Chapter Thirteen #3
The room seemed to echo the presence of a man who was highly intelligent and curious, and not particular about orderliness.
Fiona smiled to herself, dragging her fingers along the shelves, delighted with what she found: Ovid, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton; an encyclopedia series; scores of books on science, agriculture, practical farming, and domestic matters; handwritten journals bound in leather and tied with ribbon, marked with dates along the spines, likely household accounts.
There were works of poetry, too, including Spenser’s Faerie Queene and Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry, tucked alongside novels, nature studies, and travel narratives.
He had said the collection was modest; it was also excellent.
Works by native Scottish writers filled a few shelves, including Burns, Hogg, MacPherson, even an old edition of Blind Harry—and several of Sir Walter Scott’s works as well, poetry and novels.
The author had not yet publicly admitted to writing those anonymous books, although Fiona and her family, being good acquaintances, knew the authorship.
Yet Ivanhoe and others were grouped with Scott’s well-known poetry as if the library’s owner either knew or suspected what else Scott had written.
One end of the table had a stack of paper with pens and inkpots, along with a slim red leather volume of The Lady of the Lake, several of its pages marked with torn slips of paper.
Fiona flipped through the pages, noticing pencil lead underlining phrases: the quiet tracks of a thoughtful man who claimed disinterest in his education, yet cared about writing, books, and poetry.
So MacGregor of Kinloch, smuggler and rogue, very much favored books, poetry, fiction, and book knowledge of every sort. Smiling to herself, bemused, Fiona noticed writing on one of the pages, and picked it up.
A fat, childish hand script had earnestly copied some lines from one of Scott’s collections of old Scottish verse:
O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee.
This was Lucy’s handwriting, she realized, as intent and stubborn as the girl.
Also on the table was an open wooden box with a half-finished piece of embroidery showing stubby trees, brown hills, a gray castle all rendered in threads, and a few words partially stitched. This had to be Lucy’s work too.
Something stirred inside of her, touched her heart, as she looked at the things, seeing more than a jumble of books, papers, inks, embroidery and needles.
She saw love, sensed patience, companionship, and dedication.
The uncle and niece spent time here quietly, peacefully learning, reading, sharing.
No wonder Lucy was convinced that she did not need school. She had a caring and competent tutor in her uncle. Realizing curiosity had taken over, Fiona stepped back. Comfortable as she felt here, this was their home, not hers. And she wished, suddenly and keenly, she was part of it.
Choosing a book from a shelf, she settled in the chair by the window and opened Ramsay’s Tea Table Miscellany.
The collection of songs and poems was interesting, but after the long day, she soon felt drowsy.
Closing her eyes, she sighed, imagining herself sitting at the library table with Dougal MacGregor, leaning on his shoulder as he read aloud to her.
And she imagined touching his hair, feeling his kiss on her brow. She daydreamed that Lucy was there too, seated nearby, stitching on her little sampler and listening while her uncle read.
Smiling, eyes closed, Fiona felt such love and contentment that she let it spin onward, onward, into sleep.
*
Inside the cave, seated on a rounded boulder, Dougal wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm and surveyed the interior.
Lantern light flickered over irregular rock walls, and shadows angled from stacked whisky kegs that had been produced over many years.
Some held whisky his father had made years back.
Those, the most valuable, were set apart from the others.
Not long ago, over a hundred casks had been stacked together in this cave, carried in groups and batches over two decades to add to the store.
Twenty-seven kegs remained, with twelve more outside, waiting to be brought in and added to the rest. For now, Dougal sat to catch his breath and contemplate his plan.
Tonight, he and his kinsmen had moved casks from the burned-out MacDonald still to the cave for safe storage.
He had sent men and ponies down the mountain three times that night.
His comrades had descended the hills like ghosts, silent, rhythmic, grim, and wary.
Unlike ghosts, they carried glowing lanterns ready to be shuttered along with loaded pistols.
Swiftly they had moved some of the MacDonald whisky to the upper cave, while also moving some of the older Kinloch whisky to caves closer to the loch. Those secret recesses were known only to a few residents of the glen.
He went to the entrance and stood looking out over the night-dark hills.
Here he overlooked the same slope where he had first seen Fiona MacCarran strolling with her brother while she collected rocks for her studies.
Dougal was still uncertain if she and her brother had been innocently exploring or spying out the area that day.
If the excise men were to learn the location of this cave and its hidden cache, let alone find the lower caves, there would be hell to pay.
Thinking of Fiona, he crossed his arms as if to shore himself against the temptation of her, and fixed his gaze on the dark and sparkling loch visible below a fringe of trees.
From west-facing windows in Kinloch House, one could also see the loch and the hill where he stood.
If Fiona were awake, if she looked out a window just as he looked out of this cave, they would be watching each other without realizing it.
He wondered if she thought of him now, as he thought of her.
A rush of desire sank through him, hot and heavy, as he thought of her in his house tonight.
Part of him hoped she was waiting up for him.
What a rare joy it would be to have a woman at home who waited for him, prayed for him when he went out at night, who loved him.
What a delight and a privilege if she were there to talk to him, to listen and care.
And what a deep comfort and passionate reward if she willingly opened her arms to him, to his love.
Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face.
What the devil had happened to him since Fiona MacCarran had come to his glen?
He did not need a woman in his life just now.
He had chosen loyalty to kin and friends over personal happiness, and he was content.
He had the affection of his kinsmen, the friendship of his tenants, and the honor of raising a wee girl who loved to share stories and drawings with him.
Content enough for any man, yet lately he wanted more.
He had always wanted a family of his own, and being around Fiona had only made that longing more clear.
He felt a tumult of desires and dreams, but by the time he sorted them in his mind and heart, the girl would be gone from the glen, and it would be too late for him.
Footsteps crunched on rocks nearby, and Dougal straightened, whirled to see a tall man approaching.
“Kinloch!” Reverend Hugh MacIan smiled a greeting as he came closer, and gestured to the kegs stacked outside the cave. “Nearly done with the storing and stacking, then?”
“Almost. Those are the last of Thomas’s casks.”
“Aye, good. What of the rest of your cache?”
“Some of the lads have taken a number of kegs down to the lochside. Once Thomas’s kegs are inside here, it is enough work for one night, I think.”
“More than enough. And too much movement in the hills can catch attention we do not want, hey. We cannot risk having the lower caves discovered. How much have you left of what was here?”
“A good bit has gone down to the loch,” he said vaguely.
“Ready for shipping when the time comes. I see,” Hugh said.
Dougal nodded, but did not want to share detail.
He trusted Hugh, but was reluctant to share accurate numbers with anyone but his uncles.
He kept count of his whisky in his head and in journals tucked in his library.
And, unknown even to his closest kinsmen, he never kept his whisky all in one place.
On his father’s example, he stored it here and there, moving it around from caves high in the hills to down by the loch, and kept some of it hidden under the floors of his house.
It does not do, John MacGregor had told his son, to trust everyone, lad.
“Sounds efficient. Good,” Hugh murmured. “The sale will be made soon, and the glen will benefit.” He took a leather flask from his pocket and offered a drink to Dougal, who swallowed and handed it back with a grimace for a burn and a smile for the rest.
“MacDonald whisky,” Dougal said. “Not bad, but newer stuff.”
“It tastes of smoky peat. I like it,” Hugh replied.
“Thomas and Neill add peat from the north glenside when they toast sprouted barley over the fires,” Dougal said. “It gives it a fine flavor, though this batch has not aged long enough.”
“Glen Kinloch whisky is more elegant, I think,” Hugh decided, then took another swig from the flask.
“Kinloch brew has a hint of flowers,” Dougal agreed.
“This year, the burnside was thick with primroses before we filtered it through. In three years’ time it will be an excellent whisky, and better the longer we keep it.
When we can, I like to take the water from higher up the burn in late summer when the heather blooms. It lends a honey flavor.
But the spring primroses give the brew a light and subtle taste. ”
“Heather whisky—that reminds me,” Hugh said. “The twelve-year batch. Have you set aside casks for Lord Eldin?”
“I have not yet decided if I will sell to him.”
“The fellow can be cold and unpleasant to deal with, aye, though he has basic decency, I suppose. The money he offers could rescue the whole glen from the devastation that has plagued too many other regions.”
“Aye, it might be enough to buy back the deed, but even that is not enough to save Glen Kinloch in the future. I want a better guarantee. I want all the deeds back, signed in perpetuity to me and my heirs. That will take more than Eldin offers.”
“A fine dream, Kinloch. Do not let it go.”
“Just so,” Dougal said.
*
Fiona woke from a dream that felt so dear and intimate that she clung to it—the sense of Dougal’s arms around her, his hands on her like heaven, playing over her body like a harper caressing strings.
The heat of it lingered as she woke and swiftly vanished as she moved.
Sighing, seeing the room had gone dim, she reached to the table beside her, looking for flint and candle.
Hearing footsteps on the stone stair, she glanced up. Maisie entered, holding a glass in one hand and a lantern in the other.
“I brought you whisky and honey,” the girl said, setting the glass on a table. She set the lantern down, lit a candle, and turned. “Miss MacCarran, the laird asked me to stay with you, but my brother just arrived. He says our Da is doing poorly.”
“Oh dear,” Fiona said, sitting up as the girl spoke. “Was he hurt?”
“He was helping to fight the fire but was overtaken by smoke, like you. I want to go to him, but I promised Kinloch I would stay with you. Try the warmed whisky, do.”
“Thank you. But Maisie, you must go to your father.” Fiona picked up the glass to sip the concoction. The warm remedy slid down her throat with sudden, spreading heat that made her cough at first. Then she felt her chest begin to clear as her breathing opened.
“Helps the lungs and throat, see,” Maisie said approvingly. “My father needs it too, but my brother is a dimwit and may not think to make it for him. My mother is no longer with us, you see, so I do for both of them.”
“Please do not stay on my account, I am fine!” One of the dogs came through the open door, padding to her side to nudge at her hand. Fiona stroked the gray head. “I have Sorcha and Mhor to protect me.”
“Mhor here is a great coward,” Maisie said wryly. “Sorcha is the braver one. Fine then, if you feel better, I will leave. Your bath is filled and hot. I set a blanket over it to keep the heat until you are ready.”
“Thank you. I could use a bath.”
“Your room is ready, as you saw. I keep a clean house, though the laird and his uncles are a wretched lot to tidy after sometimes. The tub is in the kitchen, Miss. I would not drag buckets of hot water up those wicked steps for anyone, meaning no offense.”
Fiona smiled. “Is the kitchen private enough for a bath?”
“It is. They are all gone and away ’til morning, I think.
So much to be done out there.” Maisie sighed.
“Set the dogs outside the door to guard if you like. There’s soup and porridge in the kettles,” she went on.
“I do not always cook an evening meal, and the lads are way to the fire tonight. They are often out on other nights making runs until dawn. But I thought tonight you might like something, and they can eat in the morning when they return—” She stopped, shrugged.
“I will go, if you truly sure you are fine.”
“I am, thank you.” Fiona stood. If Dougal MacGregor and his kinsmen were making runs of a night, surely that meant smuggling. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I will stay with Da for a bit. I left some clean garments for you in your bedchamber.” At the door, she turned.
“Miss, please stay inside tonight. It is always wise to stay inside when the moon is out, and the sky is light, and wise to stay inside when the laird is out as well.” She turned and left, footsteps light on the stairs.
Fiona looked down at Mhor, curled at her feet, resting his head on his paws. “What shall we do, sir? I wonder what your master is up in the evenings. Such secrecy,” she murmured. “I wish he trusted me better. I would not tell.”
The dog thumped his tail as if in agreement.
While she sipped the rest of the whisky, she picked up a book on the side table and read a bit little by candlelight.
James MacPherson’s Ossian was a stirring but controversial collection of ancient Celtic tales; she remembered her brother William talking about it once.
Though a pragmatic physician, William was fascinated by ancient myths and legends.
And she was intrigued to find the book and so many others in the keeping of a whisky smuggler who claimed little interest in such things.