Chapter Seven #3
“It would be foolish for me to marry now, with all the secrets in this glen.” Dougal shook his head. “As for the lassies, they can easily find husbands and happiness without me. I am content to do as I please.”
“What if we wait, then?” Fergus asked. “What if the Lowland teacher soon goes south? Then we need not worry about what she might see.”
“You cannot frighten her off. I will not tolerate it,” Dougal said.
“Well, we cannot wait until summer,” Hamish said. “We need to move the cargo soon. We need to make a profit on it, and we can find buyers. Your land must be bought back, Kinloch, or else we will all have to leave this glen.”
“The schoolhouse and tower house, bridges too, all need repairs. That could discourage any Lowland lass,” Fergus said. Dougal shook his head, but was ignored.
“What if the teacher thinks the schoolhouse is haunted by the ghost of a scholar who failed? She might pack for home then,” Ranald said. “Or what if the roof leaks on her head?”
Dougal frowned. “Interesting. The roof leaks, the walls are crumbling.”
“Aye. If we must close the schoolhouse, that solves the problem,” Fergus said.
“Perhaps,” Dougal replied warily.
Hamish shrugged. “And we can find another teacher later.”
Dougal nodded reluctantly, glancing toward the school, feeling guilt and regret. Behind those windows and that old door with its peeling paint, the teacher was helping the children of the glen. That included his niece.
He was a beast indeed, as Fiona MacCarran had called him once, to stand here scheming her departure. Yet he must consider his glen and kin over all, though he did not like the choice before him.
“But the children need a glen school and we have a teacher who wants to help,” he said. He needed the teacher too—the thought came impulsively, as if his heart knew something he did not.
Despite the risks, he wanted her to stay. But a lifetime, as his uncles suggested, was out of the question. But he might be a better, stronger, finer man if she did stay. He shook his head against the thought.
“You have secrets to protect, lad, we know that,” Ranald said. “There is a cache of whisky to be safely moved and sold. And there is fairy brew to be made soon. The time is coming when you must go up the mountain to start a new batch. It is your duty as laird.”
“Aye, the fairy agreement,” Dougal said quietly. Ranald and Fergus nodded. Hamish rolled his eyes.
Sighing, Dougal gazed at the broad flank of the mountain that loomed over the glen. “We cannot invite more interest to our glen just now. A Lowland teacher with a gauger brother and other kinsmen—a viscount, an earl setting up a tourist hotel. It is a predicament.”
“Tourists. Tcha!” Hamish grimaced.
“They may come to our beautiful glen, looking for unspoiled, wild Scotland,” Dougal said. “Loch Katrine is nearby, and has brought much attention to the Highlands, thanks to the Bard of the North and his poems.”
“Bah, I will not read such stuff as that,” Ranald said.
“I have. I did not like it much,” Hamish said.
“I read a bit,” Fergus said. “A lot of running about and rescues and fights. A fine story. But our glen will not remain protected and secret for long if tourists come here.”
“I still say Kinloch could do worse than marry the teacher and keep her here. Get her promise to honor our secrets,” Ranald said. “The glen needs a teacher, the laird needs a wife, and the lass is bonny. A wife as smart as that one will keep him interested and happy, hey.”
“It is not that simple,” Hamish grunted. “An educated Lowland lady will not want a poor Highland laird with a small estate and a taste for free trading.”
“She could not find a finer lad or a finer home in Highlands or Lowlands,” Fergus replied.
Listening, Dougal glanced at the schoolhouse door again and heard laughter coming from inside. The children were enjoying their day. He felt a surge of regret, and at the same time, resolve. This had to happen.
Decided, he turned to his uncles. “Tell her about the roof. Tell her the school must be closed until repairs are made. But first, we will give her a few days to enjoy our glen.”
*
Leaning back against a sun-warmed boulder on the hill, Fiona studied her pencil rubbing to make sure she had captured the delicate imprint of an ancient arthropod, left in limestone eons ago.
She slid the page into an envelope in her knapsack, then laid a fresh sheet of paper over another rock surface and rubbed it with graphite to capture an impression of another minuscule fossil.
Putting the things away, she walked across the brow of the hill, gazing out over glen and loch.
The afternoon was cool and misty, and she had excused her students a little early, knowing that many had chores at home or in the fields.
They had done good work that day, and she was willing to be flexible with lessons, as it would keep them content to return to school.
The extra time gave her a chance to do some hillwalking in daylight to search for fossil remains.
She had promised her brother James to look for specific rock varieties, take notes, and sketch what she saw to help his research on the geological nature of the antediluvian earth in the Scottish Highlands.
Her knowledge of fossils dovetailed nicely with his research, and she often supported his work by sketching finds for him.
Identifying rocks and fossils was enjoyable and no trouble, but finding any trace of fairies, as required by her grandmother’s will, would be impossible.
Still, armed with a notepad and Conte pencils, she hoped to find something that would meet the approval of the solicitor, Mr. Browne, and especially the scrutiny of Sir Walter Scott, her grandmother’s old friend.
The late Lady Struan’s will had to be satisfied unless her brother could succeed in contesting it. That was doubtful too.
Heading across the breast of the hill, she kept the loch to her left as she went, allowing her to easily find her way back to Mary MacIan’s house. Seeing an outcropping of greywacke, she climbed toward it and knelt to study it.
She examined it closely, particularly interested in finding clusters of fossils and varieties of rock and minerals that could mingle in greywacke. Boulders were easy enough to explore, thrusting out of grassy turf and heather.
One small rock, small enough to fit in her hand, preserved a tiny impression of a trilobite. An ancient sea had left its traces even as high as these hills, she thought, reaching for her notebook to record the thought and make a sketch.
“That is a devil of an insect you have there,” said a voice behind her. Fiona jerked in surprise, turning to see Dougal MacGregor standing nearby. “Pardon, Miss MacCarran. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Good afternoon, Kinloch. I nearly threw a rock at you, I was that surprised,” she said with a half laugh.
“And I am glad you did not.” He dropped to a knee beside her and glanced at the pages poking out of her knapsack. “Very nice drawings. Yours?”
“Yes. Some are drawings, and some are rubbings made over the stone. Those are arthropods,” she explained, as he looked at some of the pages.
“The one in your hand is a trilobite—the devil of an insect that you mentioned. They were not exactly insects, but rather like very tiny crabs, little creatures floating about in the ancient seas. When they died, their bodies left impressions in mud, which over time became rock, preserving them forever.”
He nodded. “I have seen such things before, out in the hills. But I did not know what they were.” He glanced up, his eyes a piercing green. “Ancient sea? Here?”
“Some geologists believe that much of the Earth was covered with water eons ago, including Scotland, since we can find fossils of marine creatures, fish, and shells to prove the theory. My brother is studying the geological part of the puzzle.”
“Lord Struan is a scholar, then, not just of the peerage. A professor, you said?”
“Natural sciences, aye. When I find good examples like these, I make sketches and rubbings to help his research.”
“You also haul away rocks to give him,” he drawled, hefting her knapsack.
She laughed. “I hope the Laird of Kinloch does not mind if I take a few rocks.”
“He does not care in the least. Steal as many as you like.” His eyes sparkled with humor. “Fish on a Scottish mountain, how curious.”
“This one is an ancient shrimp,” she said, showing him another drawing. “There, at the bottom, is a row of tiny arthropods left in limestone.”
He studied them carefully. “We call these fairy tracks.”
Fiona tilted her head. “They do look like tiny footprints.”
“When I was a lad, I was sure they were fairy footprints. I have read some about fossils since then, but I never thought they could be the fairy feet my father showed me when I was young.”
“Few fossils are so complete that we can recognize them as the tiny animals they once were. It takes a keen eye to find them impressed in the rock. You can see plants too, leaves and ferns and bark, if you look closely enough.” She smiled. “But I rather like calling them fairy tracks.”
“It is better than calling them Highland shrimp.” He laughed, then stood and held out his hand. “Come up to me,” he murmured.
Fiona paused, recalling the first time she had seen him on another hillside.
She had taken him for one of the Fey then, and he had used that same odd, lilting phrase.
Now he was smiling, affable—and yet still compelling and mysterious, as if he did indeed have a magical aura about him on this misty hillside.
She very much liked the man she saw now, already familiar to her, who smiled easily and did not insist that she leave this place. She set her gloved hand in his as he helped her to her feet.
Brushing dirt and grass from the skirt of her dark-blue gown, she adjusted the drape of the plaid shawl. It was a gift woven by weaver Elspeth MacArthur, Lady Struan, James’s wife. She smiled up at MacGregor. “What brings you into the hills this afternoon? Surely not fossil collecting.”
“Flowers, Miss MacCarran.” He lifted her knapsack to his shoulder and began to walk beside her. “You roam the hills searching for rocks, and I look for wildflowers.”
“For your lady love?” she asked. “You have not collected a bouquet.”
“My lady love wants a different sort of bouquet. She is a great belching thing, pretty and shiny, but she is fussy and demanding when the steam begins to roll off her. But oh, she gives great comfort when she is ready.”
She blinked. “A copper still?”
“Ah, she guessed the riddle and her rival.” His hazel eyes twinkled. A tiny thrill ran through her at his gentle teasing.
“Why does she need flowers, then?”
“Spring flowers will grow along the course of the burn near here, and I need to know what is there. The water feeds the stills down the slope.”
“I did not know flowers were part of illicit whisky distilling.”
“Legal whisky, Miss. Am I always a criminal in your regard?” He set a hand to his heart in mock wounding, and she laughed. “All manner of things are taken into account when distilling pot-whisky.”
“Why the flowers?”
“They flavor the water. Whatever grows by the burn makes the water taste sweeter, lighter, and gives the water, and so the whisky, a hint of fragrance. Some plants lend a tart or a bitter taste. Grass, wild onion, garlic, even your precious rocks, when the water flows over them, can affect the whisky. I come out now and then to check the burns and streams, so I know what goes into the batches. The quality of the barley, the peat, and the water,” he went on, “help to determine the flavor and character of the whisky. We keep watch over all three.”
“It sounds like an art.”
“More art than crime.” He glanced down at her.
“Ah,” she murmured. His devotion to every detail of the whisky was a fascinating revelation. The making of whisky was a passion, not just a business.
“Alas, though I would be honored to escort you today, my search takes me in another direction. And I see my kinsmen waiting.” He gestured with a thumb.
Fiona saw two men waiting on another slope, a young man she did not recognize and an older man who resembled Kinloch’s uncles. “Please do not let me delay you. I am content to wander. It was very nice to chat with you.”
“And with you, Fiona MacCarran.” He leaned toward her. “Do not wander too far, lass. Stay near the road and the loch.”
“I will.”
“And safe home before dark. Promise me.”
“I promise.” Her heartbeat quickened.
“Just so.” He handed her the knapsack, fingers grazing hers in the transfer. Even through her glove, she felt that casual contact, kept its memory in her hand.
As he walked away, long strides taking him over the slopes, kilt swinging, she watched him for a moment—then sighed and turned to examine some nearby rocks.
Safe home, he had said. Suddenly, she felt as if her life was too safe, dull and intellectual rather than exciting and filled with passion. She had taken a risk in coming to the Highlands, yet clung to the safety of her scholarly pursuits.
Some impulse made her want to run after Kinloch, walk with him beside the burn, searching for wildflowers to please his love, a belching old copper still. She wanted to taste the wild whisky and laugh about fish in the mountains and fairy tracks in the hills.
But he was already in the distance, walking with his kinsmen into the hills where he belonged. And she was a visitor, a Lowlander…an outsider.