men, and we cannot do that if they see you.”
“I shall scream,” she said fervently, and drew a breath.
He slipped a hand over her lips, over smooth, creamy cheeks, and leaned close. “Aye, do you dare?” he whispered.
She looked at him, eyes wide in the dim light filtering through the tartan weave and made a muffled squeak.
“Hush. Please,” he whispered.
She bit his finger. He yelped, clamped his hand down again.
“Listen, my wee bonny lass,” he hissed. “We will pass this road without incident. This is for the sake of many, not just us. Is it clear?”
She nodded. Dougal kept his hand over her mouth, though wary of her teeth. He wrapped her into his arms to discourage the writhing. A glimpse showed the fear in her eyes, and he felt such remorse he could barely look at her.