Chapter Nine #3
“Good day, Miss MacCarran.” He fisted a hand at his waist. “It is a fine day for a game of the ball.”
“It is,” she agreed, “but better done after school. Lessons to be learned first, and play comes after.”
“In school as in life,” he drawled. “Until later, then, Miss MacCarran.”
“Kinloch.” A smile touched her lips, that luscious mouth he had tasted and wanted to again. The feeling tugged at him.
The ball was at his foot. He kicked it with his toe and sent it toward her.
Quickly she raised her skirt hems and punted it back to him with ease, scooping the ball with the top of her foot and sending it upward to land softly at his feet. Dougal halted the ball with his toe and chuckled.
“I am impressed, Miss Dominie,” he said.
“See, Kinloch, I can also play games here in the glen.”
“So I see.” He gave her a long look, and she returned an amused smile before turning toward the schoolhouse. Watching, Dougal smiled to himself. She was stern and lovely, and no doubt her scholars would have extra lessons today.
Picking up the ball, he bounced it in his hands and strolled away toward Kinloch House. In the yard, Ranald and Fergus waited for him.
“That’s a good lass,” Ranald grunted, jabbing a thumb toward the schoolhouse.
Dougal threw the ball at his uncle. “Keep this, we will need it,” he told his uncles. “And spread the word. We are forming a game. A big one.”
“When? And who will play?” Fergus asked.
“Soon enough, and everyone,” Dougal called back as he went into the house.
*
“We have another verse to try,” Fiona told the class. “It is called a fith-fath.”
“Fith-faths! They are old charms,” Mairi said. “My grandmother and my mother recite them. Why should we learn those in English, if the Southrons do not have such charms?”
“Because they use words that are easy to learn. Listen,” she said, and began in Gaelic:
Fith-fath ni mi ort
Bho chire, bho ruta,
Bho mhise, bho bhuc…
“A fith-fath I make on you,” she translated in English, “from sheep, from ram, from goat, from stag…” She had chosen the ancient household blessing for its common form—lists of animal names and plain nouns simple enough to learn in English.
She was counting on her students to find the old verses familiar and easily absorbed.
Glancing up at the ceiling uneasily while the children recited, she wished she knew a blessing charm for a roof. She was not entirely sure if the roof was indeed precarious, or if Ranald and Fergus MacGregor were leading her on in a scheme to scare her away from the old building.
Hearing the thunk of boots on the front step, thinking Ranald and Fergus had returned, she looked up. Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway, which was open to the fresh air. He folded his arms and leaned against the frame to listen.
Though her heart leaped in her chest to see him again, she calmly finished the verse. Then she reviewed the word list, keenly aware that he was watching.
While the students patiently copied words, she walked toward him. “Mr. MacGregor.”
“Pardon the interruption, Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head. “I would like a word with you if you have a moment.”
Her heart gave a little flip of excitement and dread, but she merely nodded. “Can you wait until after class?”
“Another day, then,” he said, straightening. “I have some business to tend to.”
“Aye, then,” she murmured, disappointed, and wondering if his business involved more secret treks over the hills. “You can find me here tomorrow.”
“I can find you,” he murmured, “whenever I want. And when you want.”
“Tomorrow,” she suggested. “What do you wish to discuss? Do you need to look at the roof, too?”
“Not that. Another matter.”
She leaned forward. “An illicit one?”
“You,” he said, leaning and nearly whispering, “are far too eager for such.”
“I rather enjoyed myself the other night.” She blushed, smiled a bit.
“Did you now?” He pinched back an amused quirk of the lips. She yearned for more of that from him, wanting his wide, bright smile, his ready laugh. Wanting his strong arms to reach out, draw her close.
Enough. Her cheeks burned. “Did you? Enjoy the other night, I mean?”
“I did not. Watching you walk boldly between gaugers and smugglers? Indeed I did not.”
“I only meant to help. I worried that my brother would have to arrest you.”
“He would have had no choice if Tam had ordered it done. And there would have been a skirmish, with you in the middle. I know you meant to help, and you did. But I did not enjoy it,” he said low. “But I did enjoy the other.”
“The other? Oh!” She gasped, remembering the kiss.
“Aye,” he whispered. “A wee taste of heaven, that was. Did you think so?”
She glanced down, breath quickening, and nodded.
“You should not be standing here with a scoundrel and a smuggler who only wants to kiss you again.” He spoke low, leaned close, breath brushing her cheek. “He would bring no good to your life. Your brother and I agree you would be safer away from here.”
“Does he,” she said sourly.
“Aye. Until tomorrow, Miss Dominie,” he replied lightly, tilting his head. “A fith-fath on you and yours.”
“A blessing to you too, sir,” she murmured.
She stood too close, felt too drawn to him, and so she reminded herself where they stood, who he was.
The laird. But not a scoundrel. Not at all.
His green eyes reflected the mossy tones in the plaid draped over the shoulder of his old jacket, and his gaze was striking and unreadable. She could not look away.
Wildly, she felt as if he cast a spell over her with that hazel gaze, felt as if he truly could be a man of the Fey. Recalling their kiss by the standing stone, she drew in a quick breath.
“Go back to your scholars, miss,” he murmured.
She straightened away from him. “If you only want to tell me to leave this glen, do not come by tomorrow, Kinloch. You will not easily be rid of me,” she whispered.
“Och, Fiona,” he murmured, sounding regretful, “I only want to show you something that is important to me. Go on, now, the young ones are waiting for you. And I will wait for you tomorrow.”