Chapter Sixteen #2
Fiona read on as her brother explained that he and Mr. MacIntyre would patrol the north end of the loch, including Glen Kinloch. Tell the laird the only evening star he should view is through a window.
A clear warning. Frowning, she read on as Patrick mentioned little success so far in contesting Lady Struan’s will. That meant they all must meet her odd conditions somehow. As for the husband you are tasked to find, Kinloch is a poor glen—your chances are better elsewhere. You should come home.
Fiona set the letter down, shaking her head. “Not yet, Patrick,” she murmured.
Maggie, sleeping by the fireside, lifted her head suddenly and woofed, then stood just as tapping sounded at the door. Startled, Fiona went to the door. So did Maggie, head and tail alert.
The knocking sounded again. Fiona leaned forward. “Who’s there?”
“Kinloch.” Hearing his quiet voice, her heart bounded. She released the latch to open the door.
Dougal stepped inside, rain blowing in with him. The dog leaped to greet him, and he rubbed her head, praising her, before looking at Fiona.
“Good evening,” he murmured. “I hope I am welcome.”
She folded her hands. “Of course. Mary is sleeping, if you wish to see her.”
“I came to see you.” He glanced past her at the table. “Schoolwork?”
“Just doing some drawing.” She hastened to the table to tuck the pages into a leather notebook. When she turned, Dougal was just there, pulling out a chair.
“Sit, please,” he said. “We must talk.”
“Would you like tea? Or ale, or whisky?”
“Nothing. Please sit, Fiona.” He touched her elbow. “I have something to say.”
“Say it, then,” she said, standing, ignoring the chair he pulled out for her.
Several days had gone by and she had heard no word from him, despite their night together.
She had felt hurt at the silence. Now that he was here, the tension emanating from him made her nervous.
She lifted her chin, mustered dignity, expecting to hear his regret, apology, and renewed suggestion to leave the glen.
Whatever he was about to say, she could endure it. Perhaps she did not belong here after all—but her yearning heart told her otherwise. Love is no reason to stay, she reminded herself, if it is not returned.
“I owe you something,” he said.
“No explanation is necessary,” she said stiffly.
Sighing, he indicated again that she should sit. When she did, he placed a chair beside her, and leaned forward in silence, taking her hand in his. For a moment he stroked her hand with his thumb. Fiona could not seem to look at him.
“I owe you something. Marriage,” he said simply. “I have disgraced you.”
Surprised, she stared at him. “You did not disgrace me. I wanted what happened. I thought you did too. Marriage is not owed to me. I suppose I should leave the glen soon. But I would like to finish teaching first.”
“Fiona—”
“I will always remember that evening with great fondness and thankfulness. It is true,” she said, as he began to protest. “I do not need a marriage proposal.”
He kept her hand in his and did not look at her.
“When I was a lad,” he said, while he seemed to study their joined hands, “my father taught me the way of making the fairy brew, which is somewhat different than the usual. He said that the lairds of Kinloch must keep the process secret, sharing it only with close kin.”
Fiona listened, waited, not sure of the track of his thoughts.
Dougal entwined his fingers in hers, sending delicious shivers through her.
She closed her eyes against the longing, aware she might never feel such tenderness again.
She did not want an obligation of marriage.
She wanted love. She did not want a wealthy Highland nobleman, as her grandmother dictated.
She wanted Kinloch—and could not explain adequately to him why she must refuse.
“My father never told his brothers, my uncles, the recipe of the fairy whisky. I have shared a little of the process over the years. Not all,” he said, “but I wanted them to know, as it was better to work together. Now I find it burning in me to tell you the recipe. The truth. Not this moment,” he said, “but someday I want you to know. And I want—” He stopped, turned her hand in his.
She leaned closer. “What?”
“You asked me once what I truly wanted. I know exactly what I want, now.” He glanced at her, eyes green and sincere. “You.”
“Me,” she repeated, heart pounding faster.
“One day, I hope we will bring our children to the place in the glen where my father brought me when he showed me the secret of the fairy whisky of Kinloch.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh!” She had no words for the moment.
This was not what she had expected—yet it was what she had yearned for from him.
She had longed to know that he wanted a future with her, wanted her to stay in the glen.
Her heart filled with love then, soft and strong, expansive and hopeful, love for him and all he had to share—the glen, its secrets and fairy legends, kinship with those he loved, all that was deeply important to him.
But she could not find the words to accept. First, she owed him honesty. She sat silent, and he did not look up, still studying their entwined fingers.
“It is not obligation that brings me here,” he murmured, “but love. Love, you see, and I will say it. And so I leave the decision to you.” He let go of her hand and stood.
Fiona caught her breath, wanting desperately to jump up, loop her arms around his neck, return the joy he offered her. Yet she sat still, fisting the hand that felt lonely now that his fingers had withdrawn. “There is something I must tell you.” It had to be said. She could hardly meet his eyes.
“I know you have secrets, Fiona. I know some reason beyond teaching brought you here. But if it does not concern me or my glen, you need not tell me.”
She reached for the notebook and opened it, revealing the drawings of the fairy. “I have been trying to get this just so. It is drawn from memory.”
“She is beautiful,” Dougal said.
“But it is not quite right. I have not truly captured her,” she said. “Dougal, I do have obligations of my own. Promises I am expected to keep.”
“What sort of promises?”
“My grandmother’s will specifies conditions that my brothers and I must meet if we are to inherit. I am bound by those conditions too, unless I break my word and break my bond with my brothers.”
“That would not be easy.” He watched her, waited.
“And yet I may have to do it.” Quickly, quietly, she told him about Lady Struan’s will, how it made unique requests of Fiona and her brothers regarding fairies and other conditions to release the inherited funds.
“I am to make drawings of fairies for the book my brother is finishing, which our grandmother began. I came to the glen for that.”
“Drawings? That is not so bad. Why this glen in particular?”
She shook her head. “No reason. The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society sent me here to Glen Kinloch, so I thought being here might help me meet—some of the obligations.”
“I see. There are other conditions?” His voice was graveled, wary.
“My drawings are to be judged for their genuineness by Sir Walter Scott.”
“Your drawings would please anyone, including such a fine gentleman as that.” There was a new wariness in him as he watched her.
“There is one more condition for me.” She looked away. “I am instructed, and expected, to find a Highland husband.”
“We could solve that,” he murmured.
She twisted her hands together. “The clause stipulates that I am to marry a wealthy, titled Highlander.”
“Ah.” He stepped back.
Her heart sank at his caution and coolness. “Wealth takes all forms,” she said.
“The will refers to only one form, I think.” He took another step back.
“You offer so much—this beautiful glen, the loyalty of kin and friends, even the rare secret of fairy whisky. What you offer is a different kind of wealth. The best sort, and it has far more meaning than material wealth.” She glanced up then, hopeful. But his eyes were dark green. Stormy.
“Regardless, whatever I offer will not win you your inheritance.”
She sighed. “I cannot meet all of the conditions. It is impossible.”
“You can if you marry someone else,” he said. Fiona lowered her head, but felt his gaze upon her. “Marry another, and make a few wee drawings.”
He leaned over the table and picked up the pencil.
A stroke here, there, and as Fiona watched the drawing sparked to life under his deft hand.
Whatever was missing, he provided before her eyes.
“There,” he said softly. “Now she looks a little like you. Beautiful. That was what you needed to add. The resemblance. Your own magic.” He set the pencil down. Stepped back again.
“Dougal, wait.” Fiona stood, stretched out her hand, met air.
He went to the door, turned back. “Decide what you want for yourself and your family. I will not tell you what to do. I know what I want, lass. You must sort this out for yourself.”
“Please, Dougal,” she said, hands trembling.
“Lass,” he said, gripping the door handle, “whatever happens, my life will not change. Life in the glen goes on as it always has. Hearts endure somehow. I learned that years ago.” He opened the door, stepped out, shut it.
She ran to the door and opened it, but he had vanished in the shadows. She leaned her head against the oak planking. Hearts endure somehow. He must have discovered that years ago. She had felt the same after Archie’s death, when she had learned to endure and move on somehow.
But she wanted to be happy now, wanted it desperately with Dougal; she wanted him to feel that happiness too. Yet if she chose to live in the glen to claim what could be a peaceful, fulfilling life, her choice could set her brothers up for ruin.
In Glen Kinloch, the impossible had happened for her, and she could not overlook that.
She had fallen in love with a Highland laird whose wealth lay in his offer of love and a good life.
But he might not want her now that he had learned the truth of why she was here.
Falling in love with him was all she wanted, but it would not satisfy the will.
And so the inheritance would go to Nicholas MacCarran, Lord Eldin.
Hearing a whimper, Fiona looked down to see Maggie beside the door, pawing to go outside. Fiona opened it again. “Go on, go after him, he will speak to you!”
She watched the dog dash through the shadows. Fiona longed to follow and find the laird, too. Instead, she shut the door and went to the table, sitting, chin in hand.
Her drawing was beautiful, improved by the delicate touches Dougal had made. But as she sat and looked at it, a tear dropped on the paper, smudging the pencil lead.
Her choice was clear, though she did not want it. Her siblings depended on her to fulfill her part of the agreement. And now the Laird of Kinloch had let her know that he could, and would, be fine without her.
She would not be so fine—but she knew she must leave Glen Kinloch.