Chapter Thirteen #2
She smiled widely, brightened, forgetting the discomfort in her throat and chest. “I would love to know more about Kinloch’s fairy legends. My grandmother wrote books about Highland lore and loved fairies especially. My brothers and I heard many tales.”
“Then you know more fairy legends than I could tell you.”
“I think there are more in this glen than you let on,” she murmured.
“Aye so?” His gentle smile hid his thoughts.
“You are here to rest, so let us see to that. Warm yourself by the hearth in the parlor now, and of course, you may use the library if you like. The collection is modest but excellent. And you are certainly welcome to stay the night in a guest room. And I will ask Maisie to stay tonight as well.”
“Thank you. But I do not want to be any trouble.”
“None at all. You should not be out in the glen until the customs officers have gone, and should not walk back to Mary MacIan’s just yet. Even if your brother is with the excise officers, lass,” he added quietly, “I will feel better knowing you are safe here.”
She caught her breath, wondering suddenly if she were safe near this man. The danger he presented was a different sort, and she felt too willing, too tempted, to be near him. “I know you must go back to the hill, but will you be here tonight?”
“Perhaps not until morning. It depends on the work to be done. Off to the parlor with you, Miss MacCarran. I will find Maisie.” He gestured toward the room and turned away, boots echoing on stone as he went up the steps in search of the housemaid.
In the parlor, Fiona wandered about, studying the portraits hung on the walls, including a beautiful red-haired woman, and a handsome, dark-eyed man with a striking resemblance to Dougal.
She peered closely at a cluster of small, enchanting landscapes and lake scenes in gilt frames.
Then she sat, adjusting pillows to lean back on the settee.
The fire burning low in the grate gave off warmth and the sweet musky smell of peat.
Coughing again, she felt the tickle of it beginning to ease.
Kinloch House had a curiously healing influence, as if it were her own home. Closing her eyes, she sighed.
Soon, hearing footsteps, she looked up to see a young woman carrying a silver tray holding a teapot and porcelain dishes.
She was plump and pink cheeked, with soft coppery hair spiraling out from under a white cap.
Her apron was wrinkled and stained, her blue gown patched at the hem, and she did not curtsey or defer, as a Lowland serving girl would have done.
She smiled, her expression so friendly that Fiona instantly smiled in response.
“I am Maisie MacDonald. The laird said to fetch you some tea. Here it is, with oatcakes, butter, and rowanberry jam, all we had this day. Not expecting guests,” she added, and Fiona heard a slight reproach in it. “There is soup in the kettle, should you wish that too.”
“Thank you, Maisie. I am Fiona MacCarran, the schoolteacher.”
“Oh aye, Miss, everyone in the glen knows who you are!”
Fiona smiled. “Are you kin to the MacDonalds who live up the hill?”
“Thomas and his? Aye. They had much trouble tonight. All in the glen will work together to help them.”
“Good.” Fiona looked toward the door. “Is the laird still here?”
“He left to help my cousins. Oh, what a terrible night!”
Fiona agreed, ignoring the pang of disappointment she felt knowing Kinloch was gone, even though she had expected it. Maisie filled a blue china cup with steaming tea and handed it to her. “Thankfully no one was hurt in the blaze.”
“Aye, though losing the building and so much whisky is a hardship for them. But they have a good store of it.” Maisie frowned as Fiona coughed again. “Your breathing is still irritated from the smoke, I think.”
“It was very thick on the hillside, and bothered me, but it will clear soon.”
“My mother had a good remedy for coughs—whisky with honey and hot water. Will you take a wee dram of it? Some ladies think it improper, but whisky is very good for the health of the body. Many Highland ladies take uisge beatha every evening—and some more often than that.” She grinned.
“Thank you,” Fiona said, feeling another tickling cough. Her voice was growing hoarse when she spoke again. “Sometimes my nurse gave me a whisky and honey remedy when I was a child in Perthshire.”
“Perthshire, is it? Very good, Miss. You are part Highlander, for all that you came up from the Lowlands. Will you be staying the night, then?”
“Perhaps I will.” She made up her mind as a glance out the window showed that the sky was already dark. “Kinloch extended the invitation, and I am a bit tired. Can someone bring word to Mrs. MacIan, so she will not worry?”
“The laird said he would send a lad to do that.”
Fiona nodded and sipped, the tea soothing her throat. Noticing that her garments still smelled of smoke, she brushed at her skirts. “I wonder if I could wash up,” she said.
“I will prepare a bath for you, with a good soap that my mother makes from lavender and heather bells. If you do not mind me saying so, you do smell badly of the char.” Maisie wrinkled her nose.
Fiona laughed, not used to such frankness in serving girls; her great-aunt Lady Rankin would never have tolerated an opinionated maid in the household.
But Fiona found Maisie charming, friendly, and not at all rude.
When the girl left the room, Fiona heard one of the dogs barking elsewhere in the house.
She set down her teacup to walk to the window to peer out.
In the gloaming, looking across the fields surrounding Kinloch House, she saw a man running, and recognized Dougal MacGregor—the rhythm of his stride, the set of his shoulders, the dark banner of hair were etched in her mind.
Then she realized he was not heading for the slope that led to the burned-out still.
Instead, he was going in the opposite direction, taking a slope that would take him to the mountainside where she had first met him.
She frowned, watching, wondering where he was going.
*
Later, Maisie led her upstairs to the guest room on the uppermost floor, following the stone turning stair up to the fourth level, past wide landings that opened on to other chambers.
The uppermost bedchamber, small and snug, had a beautiful, aged simplicity in its sturdy poster bed hung with pale brocade curtains, a highly polished table, an ancient ironbound trunk, a threadbare patterned carpet, and a narrow-arched window set with stained glass above the lower casement.
The furnishings hinted at generations of past wealth come to the genteel poverty common to so many Highland aristocratic families after the years of rebellion had changed life in Scotland in so many ways.
That sense of better days long past seemed everywhere in Glen Kinloch, she thought. Thanking Maisie, she shut the door and turned, brushing a hand over the bedcover, going to the window to gaze out at the lowering night sky.
And she shook her head in silence, wondering how she could ever satisfy her grandmother’s request to marry a wealthy Highland laird.
That was an ironic expectation—many Highlanders had suffered in the past few generations, with fortunes lost. Nor would she consider wealth when contemplating marriage.
She would far rather have a caring husband and the comfort of a loving home.
A home very much like this one, she thought.
But Lady Struan’s demands interfered with her dreams. The inheritance would not come to the MacCarran siblings unless they met outlandish terms. James had been lucky. Chance had brought him exactly what Grandmother had wanted for him.
Fiona doubted she could ever be that fortunate.
She would rather marry a proud, humble man like Kinloch, wealthy or not.
Despite that he was a rogue and a smuggler, she knew at heart he was a good man—and charismatic, mysterious, fascinating, at times simply infuriating.
And she only longed to be in his arms, craved the searing, unexpected passion she had tasted too briefly with him.
If Lady Struan had asked her, Fiona would have said she wanted love and adventure more than wealth and social status and a staid, safe existence. She wanted honesty, vibrancy, passion for life.
Sighing, she turned away from the gathering darkness and went to the door.
Not tired yet, keyed from the evening’s events, she decided to go to Kinloch’s little library to read for a while.
Heading back down the stairs, she found the door on the second level that Kinloch had shown her earlier. It stood open and waiting.
Had she not already been smitten with Kinloch House and its laird, she would have fallen in love the moment she had seen his library.
A few good books, he had said. She laughed softly as she strolled past the full bookshelves.
Glad to find a glowing lantern there, and three blazing candles in pewter holders on the table, she turned to look more closely at the books.
The room was fitted with bookshelves, floor to ceiling around the walls and the window opposite the door.
The low ceiling had painted wooden beams, peeling and quite old.
The shelves were crammed with books—a thousand or more on the shelves, interspersed with small treasures—paintings, figurines, colored glass bottles and silver flasks, even a delicately painted world globe.
An oak table took up the center of the room, its surface scattered with papers and books.
A wing chair in faded red was angled by a window, the table beside it piled with another untidy stack of books.