Chapter Eight
The scratch of nib over paper seemed loud in the quiet front room of Mary MacIan’s home at such a late hour.
By the light of a flickering lantern, Fiona dipped pen to ink and continued to write, while the peat fire crackled and Mary snored softly in the back bedroom.
Done with writing out the week’s lessons, verses in Gaelic translated to English to share with her students, Fiona now replied to a letter from James that had arrived by the mail coach just that day.
Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes and pushed at the old door, but the house was peaceful. Since Mrs. MacIan had a habit of retiring early, Fiona used the quiet evening hours to prepare lessons, compose letters, and work on her drawings.
She still owed a letter to her great-aunt, Lady Rankin, but would leave that for later.
Though she loved her aunt, who had raised the twins after their parents had been lost in a shipwreck, she knew the viscountess dismissed Fiona’s charitable work, thinking most Highlanders little more than quaint savages.
Lady Rankin would rather see her great-niece make a good marriage and stop pining for her lost love.
Fiona would far rather write to her twin brother, enjoying their exchange. She knew he wanted to hear about her work in Glen Kinloch, and she looked forward to having his thoughts in return.
I am delighted that dear Elspeth is feeling so well, she wrote to her brother, having already reported on the glen, the school, and her students.
I look forward to becoming an aunt, though my anticipation cannot match the joy of the babe’s dear parents!
How wonderful that Elspeth is weaving a new tartan blanket for the little one.
The green plaid she made for me is very pretty and keeps me warm.
She went on, telling him of the mail coach driven by Hamish, uncle to the Laird of Kinloch, and mentioned the distant kinship between Elspeth and her grandfather and Kinloch himself.
Then she wrote that she had no drawings for their grandmother’s fairy book yet.
She was at a loss how to illustrate that, for Lady Struan had requested drawings of fairies that her grandmother’s friend Sir Walter Scott would judge for worthiness.
Fiona did not want to disappoint him, and wanted to honor Grandmother’s belief in fairies, even though she was uncertain of such things herself.
I hope we can all succeed in the tasks Grandmother gave us as beautifully as you have done. Finding your Elspeth with her family lore of fairy ancestors was a miracle. I do not expect such luck, but I am willing to try.
Next she wrote about the excellent trilobite specimens she had found in limestone, with evidence of a thick quartzite layer beneath Old Red Sandstone.
She stopped, glancing up as the door banged in the wind.
Startled, she smeared ink on the page, blew on it, and rose to secure the door, fearful its old latches might give way.
Outside, Mary’s dog began barking, agitated and incessant. Mary had asked Fiona to let the dog in later that night, but those frenetic barks were concerning. Grabbing her shawl from a hook, she took the dog’s rope lead and pulled open the door to step out into a whipping wind.
“Maggie!” She did not see the black-and-white spaniel, although the dog was usually nosing about and guarding nearby. “Maggie, come here!”
Fiona walked across the earthen yard, clutching the shawl against the chilly wind, which held a hint of rain. Wind tugged at the fat, unkempt knot of her hair, spilling it over her shoulders. She pulled the plaid over her head and walked on, calling repeatedly for the dog.
Clouds drifted across a nearly full moon.
Across the meadow in the cove, the loch reflected the moonlight.
Fiona stopped, turning to look for the dog, and took in the beauty of the dark, sparkling night: black mountains against an indigo sky, the pale wafer of the moon behind swift clouds.
Someday if she found time to paint, she would want to capture the mysterious beauty of a night like this one.
Lifting her face to the wind, she heard the sound of gusts layered with the lapping of water against the pebbled shore.
The dog barked again, and frantically; the sound seemed close to the cove, and Fiona went in that direction. Overhead, the moon peeked bright between the clouds, revealing the loch’s rippled surface—and a boat far out on the water, its elegant black silhouette just visible in the darkness.
She paused. Wanting to fetch the dog inside, she did not want to be seen by anyone aboard a smuggling vessel. Surely it was one of those; there was no other good reason for a ship to sail along the shoreline that touched this remote glen, especially at night.
Half running, searching in earnest for the spaniel, she reached the path that led from the cove to the main road. She called out softly, not eager to be heard. Whatever went on in Glen Kinloch at night, it was safer not to know.
A flash of black and white ran over the meadow toward the main road. Fiona turned and hurried after it. Maggie barked again, a warning, protective sound.
Glancing warily around in the darkness, Fiona sensed a chill run down her spine. “Maggie,” she called. “Maggie, come here, girl!”
When she came to the main road, the clouds parted overhead, bathing all in silvery moonlight for a few moments. Another bark, and this time she glimpsed a patchy white coat heading up a hillside. Fiona left the road to pursue her quarry.
Some urgency in the air made her want to hurry.
She glanced around at the shimmering loch, the empty road, the dark, massive slopes rising up from the roadside.
Higher on the nearest hill, Maggie barked again, and Fiona felt a sense of relief, seeing her within reach.
She climbed upward in the unreliable moonlight, shawl clutched in one hand, dog’s lead dangling in the other.
“Maggie! Here!”
The wind snapped at her plaid and blew her hair free.
The clouds extinguished the moonlight like a candle flame, the darkness so complete that Fiona nearly stumbled on the slope.
Here, the ground was thick with heather, juniper, and grass, and scattered with rocks.
She dared not run too quickly for fear of falling.
Seeing a flash, she moved toward it—yet it was not the black-and-white dog.
Starlight sparkled like bright bits of fire, as if the stars hung very close to the top of the hill.
Fiona watched them sink and swirl—and then coalesce into something ghostly.
She gasped, stepped back. The lights spun, whirled, vanished.
Ahead, she saw a cluster of standing stones cresting a low hillock, where the moving starlight seemed to have disappeared. Intrigued, she went slowly toward it. Somewhere higher on the slope, the dog barked crazily, excited.
As she went, she heard other sounds—thumps, footfalls, hooves, then the jingle of metal and harness. Her blood ran chill in her veins, and she stood motionless. The dog continued to bark, but Fiona dared not call out now.
Men and horses were approaching from somewhere. She could hear the breath and bluster of horses, the low murmurs of deep voices.
In a new burst of moonlight, she saw them.
They were not the Fey riding in a cavalcade, as legends claimed in the Highland hills, nor were they the ghosts of men lost in battle. These men were real, grim, determined, some mounted, others leading ponies.
Smugglers. And she stood out in the open, easily seen.
Clouds shifted again, casting a shadow over her.
Taking a chance, she ran swiftly toward the standing stones to hide, slipping behind the tallest menhir.
Standing stones were not uncommon on hillsides and in fields, abandoned ages ago, their meaning and purpose lost. Grateful for their shelter, she drew her dark plaid around her, hoping to blend with the shadows until the men went past.
Lanterns swung like golden drops of fire as they came closer. Fiona stood still, leaning against the stone, legs trembling. She peered out, fear and curiosity mingling. They neared the place where she had just been standing.
Not far away, Maggie continued to bark incessantly, untroubled, bold. Fiona cringed for the dog’s sake. The smugglers could decide to silence the little dog to protect their secret. Suddenly, Fiona caught her breath, seeing a black-and-white blur chase down the slope toward the passing group.
Men and horses were visible now, glowing lanterns scattered among them.
Cold fear slid through Fiona as she pressed against the tall stone.
She could hear the thunk of hobnail boots over the rocky terrain, the clop of horses’ hooves, even the slosh of liquid in the kegs strapped to the ponies’ backs.
She heard rumbling male voices: a question, a reply, a curt laugh. And the relentless barking.
Maggie bolted down the hill and came straight for her, circling the stone circle. Fiona hissed at her to stop, and Maggie, excited, wheeled and ran toward the men again. Clinging to the stone and the shadows, Fiona waited, heart pounding.
Beware the hills when the Laird is walking…we always keep clear…
Fiona would not have gone out at night but for the little dog. But now she was helpless to save Maggie from the passing smugglers.
Some of the men looked toward the standing stones, but moved on. A minute more and they would pass by; another few minutes and they would be gone entirely.
Her heart slammed, but some hint of courage and determination emerged, calming her, slowing her breath. She peered out just far enough to watch the men pass, hearing the rhythmic chink of harness fittings and steady footfalls.