Chapter Ten #2
Eldin sat back. “I will think about it.”
“Think all you like,” Dougal said. “Within the month, it will be gone.”
“To England?” Eldin asked quickly.
“There are some lively markets for good Highland whisky.”
“The blight in the French vineyards has reduced the amount of wine a man can obtain there,” Eldin agreed.
“Grain whiskies made in England and Lowland Scotland can be poor specimens indeed, compared to Highland malt whisky. But a Highland whisky that is hand nurtured and aged, stored twelve years and never found by the revenue—that is rare stuff.”
“Thus the price,” Dougal said.
Eldin nodded, played with the brim of his hat, looked at Dougal. “And Miss MacCarran, my cousin? I assume you have met her? How does my fair Fiona?”
“Well enough.” Dougal was startled. What the devil? “We have met on occasion.” Indeed. “She is doing a fine job with her students.”
“I trust she is busy with the teaching.”
“Very dedicated to her work.”
“When she is not teaching, does she wander the hills?”
An odd question. Dougal narrowed his eyes. “She collects rocks and stones, from what I understand. Sometimes, she walks the hills. It is safe,” he added. He should tell the girl to lob a couple of rocks at her cousin if he came near.
“Has she asked you about fairies, Mr. MacGregor?”
Dougal did not blink. “She is interested in local legends, like many visitors to the Highlands.” He wondered where these questions were going and why.
“Tell her nothing. If you know fairy legends, do not share them with her.”
“There is no harm in the tales. We have many legends.”
“Be wary, nonetheless,” Eldin said. “Do you have a personal fortune, sir?”
Dougal bristled. “That is no concern of yours, Lord Eldin.”
“Allow me to caution you. If you have any wealth, play the pauper should my cousin ask about it.”
“What?” Dougal returned sharply.
“Fiona MacCarran has reasons beyond teaching to come to the glen. She has a particular interest in fairy matters, stories of fairy gold and such. I confide in you, sir, to warn you,” he said low. “My cousin is determined to marry a wealthy Highland man.”
A muscle pumped in his jaw. The man had outrageous nerve and was all but insulting the girl. Dougal fisted a hand under the table. “After the Clearances and Culloden, wealthy Scotsmen are rare enough,” he drawled.
Eldin laughed. “Regardless, she has her mind set on this. Her family has little fortune of its own, and a wealthy husband is a solution for them.”
He wanted to throttle the man. “You speak unkindly of your kinswoman.”
Eldin shrugged. “A warning. Advice against a fortune hunter.”
“I possess no fortune, and I do not think she is hunting. Nor am I interested.”
“Is it so?” Eldin looked doubtful.
“None of this is your concern.”
“She is my cousin.”
“Then treat her with respect.”
Eldin gave a flat smile. “Should we bargain further for your best whisky?”
“I may not sell it to you after all.”
“No?” The earl leaned toward him. “How much do you want for the Kinloch twelve-year, all seven casks?”
“More than you can pay. Priceless, now.” He was growing furious.
“I wonder if you have an even more priceless brew tucked away.”
“Our whisky is rare and valuable.”
“There is a legend of another sort of whisky. An ancient brew whose recipe was given to the MacGregors by the fairies themselves.”
Dougal huffed. “Legends do not produce profitable whisky.”
“They say the lairds of Kinloch have always produced this secret brew.”
“I am not aware of it, if so,” he drawled.
“If you have a brew of that sort, I am willing to pay whatever you ask.”
Dougal shook his head in silence.
“Very well. Think on it, Kinloch.” Eldin stood then, lifting his hat and snatching his cane.
Inclining his head, he opened his gloved hand and deposited several coins on the table, including the glint of gold sovereigns and silver shillings, far more than was needed to pay for the drinks.
The man left the inn quickly, shutting the door behind him.
Rob came to the table. “He wanted no supper? We have a fine roast ready.”
“No supper,” Dougal said, standing. Through the window, he saw the earl’s barouche leaving the yard. “Serve the roast to all with the earl’s compliments,” he said, indicating the coins.
Glancing out the window again, Dougal frowned. What had Lord Eldin heard about fairy whisky—and why did he want it?
And what had he meant by those sly remarks about Fiona MacCarran?
The earl’s warning had a different effect than intended.
Dougal was even more interested, curiosity piqued, sympathy roused.
Miss MacCarran had a devil for a cousin.
A scheme to marry wealth, particularly in the Highlands?
He almost laughed. If she wanted that, then she would be scheming to marry that blasted cousin of hers.
But if she should ever decide that a poor, plain, solid Highland laird was to her liking, there was one willing and waiting.
That thought, clear and certain, was more revelation to him than anything Eldin had said.
*
The next afternoon, as the door to the schoolhouse opened and the students exited into the sunshine, Dougal walked toward the school.
He came from an adjacent glen slope, where a distillery was hidden in a thicket of evergreen trees.
Fergus had started a new batch of whisky there, and Hamish’s sons, Will and John, were testing the proof on a previous batch.
Dougal had stayed to help until the angle of the sun reminded him that he wanted to get to the schoolhouse before lessons ended.
Walking there now, he saw the door open and children emerging. He waited, folding his arms, watching for her.
For days, he had wanted a private word with Fiona MacCarran, but he had let other matters interfere. Even the day before, he had not taken much time to speak to her. He did not feel ready, somehow, he needed his distance.
Besides, other matters needed his attention.
The barley laid down to germinate for a new batch of brew required shoveling and turning.
Then he had ridden down to Loch Lomond to meet with English clients interested in Kinloch whisky.
That visit was worth a stay at an inn—their offer gave Lord Eldin’s proposal some competition.
Upon his return to the glen, Ranald and Fergus told him of their attempt to convince the new dominie that the roof was bad and she should suspend school sessions. Dougal knew he must speak with her about that and other matters.
Though he had kept away, time and distance had not changed his feelings.
Whenever he saw her, he near stopped in his tracks—glancing out a window in his tower, he had noticed her head toward the schoolhouse, moving gracefully, arms filled with books; looking across the glen hills, he had seen her far off, searching for rocks and fossils, her face lifted to sunlight or bonneted in rain.
Just yesterday, he had glanced up at the sound of her voice and nearly forgot that he was playing ball, where normally he never lost focus. Each time she caught his eye, his heart stirred, thumping as if he were a half-bearded youth.
As many excuses as he found to keep away, from tasks in a stillhouse to visiting tenants, counting herds, or leaving the glen altogether, he could not stop thinking about her. Whenever he saw her, his body responded, his heart craved, yet his resistance made his loneliness feel even more profound.
He was glad, now, that he had waited to speak with her until after his meeting with Lord Eldin. It was all too clear that the girl had to leave the glen, as much as he wanted her to stay. But the Laird of Kinloch had best manage the complications of his life alone.
Nodding a greeting to the children as they passed, he stood waiting. After a few minutes, Fiona MacCarran emerged from the schoolhouse, tying the ribbons of her bonnet. Seeing him, she paused, as if startled. Then she walked toward him.
His heart pounded hard. She was simply beautiful in the gray gown, jacket, and bonnet that she had worn the first time he had seen her on the hillside.
The wind pushing the soft fabrics revealed her womanly form and the natural, alluring, confident way she moved. He could have watched her endlessly.
“Mr. MacGregor,” she greeted him quietly. “You wish to speak to me about some matter on your mind?”
“I do,” he said smoothly. “So my uncles told you about the roof?”
“They did. I asked if it could be patched until I am gone.” She lifted her chin, her eyes snapping blue, bright and stubborn. “Unless you have your way and I leave soon.”
“If I had my way with you, lass,” he murmured, “we would not be talking about a roof just now.”
Her cheeks glowed like pink fire, and she pinched back a smile. Tendrils of dark, glossy hair escaped her bonnet. He wanted to pull the hat away, loosen her hair, pull her close—
“About the repairs,” she reminded him.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat. “The thatch and some of the rafters need replacing. My uncles would rather install a slate roof, which would last longer and give better protection against the elements. But that would take time.”
“Can it wait?”
“Some kind of repair must be done soon since it is leaking. One more good rainstorm and the old thatch will come down on your head.”
“So your uncles said. If you knew the schoolhouse was in such condition, why were the repairs not made before sessions began again?”
“My uncles made a few repairs months ago. We did not expect you so soon.”
“Or perhaps it is your way of saying I am not wanted in Glen Kinloch.”
“You are wanted,” he said, “in the glen.”
She tilted her head. “But not by you.”
He sighed. “This glen is not a safe place for the sister of a gauger. It can be dangerous, as you have seen.”
“The greatest threat to me so far seems to be from you.”
“And the roof.”
“Please do not send me away. I do not want to go,” she said bluntly.
Dougal glanced away from those earnest sky-blue eyes. “You are a fine teacher, and you are needed here. That is true.”
“Thank you.”
“Lucy tells us about school. She enjoys it very much.”
“She is a bright child, and quite delightful.”
“She has loathed lessons until now. I owe you a debt there.”
“She was not content at first, but she seems eager to learn. I must find more challenges for her. She works quickly, then sets about bothering Jamie. He is such an easygoing lad that he puts up with pestering, but she must be diverted to better activities.”
“I agree. I am afraid I have little idea how to manage a small girl, let alone one as bright and willful as wee Lucy. Though I will say, Jamie adores the lass.”
“And she knows it, which only makes it worse. She adores him, you know.”
“Does she?” He tipped his head, watching her steadily.
“Otherwise she would ignore him altogether.”
He smiled. “Someday she will have her reckoning.”
“Could be. What does she love best? If I knew, it might help.”
“She claims she wants to be a smuggler when she grows up, and she is convinced they do not need studies.”
“I do hope you discourage those notions.”
“I try to set a good example,” he answered wryly. “We read poetry in the evenings. So now she believes smugglers enjoy poetry but do not need math.”
She laughed at that, and Dougal smiled at the enchanting sound. “You, sir, know better than I do what smugglers need.”
“Oh, what they need,” he mused, regarding her with half-lidded eyes. “Math, of course, to figure the number of gallons and ponies and ships needed. And to accurately count the gaugers sneaking about the hills.”
“And they must be able to count coin to the last penny,” she suggested.
“But poetry, alas, they have little use for that.”
“Poor Lucy! Will you tell her so?”
“I do not have the heart for it. You tell her.”
She laughed, and Dougal reached out, touched her elbow. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” She did not protest as he led her along the path ribboning between gorse bushes and trees.
“This will be a pleasant surprise, I hope.”
“Are we off to see a troupe of fairies, or a pack of smugglers?”
“Which would you rather?”
“Both,” she said. “The fairies for me, the smugglers for—”
“Surely not me. They would be reward for your brother, hey.”
She frowned. “He is much on your mind, my brother.”
“You have been more on my mind than he has. You and your safety. But he seems a decent fellow, and that sort of work can corrupt a good lad.”
“That will not happen to Patrick.”
“It could, and it has, to many good men before him.”
She stopped to look up at him. “You truly believe he is in danger?”
“Aye, and you as well.” Pausing beside her in the shadow of a thicket of trees, Dougal wanted to fold her into his arms, dispel her worry, make her feel safe. “Fiona,” he murmured impulsively.
Her gaze searched his. “Aye?” she whispered.
“Uncle Dougal!” A high-pitched voice sounded. “Uncle! Wait!”
“Lucy?” He turned, seeing her. “What is it?”
The little girl ran toward him, dark hair like a flag behind her, its ribbon lost as she came forward looking panicked, waving her arms, spilling to her knees on the path, scrambling up again. “Uncle!”