Sarah Gabriel (16 page)

“It’s more than you can pay,” Dougal said. “Priceless, now.”

“Indeed? That whisky is not the most priceless you have, is it,” Eldin said.

“Twenty-year-old whisky is rare, as you have said yourself.”

“I have heard of a legend of another sort of whisky brew,” Eldin said. “An ancient secret given to the MacGregors by the fairy ilk themselves.”

Dougal huffed. “Legends,” he said, “do not produce marketable whisky.”

“I hear that the lairds of Kinloch have always produced this secret brew. If you do have any of that sort, I would be willing to pay…whatever amount you need.”

“Need?” Dougal frowned.

“To free your glen.”

For a moment, Dougal stared hard at him. “My glen and its tenants,” he said, “have always been free.”

“The government deed office does not think so.” Eldin stood then, lifting his hat and snatching his cane. “Think on it, Kinloch.” He inclined his head, then opened his hand to deposit several coins on the table—Dougal saw the glint of gold sovereigns and silver shillings. The earl turned away and left the inn, shutting the door behind him.

Rob approached. “He wanted no supper? But we have a fine roast ready—”

“No supper,” Dougal said, standing. Through the window, he saw the black barouche leaving the yard, driver leaning forward, whip cracking, and the silhouette of a tall man in a tall hat visible inside the carriage. “He came here to bargain. Serve supper to our friends with the compliments of the earl,” he said, pushing the coins toward Rob, the amount far more than the price of food, drink, and lodging, too.

Going toward the window, he looked out at the vivid sunset over the mountains. What the devil
did Lord Eldin want with fairy whisky, and what had he heard about it?

And he wondered, as he returned to his seat, what Eldin had meant by such sly remarks about Fiona MacCarran. Sighing, he drank the rest of the Kinloch whisky on the table. The batch he had sold to Rob for the inn’s patrons was good—but not the finest that Kinloch’s stills produced.

He did not understand Eldin’s warning about Fiona, but the effect was the opposite of what the earl might have intended. Dougal’s sympathy warmed to her; Fiona had a devil of a cousin in her life. He could not imagine the schoolteacher, so serene, intelligent, forthright—and so damnably alluring—ever scheming to marry wealth. Particularly Highland wealth.

He nearly laughed aloud. If wealth and Highland life were what she wanted, she would have to look elsewhere. Marry that blasted cousin of hers, for example.

But if the schoolteacher should ever decide that a Highland laird, one as poor, plain, and solid as the gray rocks that studded his land, was to her taste—he would be there for her, waiting and ready.

That thought was more revelation to him than anything Eldin could have said.

Late the next afternoon, when the door to the schoolhouse opened and the students poured out, Dougal waited in the yard. He had just come up from the nearby distillery, which was hidden behind
a thickness of evergreens on a hillside. All was progressing well in the stillhouse, with Fergus working on the new batch of whisky started that week, and Hamish’s sons, Will and John, testing the proof on another batch. Dougal had stayed long enough to approve the batch with his cousins before heading toward Kinloch House and the school situated on the farthest edge of the vast yard.

Ever since the first day school sessions had begun, he had intended to speak with Fiona MacCarran, but other matters had come along, and he had let them interfere. The barley laid down to germinate for the new batch required shoveling and turning, though Hamish had two grown sons capable of doing that; and he had traveled out of the glen for two days to go to an inn alongside Loch Lomond, for a previously agreed and discreet meetings with English clients interested in his next shipment.

Yesterday, when Ranald and Fergus had told him of their awkward attempt to oust the lady from the school, he knew he would have to talk with her. He had avoided her ever since school had begun, though she walked past his tower house each morning and afternoon.

More than once he had watched from a window as she went past, his heart thumping as if he was a half-bearded youth. Her graceful movement and lush figure, her face lifted to sunlight or bowed in rain, every sight of her stirred him. He had denied his interest, and though his desire to be near her grew keen and intense, he found excuses to keep
away—accounts to be checked in the distillery office, though that had been done days before; a pressing task at the distillery, despite his competent, vigilant kinsmen; tenants to visit; herds to count despite shepherds to do it.

Even yesterday, he had put off waiting for her, instead heading for his arranged meeting with Eldin. Dougal was glad, now, that he had met Fiona’s cousin. Some mysteries had cleared for him, although others had deepened.

There seemed little question that she should leave Glen Kinloch. Yet Dougal felt torn over that—compelled to be near her, and turned about as well. His body was responsive and craving, his mind and heart resistant, his loneliness profound.

He wanted her, and now, perversely after talking to Eldin, he wanted to protect her from that one’s cunning—and he wanted to know why the earl had said such things about her.

Shaking his head, he turned, almost tempted to walk away. Leave the matter of the teacher to his uncles, he told himself. If they bumbled it, so be it, so long as the girl was gone, and with her the threat of her brother’s presence in Glen Kinloch.

But just then, she emerged from the school, and walked toward him.

He watched her, his heart thumping. She wore, once again, the gray gown, jacket, and bonnet she had worn when he had first seen her on the hillside. The wind blowing against the fabrics revealed her
curving and womanly form; she moved with subtle rhythm and airy confidence, head lifted, shoulders slight but square, hips swaying. He smiled, folded his arms, waited.

“Mr. MacGregor,” she said. “You wanted a word with me today?”

“I do,” he said smoothly. “I understand my uncles came by the school.”

“They say there is something amiss with the roof. I asked them to postpone repairs and patch things in the meantime, until my weeks here are done.” She lifted her chin.

“And when will that be?” he asked mildly, knowing the question might rile her.

“Two months at least, unless you have your way with—” She stopped, blushing under the golden shadow of her gray bonnet. Her eyes were a clear blue, snapping really, and he saw the stubbornness in her gaze.

“If I was to have my way with you, Miss MacCarran,” he murmured, “we would not be talking about a roof right now.”

She blinked, and her cheeks glowed like pink fire under the sunlit hat. But she turned her head and pinched back a smile; he was sure of it. Where tendrils of her hair escaped the bonnet, the locks had a warm walnut sheen, and he felt a sudden urge to remove the hat and loosen her hair—and then pull her long-legged, lush body close—

“About the repairs,” she reminded him.

“Aye,” he said, recovering. “The thatch needs re
placing. But we had planned to give the schoolhouse a slate roof, and that would take some time.”

“It will have to wait until school is done for the year.”

“But some basic repair must be done before then, if it is leaking. Another good rainstorm, and you will have the roof down over your heads.”

“If you knew the schoolhouse was in such condition, why was I invited to teach there? Why were repairs not made beforehand?”

“My uncles assured me that adequate repairs had been made to the school last month. We did not expect you so soon,” he added.

“Perhaps the need for a new roof is another way of telling me that I am not wanted here in Glen Kinloch.”

“You are wanted,” he said, “here in the glen.”

She tilted her head. “But not by you, sir.”

He drew breath. “As I told you, the glen is not safe for the sister of a gauger. It can be, in fact, quite a dangerous place. You saw that last week,” he added.

“There was no danger to me that night, except from those who want me gone. Do not send me away when I do not want to go,” she added bluntly.

Dougal sighed. “I will admit that you are a fine teacher, and needed here at the school.”

“Thank you.” She glanced at him.

“Lucy has told me and her great-uncles, too, about her school lessons. She is truly enjoying the class, as are the others, I understand.”

“She is a bright child, and quite delightful.”

“But she has always loathed school until now.”

“At first she claimed to need no lessons, but since then she seems content to learn. Though I must find more for her to do. She works quickly, then sets to bothering Jamie, who is an easygoing lad and puts up with her pestering.”

“I know,” he said, feeling a bit helpless, having little idea how to manage a small girl as bright and willful as Lucy. “Poor Jamie adores the lass.”

“And she knows it, which only makes it worse. And she adores him as well.”

“Does she?” He tipped his head, watching her steadily.

“Otherwise she would ignore him altogether.”

“I will speak to her about it again, though I have tried before. Someday Jamie will decide to give Lucy a reckoning. It may be worth the wait if she learns it from him.”

“True. What interests her most? If I knew, that might help.”

“I am not sure you want to hear it.” Dougal paused. “She intends to be a smuggler when she grows up, and she is convinced they have no need of studies.”

“Ah. And what have you told her about that?”

“Of course I want to set a fine example,” he said wryly. “So we are reading a little poetry at home. Sir Walter Scott,” he added, looking at her. “A few verses. She enjoys it. But now she is convinced that smugglers may enjoy poetry, but do not need maths.”

She laughed outright, and Dougal smiled, finding the sound unexpectedly enchanting. “You ought to know better than I what smugglers need to study.”

“Maths, most assuredly, in order to figure the gallons, and the number of ponies and ships needed,” he drawled. “And they must accurately count the gaugers sneaking about the hills so as not to get caught.”

“Very important. And they should be able to count coin to the last penny,” she retorted.

“True. But poetry, alas, they have little use for that.”

“Poor Lucy. Will you tell her so?”

“I do not have the heart for it. You tell her.”

She laughed again, and Dougal took her elbow. “Come with me.” He led her along a path that ribboned between gorse bushes and trees, rather deliberately obscuring a few buildings situated at the base of the gentle slope.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Be patient. I wager you will not expect what you are about to see.”

“Is it a troupe of lovely fairies—or a pack of clever smugglers?”

“Which would you rather?” he asked.

“Both,” she said. “The fairies for me, and the smugglers for—”

“For your brother?”

She frowned, and Dougal felt the lightness leave her mood like light from a candle. “I was think
ing of what you might want,” she said, “not my brother. But that seems to be much on your mind where I am concerned.”

“You are more on my mind than your brother,” he said. “Though I will say he seems a decent fellow. It would be a shame for that job to corrupt a good lad.”

“That would never happen.”

“It could, and has, to good men before him.”

She stopped and looked up at him. They stood in the shadow of a thicket of trees, and hidden there with her, Dougal felt a strong urge to take her into his arms, to make all right between them. He wanted no more talk of leaving the glen, or of gaugers and smugglers; he wanted only to set free what he felt for her, and know that she returned it. He wanted life to be simple and blessed, in the fine way that it could be with her.

“Fiona,” he murmured, and she leaned toward him, her gaze searching his. He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me—”

“Aye?” she whispered.

“We were caught, we too, in a moment—” Suddenly he knew he must explain something of his actions the night of the smuggling run, and he certainly meant to ask what she intended by walking so boldly into obvious danger. That had made him afraid for her, distracting him mightily—and yet he had admired her greatly for it. He wanted to know where her loyalty might lie, to the glen or to her brother and the gaugers.

But now, looking at her, he no longer wanted to speak of that. He did not want to talk. He wanted to touch her, hold her, have her here in the green lushness of the pathway, as mad as it seemed, as dangerous—for the laird of Kinloch had no need of such complications in his life. His days were filled with enough risk as it was.

“What is it you wanted to say, Kinloch?” she asked softly.

“Just this,” he growled, and tucked his hand against her cheek, tilting her head, and kissed her. She sighed and leaned her head back to allow his mouth to slant upon hers, and he delved his fingers deeper into the snug, glossy mass of her hair, wanting only to let it flow free.

She fell against him, one hand curled on his chest between them, the other sliding up around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, urging him to kiss her again. He did, deeply, fully, his body pressed against hers, his blood beating rhythm within him. His hand cradled her head, and she leaned closer, sighing against his mouth, accepting another kiss—and enticing him with her lips, the wild soft tip of her tongue, so that he groaned low and cupped her face in both his hands now. He held her, lingering his mouth over hers, surprised that she did not pull away. Another kiss, a sequence of them, made him crave, rocked him deep. Stop, he told himself. Stop now, or take her her on the pathway, in the bushes, between the school and the distillery beyond—

“Enough,” he growled then, and set her away from him, hands on her shoulders.

“Dougal—” she whispered, her hands rounding over his shoulders, her touch warm and insistent. “Please—I do not mind, I swear it—”

“Enough for now,” he amended hoarsely. “We will talk later, you and I.” He forced himself to draw back, step back. “Pardon. It is not right for me to—”