Chapter Fifteen #4
Because of her grandmother’s will, there could be no future with him unless she gave up her share in favor of her brothers, and even that was not certain.
MacGregor was not the wealthy Highlander she had been directed to find in order to receive the inheritance and he never would be.
She did not mind. But she should explain it, should be truthful with Dougal.
But for now, perhaps his mention of marriage was past and done.
It was unlikely for a Lowland girl to expect a marriage offer from a Highland smuggler.
She had done what she had done, and would not regret it.
For now, she only wanted to treasure what was in her heart.
Too soon she would more than likely lose him to circumstances.
She had lost her first love, dear Archie, and never wanted to endure that pain again.
But that sweet, young affection had been nothing like the passionate, soul-deep feeling that had overtaken her so recently.
Truly, she did not know what to do, what to say to MacGregor, what to expect.
“I will come with you. I must pay my rent to the laird,” Mary was saying.
“It is odd that he has not come to collect it and give me a bottle of his finest stuff, which is his habit each month. I have earned enough from selling my cheeses and beer to the innkeeper, and I think I will bring my fee to the laird this day. It is a good day for a walk. Maggie, come!” Mary called to the dog trotting behind them.
“She needs a good walk, too, on such a fine morning.”
“She gets plenty of exercise at night, roaming about,” Fiona said. “Which sort of whisky does the Laird give you?”
“His very best, the Glen Kinloch brew,” Mary said. “And he gives me an even better brew once a year, at Yuletide.”
“Is that what they call the fairy whisky?” Fiona asked.
“Och, no! That stuff is not so good. I have tried it and do not see the fuss. Too sweet, and flat. No strength to it, despite what they say of it in the glen.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I like the Glen Kinloch sort, and the more it is aged, the better. The laird is saving the oldest stuff for—” She stopped.
“Saving it?”
“They all keep some back, of course. How did you hear about the fairy brew?”
“Kinloch told me about it.”
“Did he! Interesting. Did you taste it when you stayed the night at Kinloch House? Perhaps Maisie gave you some. She might mix them up, silly lass that she is. I suppose the laird was not there, with the fire that night.”
“I tasted it when I was there by myself,” Fiona said vaguely, willing to let Mary believe Dougal had been away with his kinsmen all night. “It was quite nice.”
“If you enjoyed it, then the fairies favored you. I hear some see the fairies when they drink it, a sign that the fairies give their blessing to that person. Did you see them? They never blessed me, I can tell you.”
“See them?” Fiona laughed.
“Then you saw nothing much, like me?”
“I thought it was lovely.” Fiona looked across the meadow that filled the bowl of the glen, scattered with wildflowers in the morning sunlight.
On the other side of the valley, a league’s walk across the meadow, a hill rose toward the mountains behind it.
There, the tower of Kinloch House stood tall, its stone walls catching golden light.
She wondered if Dougal was there, or already out at this hour.
Two days ago she had been alone with him there, gloriously and privately; she would never forget it.
She had returned to Mary’s house the next morning as if nothing had gone on at the laird’s tower.
But the night, the whisky, and the man had taken her over, heart and soul.
She had seen him at the kirk session later that day when she had attended with Mary to hear Hugh MacIan’s sermon on responsibility toward one’s neighbors.
Restless, she had looked around and had seen Dougal, had caught his gaze.
Her heart had near leaped into her throat.
She had looked away calmly, but that spark between them, gazes touching across the church, had been filled with yearning.
Outside in the kirkyard, although she did not see Dougal, she felt welcomed by the locals. Perhaps it was the reverend’s sermon about helpful neighbors; perhaps her presence at the fire had assured the glen residents that the teacher could be trusted.
Grateful, wanting their acceptance as well as the laird’s, she knew she should keep her distance.
Both of them needed time to think. She had much to explain to him about her grandmother’s will, her need to comply to allow her brothers to inherit—and the requirement that she marry a Highlander of means. That alone would give him pause.
She would wait and keep silent. His status as laird, poor or not, did not matter to her, but if he regretted what they had done, if he were uninterested in marriage, the dilemma would be solved.
She wanted to be with him, and that would not change.
Her thoughts tumbled with possibilities, her heart with feelings. She felt in a tangle.
Maggie barked and launched past them, racing toward the glen slopes. “She has found something to chase,” Mary remarked.
Fiona nodded, then noticed people moving over the slope higher up, running quickly. She heard distant shouts and laughter. “What are they doing there?”
Mary shielded her brow and watched for a moment. “Playing at the ba’.”
“Oh, the ball game—they played it in the schoolyard. Why are they at it so early this morning?” As she and Mary walked closer, she recognized some of her students and their kinsmen.
“They are practicing,” Mary said. “There will be a game soon, for all the glen.”
Fiona raised her brows in surprise. “The whole glen?”
“It is a tradition in Glen Kinloch to play on New Year’s, and also in the spring on the first of May. It is nearing May now, so the laird has called for a game.”
“I heard nothing of it.” She watched the players as they ran in a cluster that seemed characteristic of the ball game they favored in Glen Kinloch.
“Word went round with the men. The women do not generally play.”
“I played at the football with my brothers when I was young.”
“You may have, but this sort of game is different. They play from the east side of the glen to the west. All the men and boys, a hundred and more, with the one ball.” Mary gestured wide to indicate the whole of the glen.
“They form two packs, those from the north glen and those from the south, and they start in the center—there, where the burn crosses past those rocks,” she said, pointing.
“They play over the whole glen?” Fiona asked, incredulous. “All of them?”
“Aye, from the fieldstone wall below Kinloch House, across the glen floor, and down near the lochside road, where the standing stones are.”
Fiona knew the place. “That’s about two miles.”
“Not far for this game.” Mary nodded as if it was nothing much.
Astonished, Fiona watched the players on the hillside. “And one ball?”
“Just the one. ’Tis sturdy leather stuffed with goose feathers, and hardly survives the day, let me tell you, with two enormous teams playing the length and breadth of the glen. It goes on all day and into the night, sometimes the next day.”
“Does the laird play too? His tower is in the middle. Which side does he take?”
“The previous lairds did not always play, but our Dougal does—no one could keep him out of it. He is strong and good at the ba’ and both sides want him. So each year he plays a different side. He will play for the North this year. The South has more players.”
“Are they not even, the two teams?”
“Oh no, it is decided by where a person is born. All but the Laird.”
As they crossed the glen and began to climb the slope toward Kinloch House and the school, Fiona saw the spaniel chasing back and forth, and the men and boys hooting and pushing.
Somewhere in the middle of the pack she saw the ball thrust upward triumphantly, only to sink into the cluster of players again. “When will they play the game?”
“The laird called for it on the coming Thursday.”
“But the lads have school!”
“Oh, there will be no school that day. All the glen will either be playing the game or watching it. The laird did not tell you?”
“He did not.” Again Fiona felt that tiny, sharp pull of separation, and with it a tug of sadness and hurt. Despite feeling more accepted by the glen folk, she sighed, knowing she was still very much the outsider. Yet it felt more important to be included now.
“It sounds like good fun. I know you will have a wonderful time.” She forced a smile.
“You will be there, too,” Mary said. “We will go watch and cheer them on. We could not miss a game of the ba’!”
“I would like to see it. Thank you.”
“The laird will want you there, no doubt. Tcha,” Mary said. “Himself thinks very kindly of you, anyone can see it.”
Fiona slowed, staring at Mary in wonder, then hurried along.
*
In the dim blue light of dusk, Dougal stood on the steep hillside that tipped to the clouds above Kinloch House, bagpipes tucked under his arm.
He lifted the chanter to coax out plaintive, haunting notes.
Most of that day, he had wandered the hills, and earlier had noticed Fiona with Mary MacIan as the women crossed the glen toward Kinloch House.
He had guessed that Mary might be bringing her rent, but he did not go to meet her.
Some urge, perhaps the preservation of heart and hope, told him to keep distant from Fiona for a while yet. He needed to think.
And his heart needed to cool from its ember stage before he could be certain what he felt for her. The passion that had blazed between them was the sort that would burn steadily for a very long time. But he had to know for sure.
Lifting the chanter again, taking a breath that filled the rounded bag under his arm, he set his mouth to the reed and exhaled, long and steady. The sound grew, rising and lingering, echoing outward.
He played the tune, marshaling his breath, listening as it flowed across hills and glen, he realized that he wanted freedom—the sort of freedom that only love could bring to one’s life.
A solid foundation of partnership and support that grew from a love that would last forever.
He could find that with Fiona MacCarran.
Lovesick or not, he was a cautious man. He would wait, not yet ready to rush headlong. He took risks in smuggling more easily than in this matter of love and marriage. It needed to be just right for him, for her, and for the people of the glen too.
But his heart was sure and decided. The fairies had shown the way from the first. He realized that now. Fiona could see them. They had chosen her.
That was the best proof he could have.