Chapter Four #2
“Best go, lass,” he murmured. “I will speak to the reverend. In the morning, I will send a gig and driver to take you to Auchnashee. If there are expenses for your return to Edinburgh, I will pay them. You may keep the rocks,” he added.
“You have neither right nor cause to dismiss me.”
“I do it for your welfare.”
“Only Reverend MacIan can excuse me. He invited me.” She stepped past him, feeling angry.
She did not want to leave. Already the glen drew her, and so did its laird, though she did not want to admit that.
Nor could she explain that she was here to satisfy her grandmother’s last request—to find fairies and sketch them, and to find and marry a wealthy Highland laird.
Clearly she would find neither here. But she would not go.
“I am no threat to your smuggling interests, if it worries you.” She spun to walk to the house.
“Miss—Fiona! Wait.” Her name, spoken in his deep, rich, lilting voice, sounded beautiful. Magical. She turned. He took her arm.
In the misty twilight, as he loomed over her, all else vanished. Wildly, impulsively, she felt enchanted, as if he were indeed one of the Sidhe. “Listen, lass,” he said. “This is just not the time for you to be here. Trust me in that.”
“I will not speak of what happened. We have a bargain. Let that satisfy you.”
“Never bargain with the fairies.”
“So you said. What do you mean? You are not one of them—are you?”
He bent toward her, and her head went back. She did not want a kiss, and yet it was all she wanted.
“Damn,” he muttered, and straightened as a woman’s voice cut through the fog.
“Is that you, Miss MacCarran? Who is with you?” Mary MacIan’s voice broke the spell that rooted Fiona in place. She glanced toward the cottage, its door open, showing a woman and a glowing hearth behind her.
“It is me, Mrs. MacIan! I am just coming. The laird is with me.”
“Mary MacIan!” he called. “I met your guest in the hills and brought her to you.”
“Kinloch, you rascal! Come in, both of you.” Mary MacIan beckoned. “Did you bring me a cask? Lovely lad! Is it the fairy sort this time? I hope not. I do not love it.”
“Just the usual sort. I know what you like,” he said with a smile.
Fiona looked up, curious. “The fairy sort of what?”
“Whisky. Secret brew. But we should not speak of it.” He sounded amused.
“I want nothing to do with your whisky business,” she said, and hurried ahead.
“Kinloch whisky is always welcome, and so is its bonny braw laird!” Mary MacIan reached up to kiss his cheek as he reached the doorstep.
She was a small woman with a froth of silvery hair spilling out from a white cap.
Her plain gown and tartan shawl hung loose on her small frame.
Fiona stepped inside and the laird followed, bending his head to clear the lintel.
She set her knapsack on the floor, and MacGregor set the whisky cask on a table beneath a window. Standing in the simply furnished front room of the cottage, he looked large, imposing, handsome, and mysterious. He smiled at Mary MacIan.
“I am sorry, dearie, I cannot stay for long.”
“Aye, there are gaugers about tonight,” Mary said. “The lad was here earlier and told me of officers out on the road. Did you meet them?”
“All is well. Give my best to the lad.” He stepped toward the door.
“The lad?” Fiona asked.
“The Reverend, my grandson,” Mrs. MacIan said. “He promised to take you around the glen, and so he will be back tomorrow to do so.”
“How wonderful,” Fiona said, looking at Kinloch. “I am looking forward to it.”
“A pity Miss MacCarran must leave the glen tomorrow,” he said, gazing with equal intensity at her. She narrowed her eyes.
“Leave! She just arrived!” Mary MacIan looked astonished.
“And I am enjoying my stay here. I am not leaving.” Fiona walked to the door and opened it wide. “Good night, Kinloch.”
“Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head politely, leaned to kiss Mary MacIan on the cheek, and stepped out. Fiona shut the door firmly behind him.
“I wish he would stay,” Mary MacIan said. “Such a lovely lad, is our Dougal.”
Fiona willed her heart to slow, her hands to stop shaking.
The attraction she felt toward him was surprisingly strong, but she told herself her reaction was just the result of an unexpected adventure in the romantic Highlands.
He was a rogue, and she would do well to avoid him until it was time for her to leave Glen Kinloch.
“Och, hear the dog barking!” Mary said. “She comes running when the laird is here. She loves the lad fiercely and would follow wherever he goes if he let her. She has gone all the way to Kinloch House, she has, and he brings her back each time. Och, I must get her in for the night and out of the dark and mist.” She opened the door. “Maggie! Come in!”
Hearing the dog barking in the yard, Fiona went to the door. “Maggie!” she called helpfully. Through the murk, she saw a black-and-white spaniel, tail wagging like quill feathers. The dog ignored them, busy jumping to greet the man walking away from the house.
Kinloch bent to pet the dog. The mist swirled around him, and as he straightened and shooed Maggie home again, he looked back at the house. Fiona felt his gaze burning over her. He lifted a hand, then strode away, whistling, to vanish.
She lifted her chin. She would not leave. The bond she felt with this place already had a place in her heart, despite its laird.
Maggie returned, jumping to the step and over the threshold, then leaping to her hind legs to greet Fiona. Stooping to rub her shoulders, Fiona then closed the door.
*
Dawn’s silvery sheen and the chill of morning woke her early. Soon she was pouring steaming cups of tea for Mrs. MacIan and herself while the woman cooked savory sausages over the hearth fire. Hearing hooves and wheels clatter in the yard, Fiona turned toward the window to see a carriage draw up.
“Is that my lad Hugh, come to take you round the glen?” Mary asked. Fiona went to the door while Maggie launched past her, barking. Fiona stepped outside and gasped.
A black carriage drawn by two bay horses had pulled into the yard from the dusty lochside road. Wheels creaking, heaving like a beast, it lumbered forward.
“A coach!” Mary hurried toward the door. “That is not my Hugh. It’s the old coach from Kinloch House.”
“Is it indeed.” Fiona folded her arms, scowling as she recalled Kinloch’s promise.
“That’s Hamish MacGregor driving it. He is one of the laird’s uncles.
What does he want here? At least Kinloch is getting some use out of that old thing.
His grandfather won it after a night of playing cards.
But fine coaches are not meant for Highland roads,” Mary added.
“Perhaps they are carrying a load o’ whisky.
We could all make a profit. Oh!” She glanced at Fiona as if she had said too much.
“I believe Kinloch sent his coach for me,” Fiona said. “He wants me to leave the glen. He says the school does not need a teacher at this time.”
“Hah! He knows how much we do need a teacher,” Mary muttered, and went into the yard. The coach shuddered to a stop, two stocky horses blowing and shaking their thick manes. The old vehicle swayed, creaked, quieted.
“Hamish MacGregor, you get down from there!” Mary called.
“Greetings, Mary MacIan. I prefer not to get down. I am in a hurry.”
“Then I will pull your ears off when I see you next in kirk, for ruining my yard!”
The coachman sighed and climbed down. Maggie barked, running in circles as Fiona walked outside and lifted a hand against the morning sun.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran.” He was a solidly built man of middle age with a round, mild face and a wild mane of iron-gray hair.
He wore the shabby, comfortable outfit common to many Highland men—old jacket and trousers, plaidie swathed across his chest, flat bonnet tilted on his head.
“I am Hamish MacGregor, uncle to the Laird o’ Kinloch.
He sent me here for you.” He doffed his cap briefly.
“How nice to meet you,” she said. She wondered how many uncles the laird had.
“Why did Kinloch send you?” Mary asked.
“He said the lady wants to leave the glen. Pity, with her just arriving, and we needing a teacher, but if she wants to leave us, she shall go.”
“I am staying,” Fiona said.
“The laird said I should take you to Auchnashee. I will wait.”
“Thank you, but you may go, Mr. MacGregor. Tell Kinloch I am content to stay.”
“And tell him his coach is better used to carry whisky, not teachers,” Mary said.
Hamish looked at Fiona. “Miss, are you certain?”
“I am.”
“These are Kinloch’s best packhorses,” Mary said, walking over to pat their noses, two big handsome bays with long pale manes and creamy feathering around their ankles. “Groomed very fine, I see, all combed out.”
“Andrew did that, and greased the carriage wheels so the lady would ride in comfort. I suspect this is far better than a plain cart and an old blanket.”
Fiona hid a smile. So Hamish had heard about that.
“Well, take it back to Kinloch,” Mary said. “And let those horses out to graze. They are not used to harnessing. Just carrying pannier baskets full of barley bree,” she added wickedly.
Hamish chuckled. “Och, aye then. But the laird will not like it.”
“It is no fault of yours, Mr. MacGregor,” Fiona said.
“Tell Kinloch he will see Miss MacCarran on the first day of school,” Mary said. “My lad is out reminding glen folk to send their young ones to the school to meet the new dominie. Who will tell my lad his visits were in vain?”
“So be it. Miss MacCarran, I am sorry,” Hamish said.
“Not at all. Will you have tea and sausages with us?”
“Oatcakes too, and fresh rowan jam,” Mary added.
“I will then. If I may, I will bring some back to the laird. He loves Mary’s cooking.”
“He will not get fresh jam from me if he is rude to our teacher lass,” Mary said. “Och, never mind. I want you to take some jam and cakes to Lucy,” Mary said as she ushered Hamish into the cottage.
Following them, Fiona wondered if Lucy was the laird’s wife. At the thought, her stomach wrenched. If he had a wife, she thought, the man was indeed a rascal.
She had been wrong to enjoy his kisses, and very wrong to dream of him last night, waking in a warm haze of pillows and plaid and memories of his arms around her.
“Come, Maggie!” She whistled the dog inside. Hearing a sound in the distance, Fiona paused to glance over her shoulder. Was that—bagpipes out in the hills?
The notes faded. She saw only the shabby coach, horses nuzzling at grass, and far blue hills beneath a bright blue sky. A few sheep ambled like pale dots high on the steep slopes. Perhaps their shepherd played for them, she thought.
Another tune began, far off. She stood listening, smiling, the sound filling her.
She wondered then if a tall, dark-haired man in a rumpled plaid stood on a far slope, listening to the same music and watching to make sure she boarded his coach.
She would not do his bidding. Let the infuriating Laird of Kinloch go about his day. No doubt he planned something illegal. Well, let him witness her form of disobedience.
Shutting the door firmly, she hurried to breakfast, hungry and eager to start another day in this beautiful glen, no matter what its laird expected of her.