Authors: Highland Groom
Fiona smiled, delighted. “I can see why,” she said, tilting her head to study the rubbings, each one vaguely shaped like a tiny footprint.
“It is what my father told me, and what he believed, and I thought so, too, when I was a boy. I have seen engravings of these creatures in books,” he said. “And while I had read a little about old fossils, I did not think of them as the fairy feet that I saw in my youth.”
“Some of them only occur in bits, rather than whole and complete, so one would not recognize them as…well, insectlike. And one needs a keen eye to see them at all, impressed in the rock. There are plants, too, leaves and ferns and even bark, if one looks closely enough.” She smiled, rolling up the pages and replacing them in the knapsack. “But I think I much prefer to call them fairy tracks.”
“It does sound better than Highland shrimp,” he agreed. He stood, wiping his hands on his dark kilt, and held out a hand to her. “Come up to me,” he murmured.
Fiona paused, watching him from under the tilt of her straw hat, reminded of the first moment she
had seen him on another hillside. She had taken him for one of the Fey then, and he had spoken that same odd phrase that seemed part of him. The smuggler was gone, the scowling laird was gone, too—and once again he seemed to be that man on the mountainside: handsome, compelling, and mysterious, with an aura about him that seemed almost magical.
Yet the one she preferred was the man she was coming gradually to know—the one who seemed so real and strangely familiar to her, the one who laughed easily and did not tell her to go home. Smiling, she raised her gloved hand. He braced her fingers as she rose to her feet.
Brushing dirt and grass from her dark blue skirt, adjusting the drape of her creamy woven shawl, which had fallen from her shoulders, she looked up at him. “What brings you to this hillside this afternoon, sir? Not fossil collecting.”
“Flowers, Miss MacCarran.” He lifted her knapsack and they began to walk, companionably and in step. “I am roaming the hills looking for wildflowers.” He inclined his head a little.
“For your ladylove?” she asked. “It appears that you have not found any—no bouquets, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Oh, my ladylove is not waiting for bouquets,” he said. “She is a great belching thing with steam coming off her, very fussy and demanding. But, oh, she gives great comfort when she is ready. A copper still,” he explained, glancing at her with a quick
twinkle in his hazel-green eyes. “I came out here to look for the first flowers of spring. I need to know which are growing along the course of the burn that feeds the stills farther down the slope.”
“How fascinating. I had no idea such things were involved in illicit whisky distilling.”
“All manner of interesting factors are taken into account when distilling the pot whisky.”
“Why the flowers?”
“They flavor the water—what grows nearby might make the water taste sweeter, lighter, give it a hint of fragrance, or in some cases, give it a tart or a bitter taste. Grass, wild onion, and garlic, even the rocks that the water flows over can affect the whisky, too. So I come out regularly to check the burns and streams. The most important ingredients,” he said, “are the barley, the peat, and the water—and what affects those helps determine the character of the whisky.”
“It sounds almost like an art,” she said.
“It is,” he replied, and looked at her for a moment. “More an art than a crime.”
“I see,” she murmured, and returned his gaze openly. She wanted to know more about him for so many reasons, she thought; his devotion to the whisky, every detail of it, was a revelation to her.
He inclined his head. “If you do not mind, Miss MacCarran, though I would not mind escorting you in your search, my own takes me in another direction today. My kinsmen are waiting.” He gestured with a thumb.
Fiona glanced that way, and saw two men waiting for him, a young one she did not recognize, and an older one who looked like his uncle Ranald. “Please, do not let me delay you further,” she said. “I am quite content to wander. How nice to chat with you,” she said.
“Miss,” he murmured. “Do not wander too far. Keep the road and the loch in sight.”
“I will,” she said.
“And safe home before dark,” he said.
“I will remember.”
“Just so.” He handed the knapsack to her, and his hand grazed hers in the transfer. Even through her glove, she felt the stun of that small contact. And as he walked away, long strides over the sloping, tufted hill, his favored kilt swinging over the tops of his calves as he descended, she watched him for a long moment before turning away, back to her rocks and ancient fossilized creatures.
Her life and interests seemed so dull, so safe and intellectual in that moment. She longed to turn and run to join MacGregor of Kinloch, to spend the day searching out wildflowers along the banks of the burn to please a belching old copper still; she yearned to taste with him the whisky that resulted, and laugh again about fish in the mountains, and the strange tracks of fairies through the Highlands.
U
nder the unsteady flicker of a lantern, Fiona dipped pen into ink and resumed writing. The scratching of nib over paper was the loudest sound in the front room of Mary MacIan’s cozy house, so late at night; only the low crackle of the peat fire, the tick of an old clock, and the soft sounds of Mary snoring in a back bedroom could be heard. Fiona sighed, enjoying the peacefulness, intent on the letter she wrote. She had already finished her lessons for the week, several verses written out in Gaelic and then English, which she would present to her students soon. Now she concentrated on a reply to the letter her brother James had recently sent.
Outside, another gust of wind rattled the windowpanes and pushed at the door so that it wobbled slightly on its hinges. Since Mrs. MacIan’s habit was to retire early in the evenings, Fiona had ample time to plan lessons or write out vocabulary words, or tend to some of her other work, such as making careful drawings of the fossils she had
so far collected, or writing letters to her kin in Edinburgh.
She also owed a dutiful weekly letter to her great-aunt, Lady Rankin, but she was glad to postpone that. Fiona had much affection for Lady Rankin, who had raised James and Fiona after their parents had died, drowned in a shipwreck, with their younger brothers gone to other relatives. Yet Fiona knew what little regard the stuffy viscountess had for her great-niece’s “charitable work among the savages,” as she called the teaching assignments in the Highlands; the lady wanted her to make a good marriage and get over pining for the lost Archie MacCarran. And she was outspoken in her opinion that her late sister’s demanding will, requiring “fairy nonsense,” was patently ridiculous.
But even at this late hour, Fiona was happy to take time to write to James. Her twin brother, of all her kin and friends, was nearest her heart, and she knew he waited to hear how she fared in the glen.
I am delighted to learn that your Elspeth is feeling so well,
she wrote, having already reported on the glen, the school, and her students;
and I look forward to becoming an aunt, though my anticipation cannot match the joy
of the babe’s dear parents. How wonderful that Elspeth is weaving a new blanket for the little one. The pretty green plaid she made for me keeps me warm here in Glen Kinloch.
I hope you will have this reply soon. The mail travels back and forth to Callander with Mr. Hamish MacGregor, an uncle of the laird of this glen (a cousin to your wife and a gentleman of good intelligence and spirit, whose whisky is celebrated in the region, and whose secrets, I suspect, are many—I dare not say more, even to you!). Callander is as far as the weekly mail coach will come, bringing letters and packages from Edinburgh or Glasgow via Stirling into the Highlands. Hamish drives the mail south in an old black coach, very creaky and antique, which has as much character as the driver himself.
To answer your question, I have not yet made drawings of fairies for your revisions of Grandmother’s book. The idea still seems so far-fetched to me, but I will endeavor further. Patrick thinks I should simply invent some sprites, commit images to paper, and have done with it. But Sir Walter Scott is a canny gentleman who has my utmost respect, and he will decide the worth of the fairy pictures by the conditions of the will. Nor do I have it in me to betray Grandmother’s belief in fairies! How could any of us succeed in our tasks as well as you have done, having found your
sweet wife with her legacy of rumored fairy blood and knowledge of fairy lore?
While wandering the hills in search of pesky but nonexistent sprites, I have discovered excellent specimens of trilobites set in good limestone, and evidence of a thick quartzite layer beneath Old Red Sandstone, which you will find very interesting, and I have learned something more of the lore of this glen from its very interesting laird—
The door banged again in the wind, startling Fiona so that she jumped, ink smearing on the page. Sighing, she sanded over it and blew, and then rose from the chair. Going to the door to make sure it was secure—the hinges and handle old enough that she wondered if it might blow open—she heard Mary’s dog barking somewhere outside. Fiona stopped to listen, hearing warning and agitation in the dog’s incessant bark.
She did not want Mary to wake, for the old woman had seemed tired that evening, and had asked Fiona to let the dog in before going to bed. Maggie often tracked rabbits in the darkness, though she stayed close enough to the house to return when called.
Grabbing her shawl from a hook beside the door—she kept the dark plaid woven by her sister-in-law there—Fiona also snatched up the rope lead used for the dog. Then she pulled open the door and stepped outside.
“Maggie!” she called, looking around, but did not see the black-and-white spaniel anywhere nearby. “Maggie, come!”
She walked farther out into the yard, clutching the shawl about her in the wind, chilled by a hint of rain. The fat knot of her hair, already unkempt after a long day, loosened and fluttered to her shoulders. She pulled the plaid over her head like a hood and walked farther, calling the dog.
Clouds drifted across the night sky, and the surface of the loch reflected the moonlight. Fiona paused to take in the dark, sparkling beauty of the water at night, edged by black mountains against an indigo sky, with the pale wafer of the moon floating above, appearing and vanishing behind swift-sailing clouds. She lifted her face to the wind, closing her eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of water against the pebbled shores of the cove.
Hearing the dog bark again, frantically this time, she opened her eyes. The moon shone bright between cloud drifts, and for a moment she saw a boat sailing from the south end of the loch, its elegant black silhouette just visible in the darkness.
Instinctively she drew her dark plaid close about her and stepped back, feeling a need to hide. When clouds veiled the moon once again, the ship seemed to vanish. She turned, determined to fetch the dog inside; the hour was late, and she had no desire to be seen by anyone aboard a smuggling vessel. She knew of no other reason for a ship to sail at
this time of night toward the quiet shoreline of this remote glen.
Walking, half running, she headed past the house searching for the spaniel, taking the earthen lane that led from the cove to the main road. She called out softly, wary of being heard. Whatever went on in Glen Kinloch that night was none of her business, she told herself, and she was better off going inside than learning more than she should.
A flash of black and white ran past the lane where it met the main road, and she hurried that way with the dog’s rope leash ready in her hand. Maggie barked repeatedly as if she spied something out there—but it was neither rabbit nor fox, which the dog usually pursued in silence. This was a warning bark, protective of her territory.
A chill ran up and down Fiona’s spine, and her heart thumped. Slowing, she glanced warily around in the darkness as she moved up the earthen path. “Maggie,” she whispered, “come!”
Setting foot on the main road, uncertain which way to turn, she paused while the wind scudded clouds past the moon in a new cluster, bathing all in silvery light once again. Another bark sounded, and she glimpsed a patchy white coat heading up a hillside opposite the road. Fiona turned left to pursue her quarry, running now.
Something was in the air, an urgency that made her hurry, made her glance around furtively, though she saw only the shimmering loch in the distance when she turned that way, and the long
slopes rising, massive and rocky, beside the road. She did not want to walk far up those hills after the dog, not in darkness; in daylight it was possible to find her way over the terrain.
Still she could hear Maggie higher on the slope, barking frantically now, and the sound alarmed her so that she headed that way, clutching her shawl with one hand and the rope in the other. Walking a little way up the slope in unreliable moonlight, she looked about.
“Maggie!” she called, but the dog barked incessantly, intent on something. Fiona sighed and walked farther up. “Come
here!
”
A burst of wind whipped at her plaid and then blew her hair free, and she put a hand to her head. In the next moment, the clouds, swept by the wind, extinguished the moonlight like a candle flame. The sudden darkness was so complete that Fiona stopped, poised on the slope, seeing little but the dark mass of the hillside, scattered with the paler shapes of stones. The ground was thick with heather, juniper, and tufted grass, and she dared not move quickly for fear of losing her footing, until the moonlight returned.
As she stood there, she saw what seemed to be starlight, and turned that way. The stars seemed to shift then, dropping like sparkling bits of bright fire, or will-o’-the-wisps caught in a sudden updraft. Fiona stared, and saw them swirl and begin to coalesce into something that made her catch her breath—something ghostly. She gasped, stepped
back. The lights spun and rushed away, and she saw then a group of standing stones not far away, behind which the moving starlight seemed to disappear.
Then, over the whistling wind, she heard distinct sounds—thumping footfalls and hooves, and the jingle of harness coming from somewhere above and to her left as she stood on the hillside. Her blood ran chill in her veins, and she went motionless. The sounds grew louder, and Fiona dared not move. Higher on the slope, the dog barked crazily in the dark.
She sensed a group of men and horses coming toward her, though she had not yet seen them. Now she heard the breath and bluster of the horses, and the low murmurs of men. And in the glimmer of scant light—starlight or moonlight, or something more mysterious, she did not know what—she saw them.
But the men were not the Fey, she thought, riding toward her in a cavalcade, as she had heard in so many legends; nor were they the ghosts of men in battle. They were solid and real, grim and determined, walking the hills by night. A few of them were mounted, and all of them led pack ponies. Surely they were smugglers—and there she stood in the open, easily seen and in danger of her life.
Clouds shifted overhead, and she glanced around. The lights, not long ago, had showed the cluster of standing stones not far away, and without thinking further, concerned for her immediate safety, she ran
there, slipping behind the tallest menhir. Standing stones were not uncommon in fields and on hillsides, abandoned ages ago, their meaning lost. Now she was grateful for their presence. She drew the dark plaid around her, hoping to blend with the shadows while the men traversed the slope.
Lanterns swung like golden drops of fire in the midnight gloom as the men came closer. Fiona stood motionless behind the stone, legs trembling, breaths shallow; and she peered out, curiosity and fear mingling as she watched them descend slowly. They were about to pass right over the spot where she had been standing, not far from the tall stone.
While Maggie barked incessantly, untroubled and bold, Fiona cringed for the dog’s sake. The smugglers might decide to silence the relentless noise to protect their secret progress. Then the moonlight returned, and Fiona saw Maggie—a black-and-white blur chasing up and down the slope alongside the group.
The men and horses were clearly visible now: several horses and twice as many men, with the glowing lanterns scattered among them. Cold fear slid through her, and Fiona shrank back behind the stone. She could hear the thunk of hobnail boots over rocky terrain, the clop of the horses’ hooves, even the slosh of liquid in the kegs strapped to the ponies’ backs. The rumble of male voices sounded as well: a question, a reply, a curt laugh.
Maggie bolted down the hill and came toward her, circling the stone. Fiona hissed at her to stop,
but the dog raced off. Pressing close to the stone, Fiona waited, heart pounding, and peered out again. She could not risk being discovered. Smugglers were a dangerous lot, she knew that well enough, and even if she had met some of them personally, crossing paths with them under such circumstances meant taking a terrible chance.
Beware the hills when the Laird is about with his men…we always keep clear…
so Mary MacIan had insisted more than once.
The men’s faces were indistinct in the moonlight, their garments dark. The horses carried either pannier baskets or wooden kegs roped to their backs. Some of the smugglers, Fiona was sure, looked in the direction of the standing stone—but as she caught her breath anxiously, they moved on. A minute longer, and they would pass by completely; another few minutes and they would reach the road, and be gone.
Her heart still slammed, but a stubborn courage came over her, calming her. She watched the men and horses go past, hearing the chink of metal harness fittings and the steady footfalls creating persistent rhythms.
One man, holding the reins of a horse, broke away from the rest and came toward the stone, so that Fiona drew back, pressed behind it, fingers taut on cool rock, rooted there by fear. A moment later a hand snatched her arm, and as she cried out a man covered her mouth with his hand. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, but the shape of his face,
his shoulders, the swing of his dark hair were familiar. Oh, she knew him so well. And then, pausing, he bent close.
“Fiona
,” he whispered, “go home and lock the door.” The caress of his breath along her cheek, close to her ear, nearly melted her, set her limbs to shaking. His hand lifted away from her lips, his fingers tracing her cheek.
“Dougal,” she whispered, taking hold of his jacket.
His fingers supported her chin now, his breath traced along her cheek, and then his lips touched hers. Fiona caught her breath, slid her arms around his neck, and he kissed her full then, deep, hidden with her behind the stone. She felt his body press close to hers, and felt herself falter a little in his arms from the pounding beat of her heart, and the sudden passions, body and soul, that filled her—the kiss, the darkness, the danger, the potent feelings that arose in her.