Chapter Fourteen #2
“Och, she tells us to behave,” he drawled.
“And sounds like a wee Jeanie MacGregor when she does it, too. But we are a parcel o’ rogues and bachelors with no woman to guide us in better ways.
Maisie comes in once or twice a week to cook and clean and does her best. Jeanie was a godsend too, for Lucy needed a woman about.
But she left us. Hamish, rather. Perhaps she was done with all of us. ” He shook his head.
“As you say, she will return. Lucy does need a woman in her life, and so do her uncles. As her teacher, I think the lass would benefit,” she added hastily.
“Aye.” He wrapped his hand around her finger, pressing it, and looked at her, his eyes twinkling in the golden candlelight. “Your recovery is certain, I think. What was in your wee glass?”
“Whisky and honey for the cough.”
“Good. Did it help?”
“Help?” Were his eyes truly that green, or was it a trick of the candlelight? His thick black lashes encircling moss-green eyes were simply beautiful. “Oh! It did. I drank some but spilled the rest.”
“You should take another wee dram. The smoke of that fire was very thick. A number of us were overcome and coughing. I should not have let you come along.”
“I came of my own accord.”
He nodded. “So you did. Another dram, then? I do not know Maisie’s recipe, but a bit of the whisky should do on its own.
What is that commotion?” He turned as the dogs began barking downstairs.
“I will go see what is bothering them. Pour yourself a dram, and one for me, if you will. That is Kinloch whisky, just there.” He pointed toward the bottles on the low cupboard, and left the room.
Fiona went to the cupboard, not quite sure which bottle he meant.
There were several, some of them with handwritten labels, paper strips glued to the glass.
Brandy, said one; MacDonald’s Whisky, another; A Good Port; A Claret; A Shiraz, read the other labels.
One brown bottle said Glen Kinloch. Three small silver flasks and two green bottles were all labeled uisge-beatha an ceann loch.
Kinloch whisky, in Gaelic. Surely that was what Maisie had given her, mixed with honey and hot water.
Or was it Glen Kinloch? They must be the same, likely different batches.
Lifting one of the silver flasks, she took a small glass from a cluster arranged with the bottles.
Pouring out a little liquid, she sipped.
The whisky, by itself without honey or hot water, was wonderful.
Strong and yet delicate, slightly sweet, it had a seductive simplicity unlike any whisky she had tasted before.
Its natural heat spread quickly through her, the first small sip sinking gently, a stream of mellow fire building inside.
Her tickly throat cleared almost immediately, and her chest felt better.
Already she breathed more deeply. She sipped again, and a wonderful warmth filled her.
On the third sip, she sought its elusive sweetness and some undefinable spicy flavor.
Sipping again, she chased after its delicate flavor, trying to define it.
Kinloch’s whisky was alluring, with both wildness and charm in the smallest sip.
She carried the glass to the wing chair and sank into it, enjoying the mellow warmth that radiated inside of her.
The little annoying cough had all but vanished.
The stinging pain in her finger was gone as well.
Waiting, she picked up her grandmother’s book and skimmed the pages, wondering at the strange assignment Lady Struan had given her. So far, Glen Kinloch had no real fairies, and few local stories.
Hearing noises below and then footsteps hurrying up the stone stairs, she glanced up as the dogs bounded into the room and Dougal followed.
“Have your uncles returned? I should go,” she said.
“The noise was only the wind. My uncles are still out in the glen. It is a busy night and they may not be back before dawn.”
“The fire, aye.” She tipped her head. “Or is it busy because of the gaugers?”
“We have been busy trying to avoid them, true.”
She appreciated his frankness and the trust he showed by admitting it. “They will find nothing. You are always careful, I think.”
“We are.” He went to the cupboard, picked up a fat brown bottle, and poured a little whisky into a small glass.
“I do apologize, I meant to pour you a dram as well.” When he shrugged and sipped, showing it was no matter, she settled back. “You came home sooner than I expected. I thought you would be out the whole of the night.”
“Maisie’s brother told me she had gone to help their father. With the gaugers about, I was concerned that you were here alone.”
“No need for concern. I have been safe here, and quite cozy.”
“So I see.” He lifted his glass in a lighthearted salute and sipped. “I know you are a stubborn lass, and I thought you might head back to Mary MacIan’s.”
“I heeded your advice to stay. I did not expect anyone back so soon, or I would have dressed.” She pulled the robe around her and tucked her legs up under her in the chair to hide her bare feet, draping the dressing gown best she could.
“This is so improper. I have never been in such a situation before. I am sorry.”
“No need. In the city, I am sure you rarely meet smugglers at midnight, and in your dressing gown.” He gave her a crooked smile.
“I believe it is your robe, actually.” She smoothed the fabric draped over her legs. “Life in the city is dull by comparison to your glen.”
He huffed a laugh. “So you live with your great-aunt there?”
“Lady Rankin, aye. She is a dear, though can be stiff in her attitudes. She prefers that I behave primly and properly, but sometimes—” She stopped.
“You want a little more freedom?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged. “I suppose that is why I accept teaching assignments in the Highlands, to get away from city life, and away from my aunt’s very proper social circles.
” Fiona lifted her head. “My lady aunt is not happy about what I do, but it is charity work, after all, so she can say little against it. And I rather like the adventure. I am not quite as dull as people think,” she added defensively.
“I do not think you are dull at all. Serene, I would say. Calm and capable. But never dull, Miss MacCarran.” He regarded her with a relaxed, amused expression.
“I fear everyone thinks me the capable one.” She frowned.
“And that is not what you prefer?”
Impulsively, she flung a hand outward. “I prefer a wee bit of wildness.”
He laughed outright. “You have found a wee bit here.”
“But I do not have a truly wild nature,” she said.
Her cheeks were heating up, her breath expanding.
She felt open and expressive, and a little tipsy.
“Oh, dear Fiona MacCarran, so capable, so calm, always does what she should and what she must. Though dear Fiona longs to be more adventurous. To be a more interesting person. Well,” she said, “here she sits in a man’s dressing gown, alone with the man who owns it. I suppose that is adventurous.”
He quirked a smile. “Dear Fiona. I would not change a thing about her.”
She felt her heart thumping hard. She sipped whisky, licked her lips, sipped again. “This is sweet,” she said. “Light. It’s very good.”
“I am glad you like our Glen Kinloch brew.” He came closer, leaned against the library table, crossing his feet as he rested there.
The kilt he wore was in the MacGregor pattern, and he had added a dark jacket over it when he had returned.
But the shirt beneath it was open at the throat, without the fussiness of a knotted neckcloth.
Fiona admired the strong column of his throat, and liked, too, the breadth of his shoulders in jacket and shirt, and the sight of his long muscled legs, strong, flat knees, taut calves covered by the woven patterned socks.
She liked every aspect of his earthy strength. It was reassuring. Warm. Protective.
“The Highland costume gives a man an air of masculinity that is very solid. Like a warrior of old. Very attractive,” she said, speaking her thoughts before she could stop them as they tumbled forth.
“The muscular limbs and the hard beauty of the male form is so enjoyable to see. Strong and elegant. The kilt shows the confidence and ease of its wearer. The natural attractive character of a strong male—is quite—oh, do forgive me!” She felt embarrassed—and yet a bit wanton.
She was talking too much. And oh, how her head spun.
“Forgiven,” he acknowledged. “And thank you, Miss MacCarran.”
“Fiona,” she corrected. “Feeeeeona.”
“Fionn,” he said softly in Gaelic. “Pale, fair one.” A shiver went through her at his low, breathy words. He inclined his head. “And no more of this Kinloch and Mr. MacGregor. I am Dougal.”
“Dubhgall,” she whispered the Gaelic. “Dark stranger.”
“Strangers no more,” he murmured, lifting his glass slightly. “May I say you look fetching tonight. That rich wine color suits your dark hair and the blush in your fair cheek. Very bonny.”
“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head.
Were her cheeks so hot, or was it the whisky?
“So you prefer the plaid? My brothers wear it sometimes, particularly when in the Highlands and going hunting and hiking. Though Patrick prefers the more modern Southern fashion and usually wears trousers and coat.”
“The plaid is a point of pride for many, especially in these times. And it is an easy thing to wear, well suited to Highland life.” He took another swallow from the glass and set it down.
Then he looked at her for a moment, tilting his head, folding his hands.
“I think you have had enough, my lass,” he commented.