Chapter Twelve #2
She came with him, plucking her skirts free of the ground, neat boots and ankles, a quick and fit step, a strong and lovely woman—but he could not think about that now. Possibly he should never think on it again.
“Can I help in some way?” she asked, walking beside him.
“Just stay close while I talk to Neill,” he replied.
“You have seen more of our enterprise than you should have. I am sorry.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, hoping he could rely on her silence.
Hoping he truly could trust her. Certainly he wanted to—but the girl’s brothers included a gauger and a viscount, and the lass was prone to taking notes as she wandered hills where smugglers roamed.
He should not trust too soon but rather remain vigilant to protect his friends and the glen. His frown deepened.
“Why would Neill MacDonald pour whisky into the stream?” Fiona asked.
“He may have been testing a sample, and it poured out. Accidents happen too easily at that stage, since we use black powder and flame.”
“Gunpowder?” She sounded surprised.
“Commonly used for proofing spirits, but it must be handled carefully. If the whisky is weak, the gunpowder will not ignite. If the whisky is the proper strength, it will burn clean and go out. But if the brew is too strong, it explodes.”
“And if whisky is in the stream, it catches a spark.”
“Aye. But Neill MacDonald is young and inexperienced as yet. Something similar happened to me when I was near his age.” Dougal held up his left hand, splaying the fingers where a patch of small scars crisscrossed his palm. “I was lucky not to be blinded or killed outright.”
“Oh, Dougal!” She touched his hand, smoothed her fingers over his palm. The feeling plummeted through him. He drew back his hand even as she spoke. “That must have been painful. Neill is fortunate, then.”
“He is. If all goes well, the batch is proofed and sealed up in kegs to age. Sometimes it will be aged for years.” He waved to Neill, who raised a hand. “But accidents can happen when proofing a strong new whisky.”
“I wonder if he saw excise men coming, and poured it out into the stream.”
“That can happen too. He might have poured out the proof in haste to avoid being caught with too much of it. Stay here, if you please, Miss MacCarran. I will be back shortly.” Fiona, mo gràdh, he had said before, and nearly said more.
Now he felt the need for caution. He stood too close to the edge, heart in hand, and must step back.
She coughed, setting a hand to her mouth against the smoke. He turned away.
As he approached Neill, the lad watched him, eyes wide in distress. Ash smeared his face, hair, shirt. The stream burned less fiercely here, sluicing past the charred hut, while thick smoke drifted on the breeze.
“I am so sorry, Kinloch,” Neill said. “I am so sorry!”
Dougal patted his shoulder. “We all know the risks, lad. I am only sorry that you lost your whisky stores, and glad no one was hurt.”
“I saw MacIntyre,” Neill explained. “I was proofing, and the spark caught, and the fire began. I poured the brew into the stream quick as I could, but it caught flame and spread through the water.”
“It is burning off now and will go out soon. Where did you see the gauger?”
“Coming from that direction.” He pointed south. “When I ran to get water for the fire, I saw the signals out in the hills. The washing was spread out on the hillsides between here and the south end of the glen. I had not seen them earlier.”
“Ah. The linens.” Dougal knew, as they all did, of the simple system long used in the glen to alert others that excise men were in the area.
Bedsheets would be spread hastily along the slopes as if drying and bleaching in the sun, a signal method that gaugers often overlooked. “How many customs men?”
“Three along the ridge of a far hill. Big Tam MacIntyre was with them. I could not mistake his size,” he added.
“They may be nearby. If they come this way, there is no evidence of a still, hey. Just a fire in a storage building. Barley and other grains. Understand?”
“Aye. And our good copper still was destroyed,” Neill said glumly. “Blew up. My father paid a good deal for that fine still and copper coil.”
“It can be rebuilt and a new coil purchased. For now, hide away any pieces that survived the fire.”
“Geordie has gone off to do that,” Neill said, referring to one of his brothers. “I am sorry, Kinloch.”
“I blew up my still when I was a lad. You will make more whisky.”
Neill laughed ruefully and peered past him. “Is that the schoolteacher? Pol and Mairi like her very much. They talk about lessons at supper. They have never been interested in schooling before.” He seemed relieved to talk about something else.
“Aye. She is a fine dominie for this glen.” Dougal glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to Fiona, who walked toward them.
“Da says he hopes this one will stay for a while,” Neill said. “He wants me to go to school too. But I am a man now, with no use for schooling.”
“Age makes no difference in education, lad. Take what learning you can get, and you will be a better man for it.” Neill nodded.
Fiona joined them, eyes red rimmed from the smoke. She held out her hand as Dougal introduced her to Neill. “I am sorry for your troubles,” she said.
The lad shrugged. “As the laird says, we will build another still and make more whisky, and soon have a new batch.”
“Good,” she said. Dougal cocked a brow and smiled a little.
“My uncles and I will stay and help clear the debris as soon as it cools enough,” he told Neill. “Miss MacCarran, the smoke is making you cough. You should go down the hill and home.”
“I am fine. Neill, you should rest. Come away from here, lad.” Fiona spoke calmly, touching the boy’s arm. Neill seemed to relax.
The woman had a serenity about her, Dougal thought appreciatively, and a quiet, capable air that could bring peace to others.
He felt that influence himself, he realized.
When he was with her he felt good, solid, focused.
He had seen her quiet strength the night she had approached the excise men, and saw it again tonight when she had not flinched or crumbled amid chaos and disaster. He was glad she had come with him.
“Miss MacCarran,” Neill said, “it is not the time to ask, but perhaps I could attend your school? It will be a while before I have a still again. And it would please my father.”
“You are more than welcome, Neill. Come to school whenever you like.”
In that moment, Dougal realized how deep his dilemma had just become. He and his uncles agreed that the teacher must go. But each moment with her showed that it would be better for many if she stayed. Her pupils needed her.
He needed her.
Scowling against the thought, he quickly changed to a flat smile just as Fiona looked up. Tilting her head, she gave him a puzzled expression.
“I had best go to school,” Neill said. “I am not much of a brewer.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Dougal said. “It will all come right again. Here is your father—we will leave you two to talk.” He turned as Thomas came toward them. Saying his farewells, he took Fiona’s arm as they left.
Although the stream had absorbed most of the burning fumes, sizzle and smoke lingered in the air and patches of flame still burned on the water and along the bank. Hamish, Pol, and others were stamping out small flames on the turf as Dougal and Fiona walked toward them.
She began coughing in earnest. Dougal rubbed her back, thumping gently, then dropped his hand away. “You need better air than this.”
“The wind is clearing the smoke away—oh!” She gazed up, eyes wide. “Look!”
“What is it?” He peered upward, expecting to see smoke or flame.
“Those tiny lights, just there! I saw them earlier and thought they were sparks or a reflection. Do you see them?”
He saw them, but would not say so. He knew very well what they were. “I am not sure,” he said carefully, astonished. Could she see them too?
“Could they be fireflies?” Her shoulder pressed his arm. “So lovely!”
Lovely indeed, he thought, but he was staring at her. She saw them, the fairy lights he had seen as a boy. She saw them too. His mind whirled. He had believed that he alone could see them, as his father had seen them too.
Glancing toward the lights that swirled and glittered like dabs of sunlight, he tilted his head.
He had noticed them earlier in the glen, sparkling and spinning among the trees.
Whether a warning or a lure, he did not know, but he had thought he was the only one aware of them, magical and mysterious, in the air tonight.
To be sure, he had not seen them often in his life.
First with his father, who had explained that the tiny lights were visible only to a special few who could perceive them.
They marked the presence of fairies, John MacGregor had said.
They were not the fairies themselves, somehow, but signified they were close by, like guardians to that sort.
The Fey themselves kept hidden, so legend claimed, and so his father had said.
Dougal had seen them only a few times since then. Until now.
Yet Fiona could see them too. Dougal watched her, wondering. She smiled up at him. “Do you see them, there? What are they?” she asked.
“Sparks, or reflections from the fire or the sunset. It is growing late, Miss MacCarran. We should not linger here. Pol can walk you back to Mary MacIan’s.”
He took her elbow to guide her away from there, away from the Fey. They were calling to him after a long absence—and calling the schoolteacher as well.
What that was about, he could not begin to guess.