Chapter Three #2
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
“You there! Stop in the name of the king!” a man called out harshly.
The cart drew to a halt. Dougal lay still, holding the girl, feeling warmth generate between them under the plaid. His cheek rested against her hair, her hand curled on his chest, his arm and leg strapped her down. He felt her breaths, felt her tremble as they waited.
She smelled like rain and roses mixed with earth and rock dust. He closed his eyes for a moment. A long time had passed since he had held a woman in his arms. This one smelled like heaven and felt like a perfect fit, body and soul. If only he could have met her under better circumstances—
She jammed her elbow into his ribs, and he grunted. As her mouth moved, he did not want to be bitten again, and shifted his fingers. “Do not scream,” he whispered.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “I will not tell them you are smugglers. You have my word, I swear.”
“A fairy’s bargain,” he said.
“A what?”
“A fairy’s bargain is never to be trusted. Especially when it is offered by a stranger, a beautiful, charming lass who holds a man in her thrall.” He moved his fingers over her mouth, but she managed to get a hand free to grab his hand.
“Thrall? Hah! What do you know of fairies?” she added.
“Some and not enough. Hush,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his hand.
“Stop in the name of the king!” The shout echoed closer this time.
Dougal froze, felt Miss MacCarran do the same. He held her tight, improperly so, his leg wedged between hers, her skirts wadded between their bodies. He waited, sensed she did too. The plaid covered them well, but he rolled over her just enough to hide her, risking that his form might be noticed.
“Who are you? What is in the wagon?” one of the revenue men called out.
“MacGregors from north of the glen, sir,” Andrew replied.
“Kin to the MacGregors who carry illicit whisky through these hills?”
“I do not know who you mean,” Andrew said. He translated that to Ranald. “My father does not speak English. We are just farmers.”
“We are looking for farmers, crofters, and smugglers. You are a slippery lot.”
“There are many MacGregors in this glen, all around the loch,” Andrew said.
“What are you doing out here?”
Ranald murmured to Andrew, who spoke again. “We are just bringing a kinsman to the healing woman in the hills above Drumcairn. Old Hector MacGregor from up the glen side is in the back. He is very ill, sir.”
Dougal knew then he had better be a convincing Hector, an elderly and hearty cousin who lived at the far end of the glen. He groaned and coughed.
“Don’t believe them,” one revenue officer said to the other. “Rascals, the lot of them. Search the cart. You two sit there and do not move.”
“I will have to explain this to my father,” Andrew said, and began to speak Gaelic in a loud, distracting voice. What he said was not flattering to the gaugers.
Hearing footfalls, Dougal knew the revenue men had moved to the cart bed now, no doubt staring at the blanketed form in the hay. The girl tensed beneath him, and he lay motionless, his breath brushing the soft curls along her brow.
“There’s a man there under the plaid,” one of them said. “See his boot.”
Dougal coughed, adding an ugly groan at the end.
“Sounds bad,” the second man said. Dougal heard the rustling of straw as the gaugers reached over the cart side to pull at the plaid. Moaning again, he made a retching sound. Beneath him, the girl shuddered—tears? Panic?
“Ill, or drunk on his own peat reek,” one of the men growled. “What else do you carry besides that old drunken rascal? Kegs of whisky to be confiscated?”
Ranald growled in Gaelic as Andrew translated. “My father says not everyone moves peat reek about, sir. He takes offense to be so accused.”
“Insulted until we find crocks and kegs under the straw, eh?”
“We’re carrying hay, and a very sick old man,” Andrew answered. “Hector is not drunk. He’s ill, and we need to get him to a healer who lives in these hills.”
“They’re all thieves and liars,” one of the officers snarled. He thumped the cart bed so hard that the impact bounced through Dougal and the girl both. That sound came from a gun butt or a cudgel.
Dougal emitted another unearthly groan. One gauger cried out and both swore.
“I would not be touching Old Hector if I were you,” Andrew answered.
“What’s he got?” one officer asked.
“Fever, sir,” Andrew translated.
“That’s nothing. Get him up. Let’s see him.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Ranald said quickly.
“Tinneen-groo-doo? What the devil is that?” an officer demanded.
“A terrible sickness,” Andrew said. “He has had it for a while, and this is a bad spell. Do not touch him, sir,” he added hastily. “You could catch it, and it is a horrible thing to bear.”
Dougal coughed again, loudly, clutching the girl to him. Her arms slid around him, probably to ease her position. She was shaking again, convulsing, and he rubbed her shoulder in reassurance. Then he realized that she was laughing.
He huffed in her ear, a whisper of laughter. She relaxed a bit, softening against him. Her bonnet tipped askew, and his lips met the soft shell of her ear. She sighed.
Such a sultry movement, so close to him; a feeling rocketed through his body, eliciting a response that needed immediate suppression. He tilted away from her. She looked up at him in the darkness beneath the plaid. He caught that gaze and was lost.
For an instant, he forgot where they were, what they were doing. There was magic between them—where had it come from, so sudden, so sweet and tempting?
But he could not be distracted. He turned his head to fake another retch and an agonizing cough. The girl patted his shoulder in mock sympathy.
“Tinnie-what? I’ve never heard of it,” one revenue man was saying to the other.
“A bad illness,” Andrew said. “We hope to get him some help in time.”
“They’re lying so they can get illegal whisky past us. Search the cart!”
They had the authority to do whatever they wanted, he knew.
Excise officers were deputies of the law, charged with apprehending smugglers, collecting illicit goods, and collecting additional fees to supplement their meager wages.
Thus the incentive to find criminals in the Highland regions was strong, encouraged by the government.
Dougal paused, waiting. Then he groaned.
“It does seem bad. Best keep away, Mr. MacIntyre,” one man said to the other.
Dougal frowned. Tam MacIntyre was a tough, cruel law enforcer, lately promoted to chief revenue officer along the loch.
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Ranald repeated. “Bad!”
“Bad, aye!” Andrew spoke hastily. “Mr. MacIntyre, sir, let us pass. Only the healing woman can help Hector in his suffering. We do not want to catch this.”
“Go on, then,” MacIntyre growled. “But if you see that rascal Dougal MacGregor, you tell him I am looking for him.”
“I have not seen him for a while,” Andrew said.
“He’s likely crossing the hills with a load of peat reek,” MacIntyre said.
“Kinloch has never been caught at such a thing,” Andrew defended. “He is a fine laird, looking after his glen and his tenants, his cattle and his fields.”
“And his barley brew? Tell him we discovered another whisky still up the glen side. We dismantled it, but we do not know whose it is. Any illegal stills found on a landowner’s property are the fault of the landowner. The punishment and the fine will be Kinloch’s to bear on this one.”
Ranald murmured something and spat.
“In English, you old goat, I know you speak it,” MacIntyre said.
“The reverend hired a teacher to come to Glen Kinloch to teach us English,” Andrew said. “Perhaps my father can learn English from her.”
“And you are a slick-tongued otter. I do not trust a word you say.”
Dougal groaned and retched.
MacIntyre’s companion swore. “Let them pass, sir. If the old man dies—”
“Go on,” MacIntyre said. “But tell your kinsmen and friends we are watching them. We have more men now and new laws. Tell your free-trading kin they will not get away with crimes so easily as before.”
“Good evening, Mr. MacIntyre,” Andrew said, and snapped the reins.
As the cart lurched, Dougal kept his arms around the girl. His cheek was against hers under the cover of the musty old blanket. He felt her breath wisp over his ear. He heard Andrew and Ranald talking. Then Ranald laughed outright.
“Kinloch, did you hear it?” Ranald called back.
“I did,” Dougal said. “Be quiet, you, until we are far away.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Andrew repeated, hooting. “The black lovesickness!”
“The black lovesickness is upon him,” Ranald crowed. “He has it bad!”
“It will slay him for certain,” Andrew added with gravity.
“Best see the lass home and save the laird from being sick with love,” Ranald said.
“Enough!” Dougal called gruffly.
The girl was laughing softly beneath his covering hand, her lips tender against his palm. Sudden desire spiked hot through him. He lifted his hand away and wondered if it was safe to sit up yet. The air between them was heated with feelings he dared not explore.
“So tinneas-an-gradh-dubh is a plague in this glen,” she said, laughing.
“Aye, if a bonny lass breaks the laird’s heart, it is the black lovesickness for him!” Ranald crowed jovially.
“You all are enjoying this too much,” Dougal said, and flipped the plaid down to let cool fresh air bathe his head and hers.
“Does the laird suffer this awful plague often?” she asked, eyes sparkling.
“Not too often,” Ranald drawled. “So when he gets, it is bad indeed.”
She laughed again. Dougal heard delight and a hint of reluctance, as if she did not want to be so much at ease with them. He smiled in the dark.
“Is it clear now, Uncle?” he called.
“The road looks empty ahead, but best keep under that plaidie for now.”
Dougal ducked under the plaid again, pulling it high over the girl’s head.
“Hector? Is that your name, not Dougal?” she teased.
“Hector MacGregor is my great-uncle, who is hearty but claims to be over a hundred years old.”