Chapter Fourteen #3
Fiona sipped once more. Just once more. “I suppose I have. It is a lovely whisky. Uisge-beatha an ceann loch,” she murmured in Gaelic.
“Oh dear,” she said then, setting a hand to her head.
She felt dizzy and flushed, her face burning with a blush that spread to her throat and chest. “It is strong. But I like it.”
“A wee bit is more than enough,” he said. “This batch is nicely mellow, with a bit of spice from the flowers that grew by the burn that year.” He looked at her and frowned. “How much have you had?”
“I had some earlier with honey and hot water. And about half this glass now. My cough seems to be gone now. But I feel, uh, lightheaded.” She blinked.
“Aye, enough, lass. An Edinburgh lady will not have the head for Highland drink. I apologize. I should not have suggested another dram for you after Maisie’s dose. May I?” He stretched his hand out for her glass.
“I am fine,” she insisted, and set the glass on the small table.
A strange sense of well-being, even joyfulness, filled her in tandem with the heated flush in her face and chest. She smiled, feeling content.
Then she stood, wobbling a little, grabbing the chair for support.
Looking up, she saw tiny lights flitting high up in the room.
Reflections of the lamplight, she thought. Her head felt very spinny now.
“How do you feel?” Dougal asked. He was standing beside her chair. When had he stepped so close?
She smiled up at him. “Marvelously well.”
“Indeed,” he drawled. “So along with us being improperly alone here, and you in a state of undress, I am now responsible for your becoming fou.”
“I am not fou,” she said. “And if I am, I did that myself. And willingly.”
“‘We are nae fou, well, nae that fou,’” he quoted softly.
“Just so,” she said, laughing, glad to hear a man quote Robert Burns so readily.
His intellect, she realized, was equally as attractive as his kindness, his strength of will, his handsomeness.
“You do make a lovely whisky, sir, if I may say. And if I am in a state of undress, well, that is my own doing.”
He regarded her for a moment. “I think you should go upstairs now, lass.”
“Not just yet. I like your company.” She really did, she thought, and stood, tipping her head. But the movement made her dizzy again.
“I like your company too. But your brothers would surely come after me if they knew we were together here, with you dressed like that.”
“Only if I tell them. It also depends on what you decide to do this night.” She reached for the glass again, but Dougal took it neatly away and set it aside.
“Decide to do about what?” he asked quietly.
She felt wicked. “About your black lovesickness.”
“Best we leave that be for now.”
“Perhaps we could cure it.”
Dougal was silent for a moment, standing so close that Fiona tilted her head to look up at him. He lifted a hand, brushed her hair from her brow, while she closed her eyes, waiting, hoping. Dizzy. But he did not kiss her.
“What cure do you suggest?” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she said. “Maisie’s potion cures all, so she said.”
“You have had enough cure, I think. More remedy is best not pursued just now.”
“For a rascally smuggler, you are a true gentleman.” She smiled.
“Just so.” He took her arm to steady her as she wobbled against him. Glad for the support, she set a hand to his shoulder. Thought of dancing. Hummed a little.
Dougal stepped back, his hand encircling her wrist. “Here we go, my girl, off to bed with you.” He began to turn her toward the door.
“I am not your girl,” she said. “Am I?”
“Not so far, unless you want to be.”
She looked up, slightly dizzy, yet finding steadiness in his quiet gaze. “I think I have a touch of the black lovesickness myself.”
“Do you? I am glad I am not alone in that.”
“We are in this together, sir.” She leaned toward him, and he caught her by the shoulders quickly so that she would not tilt and fall.
“Oh aye, upstairs for you, my dear.”
“With you?”
“Good Lord,” he murmured. “Can you make it up the stairs to your room?”
“Aye—oh! I was reading a book. Let me fetch it.” She turned impulsively, dragging him with her toward the table where the book lay upturned and open.
Dougal picked it up and looked at the cover. “Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland. I have read this. An excellent collection by—Lady Struan,” he read on the spine. “Would she be related to you?”
“My grandmother was the author.”
“Truly,” he murmured. “How interesting.”
“She wrote several books about fairies and fairy lore.”
“A talented lady. So you became interested in such things because of her?”
“Quite.” She glanced away. Spying the whisky glass on the table, she picked it up again and sipped the last bit quickly. The heat sank through her, soothing her nervousness. He stood so close—and she wanted him too much just then.
“Lass, that whisky has done its work on you. Up the steps and goodnight, sweet Fiona.”
“What a stern laddie you are,” she admonished. Her head spun. She did not feel quite herself. She felt strangely free, keen to say whatever came to her. Felt happy in his company, too, and knew clearly that was not due to whisky.
“Upstairs? But I want to stay here longer. I have been admiring your library. It is a handsome collection. You said you had only a few books.”
“A few certainly, compared to other collections I have seen,” he replied.
“I enjoy books, but I am not a scholar. When I was younger, I disliked studying. I wanted to—well,” he said, “no matter. Later I realized the value of education and how much I enjoyed it. So I read and learned what I could on my own. I was unable to complete my years at university, but I have benefitted from this fine library, reading whatever and whenever I can.” He spread a hand wide to encompass the shelves.
“You have read all these books?”
“Many of them. I have acquired hundreds of volumes, but the library was begun by my grandfather. And my father felt so strongly about my education that he insisted that I complete a university degree and become a lawyer. But then he was gone, and I was forced to make other decisions. Education was simply beyond my reach, and it was no longer what I wanted.”
“What did you want, Dougal MacGregor?” She leaned toward him as if he were a lodestone.
“I wanted to be a smuggler.”
“Ah. You got your wish.”
He watched her in silence. She realized he had never outright admitted to her that he was a smuggler, though the implication was there. Perhaps foolishly, part of her had hoped there was no real truth in it. But his silence spoke clearly.
Something caught her eye and she looked up, seeing the tiny lights again, swirling and floating in the dimness near the ceiling rafters.
Some came down to encircle Dougal’s head, even touch his shoulders.
“Oh my!” She giggled, put a hand to her head.
“That is a very fine whisky. I am seeing the lights again. Wee dancing lights all about.”
Dougal frowned, taking her glass to sniff it. “Fiona,” he murmured, “which bottle did you use for your dram?”
“That one.” She pointed. The room spun. “The pretty silver flask.”
“Silver flask.” His voice went low, with a touch of thunder in it. “Not the bottle?”
“Flask, aye. Look at the wee lights—there, do you see? What are those?” She blinked as dazzling rainbow glimmers spun faster and faster. They came together, taking on shape, sparkling like colored stars, forming a column of light. The contours coalesced into a head, shoulders, body—
“Oh, look!” she breathed.
The lights began to form the shape of a small woman who came into clearer detail, as if a ghost. She was exquisitely beautiful. Fiona moved close to Dougal, grasped his arm. “Ghost!” she whispered, and felt as if she were trembling all over.
“What?” He glanced that way.
The woman made of light smiled kindly at Fiona.
Her hair was a golden spill of light, her eyes glittered like diamonds, her gown was a starlight mist. She reached out a hand, fingers sparkling with rings.
She nearly touched Dougal’s arm. Then she looked at Fiona, smiled again, and floated away, dissolving in the shadows of the room.
Dougal had turned his head and seemed to watch her too.
Heart pounding, Fiona pressed close to Dougal. “There—she is by the bookshelves now. Do you see her?”
He glanced at her. “What are you talking about? I see nothing.”
“The ghost.”
“We have no ghosts that I know of, old as this place is.”
“Or was it a fairy?” she whispered to herself. The woman had been a sparkling luminosity, a mystical form that could have been other than ghostly.
“Fiona,” Dougal murmured. “Come—”
“I need paper and ink,” she whispered. He turned his head to listen. “I must make a drawing of the—the fairy.”
“Good God. You are seeing things.”
“It is just what I hoped to see in Glen Kinloch. A fairy.”
“What?” He frowned. “I thought you came here to teach.”
“I did, and also to—oh, she is gone.” The beautiful woman in gold and gossamer had vanished. Fiona sighed. “It was not my imagination. I did see her just there. But I suppose you will say me wrong.”
He was staring at the spot where the woman had stood. “No one is there.”
“I saw her, I swear. A ghost or a fairy woman. I hoped—” She stopped, bit her lip.
He narrowed his eyes. “Was there another reason you came to Glen Kinloch, other than to teach?”
“I must find fairies, in order to get the inheritance,” she blurted.
She did not feel herself at all. She felt expansive, excited, feeling an urge to be honest, to be bold.
“And I came to the Highlands to find—well, perhaps to find you. But you are not what my grandmother wanted. Or Sir Walter Scott either. My brothers will like you, though. That is, if you will have me.”
“Inheritance? What about Sir Walter Scott? And your brothers? What are you going on about?” His eyes blazed green fire as he frowned at her.
She was blathering on, she realized, and ought to stop.
The whisky had loosened her tongue, made her thoughts and her words race too quickly away from her.
No dram or drink had ever affected her like this.
She put a hand to her head. “I had little more than a glass of whisky. What was in that silver flask?”
“A particular brew that I should have locked away. Fiona, tell me what you are talking about. Why did you come to the glen? What inheritance?”
She looked up into his green and scowling gaze. “Do you know, sir, you are a beautiful man, and I think I want to kiss you.”
“What—” He caught her by the arms as she lifted on her toes and leaned forward, stumbling against him.
She kissed him, a smack as he leaned hard away when her mouth pressed against his.
He resisted for an instant—then gave a soft growl under his breath, and took command of the kiss.
Now it turned sure and fierce, lips seeking, finding hers, tender and delving.
Sighing, she felt her knees melt, felt as if she tumbled from a height, as if her heart bloomed like a flower. And she knew then, fou or sober, bold or shy, capable or wild, that she was falling in love, tumbling so hard with it that she sighed against his lips.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed close, stunned by her feelings. Safe, welcomed, partnered. Loved. Though she could not know for sure, it felt so.
Then he was kissing her again, gently now, soothing his mouth over hers, kissing her into breathlessness.
His lips caressed, his hands cradled her head in a warm, luscious chain of kisses that made her knees tremble, her body ripple with desire.
Joy sparked inside her like a candle. Love took flame, filled her.
She slipped her fingers through his hair, the dark silk of it, as he traced his lips along her jaw and throat.
She moaned softly, wanting more desperately, her heart pounding.
“Dougal,” she whispered, savoring his name as he gathered her closer. She faltered a little, her legs unsteady. She felt overtaken by the whisky and overwhelmed by the emotions emerging within.
He pulled away, brows drawn tight. “Lass,” he murmured. “I did not mean to—”
“But I am glad you did.” She closed her eyes, tipped her head against his shoulder. “Oh. I feel so dizzy.”
“We had best get you upstairs. First, tell me what you saw in this room.” He kept a hand on her arm, and she was grateful for the steadying.
“Moments ago? A lovely creature, like a sparkling mist. At first I thought she was a ghost, but I think now she was a fairy, so beautiful and delicate.”
“I see. And how much did you pour from the silver flask?”
“Not that much,” she defended. “The flask said Uisge-beatha an ceann loch—Kinloch whisky. You said I should try it. Did I take the wrong bottle? I am sorry if so.”
“My fault. I did not make the difference clear. Glen Kinloch whisky is in a brown bottle. The silver flask holds more properly what we call Uisge-beatha síthiche ceann loch—Kinloch fairy whisky. I must change that label,” he muttered to himself.
“Fairy whisky?” She blinked up at him, startled. “But you said there is no such thing, that the fairy brew is just a legend.”
“We make different whiskies here. One is made from a very old family recipe that traditionally we call fairy whisky. The MacGregors of Kinloch have distilled it for generations. We do not make much, just enough to share with kin and friends.”
She was delighted. “I drank fairy whisky, truly? How marvelous!”
“Not always. It can be potent stuff, far more than the other.”
“My brother once tasted fairy brew. It is rare stuff, he told me. His wife is Elspeth MacArthur—her cousin makes it and brings it to her and her grandfather. Are you the one who makes the fairy brew?”
He sighed. “That would be me, aye. I give some to Donal MacArthur every year. They are among the few of my kin who can feel the special power of the brew. Not everyone does. There is a magical spell about it, they say, and some have the ability to sense it. We treat it with care because of the legend.”
“Legend?”
“The origin of the stuff. That is all,” he said simply.
“But I felt something too. How odd.” She shook her head a little, trying to clear the fog away.
Had the whisky given her the ability to see the dazzling woman in the library?
“I did see her, the fairy woman. I am sure of it. She stood just there. She reached out to touch you, but you did not notice.”
“I knew she was there.” He smiled. “I have seen her, and her ilk, before.”