Chapter Twelve
Feet pounding, skirt hems lifted, Fiona ran behind Kinloch along the earthen lane leading between the distillery buildings. Seeing Hamish running toward them, Fiona hurried beside the laird, glad he had not tried to send her back—she would have come regardless.
“Hamish! What is it?” Kinloch asked as they reached him.
Hamish halted, catching his breath. “Fire,” he repeated. “The black pot.”
“Is anyone hurt?” the laird asked.
“None. But the smoke and flames can be seen far and wide. The gaugers might see it and come soon.”
“Black pot?” Fiona asked, phrasing it in Gaelic, poit dubh, as Hamish had.
“A still,” Kinloch answered quickly. Then he gestured. “You should go back.”
“But I want to help,” she replied.
“No need. Better you leave.” He spoke curtly, taking her shoulder to turn her. “Please, go home now, back to the MacIans.”
“She cannot go alone, Kinloch,” Hamish said. “The gaugers will see the smoke and come up here to find an illegal still. The girl must not meet them on her own.”
The laird glanced at Fiona. “You could go back to Kinloch House and wait there.”
“I will not. I want to stay. Let me help. I can carry buckets of water.”
“Fiona, mo gràdh,” he murmured in soft Gaelic. My dear. She felt a thrill slip through her. “I want you to be safe.”
“I am safe here,” she replied, returning his steady gaze.
“Och, bring the lass and come along,” Hamish said impatiently.
“Very well.” Kinloch took her arm, his grip strong yet gentle. “But see you keep out of the way and safe. And promise you will not speak of this to anyone.”
She frowned. “Still you do not trust me.”
“Caution is best.”
“And this from a man who likes a risk himself?”
“Some risks are safer than others,” he said, turning with her as they hurried along after Hamish.
“Do you still think me a threat because of my kinsmen? None of us would bring harm to you or yours, Kinloch. I can speak for all of us.”
“It is just that I do not trust easily.”
“I pose no danger to you, Kinloch.”
He did not look at her, walking quickly while she kept pace. “You are a danger to me all on your own, lass. I dare not trust myself near you. Do you know it?”
Fiona glanced toward him, seeing the profile, the sweep of dark hair, the guarded expression. What he said had a simple honesty that made her heart beat faster. “You need not be wary of me.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” he said after a moment. “The black lovesickness is not easily cured. Hurry now. Hamish is well ahead of us.”
Lovesickness. Her heart leaped. Rushing along with little time to think, she knew she had a touch of the same ailment. No easy cure indeed.
Where the path narrowed and wound through trees and up a slope, the laird of Kinloch touched her arm to guide her.
The light was dim where the way cut up and then down the hill’s angle, studded with roots and tangles of bracken.
Stumbling, Fiona reached out to keep her balance.
He took her hand, fingers warm and sure, and kept it in his.
The clasping felt so good that she did not want to let go.
He did not release her hand as he stretched out his free hand to push away overhanging branches as they passed through together.
“Hamish is far away now,” she said. “Do you know where he is headed?”
“I do. Promise me you will not tell anyone what you may see.” They left the shelter of trees for the open sweep of the glen floor.
He meant her brother, she realized. “You have my word. Why do we go this way? Crossing along the shoulder of the hill would be faster.”
“Too open. We cannot risk being seen and leading gaugers to this place.”
They reached the valley floor and stepped out into the glen. Approaching a narrow stream that cut through the valley floor, they crossed its rushing waters by stepping rock to rock. Dougal MacGregor took her hand again.
Beside them, the massive, rounded hills rose upward.
Perched on the sturdy, rounded shoulders of the hills were a few cottages.
Sheep scattered, grazing, along the slopes—herders and dogs had not yet brought them in, perhaps summoned away by the fire.
Ahead, another stream rushed down through a rocky passage on the hill.
Beyond the cluster of homes, pine groves thrust skyward in rich dark patches all along the hillside.
Above the trees, she saw the smoke, curling thick and dark, too much so for a home’s chimney. It rose up from a great thicket of pines that crested one of the lower hills. A little below the pine grove, she saw Hamish in the distance, hastening upward and between the trees.
“There,” Dougal said, pointing. He lengthened his stride, and Fiona hurried to keep up.
Overhead, smoke billowed. She could smell its pungency growing stronger.
As she ran, her bonnet ribbons loosened and her hat dropped to her shoulders, then blew away, skittering down toward the meadow.
Gasping, she spun, but could not catch it.
Lifting her skirts to hurry after Dougal, who strode far ahead, she noticed small lights flitting over the glen and hillsides, like dust motes glimmering in sunlight, even as dusk gathered and firelight bloomed hot and bright. She ran on.
Ahead, she saw Hamish MacGregor with two other men. The laird joined them, then turned to wait for Fiona. The others, she saw as she approached, were her student, Pol MacDonald, and his father, Thomas.
“It is Neill’s poit dubh on fire,” MacDonald was saying.
“Is the lad hurt?” Kinloch asked.
“He is fine, and the fire is lessening now, thanking the Lord. But the hut is destroyed, and a good copper still has blown apart. We moved the casks away, but until the rest burns off, we can do nothing.”
Dougal nodded. “Gaugers about?”
“Not yet, but there is a risk,” Hamish said. “Thomas sent his older sons out to look around. We are off to examine what is left of the still.”
They walked onward, Fiona hastening after, unsure she was welcome. Dougal slowed to fall into step beside her.
“Neill was testing the proof?” He directed this to Thomas MacDonald.
“He lit the sample, but it blew. Too strong,” Thomas grunted.
“Your proofs are never too strong,” Dougal said.
“It was Neill’s own batch,” Thomas said.
“Neill?” Fiona asked.
“My oldest brother,” Pol said.
“Neill is safe,” Thomas said, “and has learned the power of the whisky brew.”
Hearing shouts ahead, the men hurried, Fiona with them. Smoke rose anew above the pine trees. Something flashed among the trees, and she saw a narrow trail of flame snaking down the slope.
“Look!” she said, pointing. Dougal put out an arm to hold her back.
“The stream,” he called to the others. “It’s burning!”
Fiona cried out as she saw yellow flames licking furiously along the surface of the stream, the brightness whipping down the hillside like a dragon’s tail.
Above that stream of fire, tiny round lights swirled in the air. Sparks, Fiona thought—but they were pale in color, not the hot gold of the fiery stream.
The men surged forward, and she followed.
*
Fire danced upon the flowing water in bright ribbons.
Dougal slowed, seeing its downward course, awed for a moment by its fierce beauty and danger.
Sparks flew all about, snapping in the air.
He glanced up, concerned the trees might catch the flame too.
So far the fire was staying close to the stream, but he had seen this sort of thing burst out of control before.
Men shouted, running down the hill toward them. He put out his arm again to keep Fiona at a safe distance. She stayed back, staring as they all did at the burning water. Others gathered along the banks as well.
“There is little we can do now,” Dougal said. “It will extinguish on its own.” Others murmured agreement. Beside him, Fiona coughed a little in the smoky atmosphere.
He touched her shoulder in silent concern.
Soot darkened her cheek, she had lost her pretty bonnet, and the flames, far too close, reflected gold in the sheen of her dark hair.
He wanted to send her away, but knew she would refuse.
He liked that in her, a stranger yet to this community; he was glad to see the ease with which the others had accepted her presence here on this hill.
Hamish came near, waving a hand toward the flames. “Gaugers will arrive soon for sure. That light can be seen for miles.”
“Neill must have dumped a fair amount of brew into the water,” Dougal said.
“Is it whisky that burns there?” Fiona asked. She coughed again, waving her hand in front of her face, blinking as the smoky air stung her eyes. The odor of the burning was strong, and the air was hazy with smoke. Dougal coughed too.
“Aye. When whisky is poured into a stream,” he told her, “it can catch a spark and burst into flame, and the stream will be covered in flames until the spirit burns out. In shallow water, like this stream, the fire can burn the length of the spill as it pours downward.”
“A terrible and beautiful sight. Like the end of the world,” Thomas said.
“It just looks like a waste of good whisky to me,” Hamish said pragmatically.
“You have seen this before?” Fiona asked. Dougal and the other men nodded.
“Most distillers will make a mistake at least once that sets a stream burning like hellfire,” Thomas said. “It is part of the risk. But do not be afraid, Miss MacCarran. You are safe with us. Just stay back.”
“I am not afraid. Just—amazed to see this.” Her gaze lingered on the bright dragon’s tail of the burning stream.
Dougal glanced around while they spoke, taking account of those along the banks and the others among the trees. He knew each one—kinsmen, tenants, comrades, young Neill MacDonald, too. The lad stood alone at the top of the stream near the smoldering remains of the hut and his black pot still.
“I will have a word with Neill,” he said quietly, stepping away, then turned back on a sudden thought. “Miss MacCarran, come with me, if you will.” He wanted to keep her near him. This night was fraught with too much risk.