Sarah Gabriel (21 page)

“With that, we could get together enough coin for the deed, but it may not be enough to save Glen Kinloch in the future. What I want is a guarantee. I want all the deeds back, signed in perpetuity to me and to my heirs.”

“A fine dream, Kinloch,” Hugh said. “Do not let go of it.”

“Just so,” Dougal said.

Fiona sat up, stunned by her dream, and a feeling so dear and intimate that she did not want to let go of it. She had dreamed of being in Dougal’s arms, of his hands upon her like heaven, playing over her body like a harper caressing strings, so that she burned and sang within, and felt a sense of love so immense that it soared through her—and now she burned with desire yet, felt the heat of it in her cheeks, breasts, as her breath quickened. The light had gone dim in the room; she reached out to turn up the wick of the lantern on the table.

Moments later, she heard footsteps on the stair, and she looked up expectantly, calm and composed by the time Maisie entered, holding a glass in her hand.

“I brought the whisky and honey,” the girl said, and crossed the room to set a small glass on the table beside the red chair. “The laird asked me to stay, miss, but my brother has come—he’s downstairs. He says our father is doing poorly.”

“Oh dear! What is wrong?” Fiona asked.

“Da was helping to fight that fire earlier, and he was overtaken with smoke, just as you were, as the laird said. But Kinloch wants me to stay here with you tonight.” As she spoke, one of the dogs came into the room, curious, coming closer. “Try the hot whisky.” Fiona saw that the glass held a pale, steaming liquid.

“Thank you. Maisie, you must go to your father,” she said, trying a sip of the concoction. The warm remedy slid down her throat, the sudden heat of it spreading, so that she coughed, feeling it clear a little, and set the glass down.

“See, it helps the lungs and throat,” Maisie said. “It is what my father needs, and my brother too much of a dimwit to make it for him. My mother is no longer with us.”

“I will be fine here; please do not stay on my account,” Fiona said. The dog nudged her, and she patted the gray head. “I have Sorcha to protect me.”

“This is Mhor, and he’s a big coward,” Maisie said. “Sorcha, the female, is the braver. But if all is well, miss, I will leave. The bath is filled and hot, and I set a blanket over it to keep the heat in until you are ready.”

“Thank you. I’d enjoy a bath.”

“Your room is the one upstairs, by the way, top floor. The guest room is ready. I keep a clean house on the days I come here, though the laird and his uncles are a wretched lot to tidy up after
when they are all here at once,” she went on her breezy way.

“Do they all live here, the laird and his uncles?”

“When the laird was a lad, aye, the families lived together here to help raise him after his father died. Now Dougal himself lives here, and Fergus as well, for his wife died a few years ago. Ranald’s wife is Effie, and she has gone to see her kin outside the glen, and he has been staying here until her return—he gets lonesome, does Ranald.” Maisie sighed, shook her head. “As for Hamish, his wife Jean has left him again. They do go back and forth, those two. If Jeanie had her own house—but Hamish feels it is his duty as the eldest of the laird’s uncles to help the laird with the estate, and the care of young Lucy, too. But someday the laird will marry, as Jean has often told Hamish, and then they will need to find a place.”

“I am sure the laird would help them…when he marries.”

“If,” Maisie said, and sighed again. “He does not seem like to settle down soon, though his uncles tell him he must, for the sake of all, and Glen Kinloch too.”

“I see,” Fiona said.

“And Hamish would stay,” Maisie said. “Kinloch has offered him a house nearby, but Hamish likes this old ruin of a place.”

Fiona looked around. “I think it is very nice, hardly a ruin. All the charm of a castle, and very well kept.”

“All the work of a drafty old castle, too,” Maisie grumbled. “The tub is down in the kitchen, Miss. I would not be dragging buckets of hot water up those wicked steps for anyone, and no offense. Well, I do it for wee Lucy, but a child needs less water in a bath, and the laird and his uncles help with the buckets. Not for me, all that work.”

Fiona bit her lip to hold back a smile. “Is the kitchen private enough for a bath with so many living here?”

“You are alone here tonight, for they are all gone and will be away until dawn or later, I think. Set the dogs outside the door for a guard, if you like. For supper, there’s porridge and soup in the kettles, which you are welcome to,” Maisie went on. “I did not cook a meal for the evening, with the men busy on account of the fire, and even before that they would not be here tonight, for when they make a run they are out until dawn, and those nights, I leave cold meats and cheese before I go home, and—” She stopped, and stepped back hastily, as if realizing she had said too much. “I will go, then, if you are all right here.”

Fiona stood. If Dougal was planning a run, she thought, that surely meant smuggling. “Thank you. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Maisie shook her head. “I will stay with my da. I left clean garments for you in the guest room.” She went to the door and turned. “Miss, please do not go out tonight. It is wise to stay inside when the
moon is out, and the men are out as well.” Then she left the room.

Turning, Fiona saw Mhor curled on the rug by the hearth, resting his head on his paws as if contemplating her. “What shall we do, you and I?” she asked. “I wonder what your master is up to tonight. It is all so secret,” she added plaintively. “I wish he trusted me.” The dog thumped his tail.

Picking up another book from the table, she sat down to read a little of James MacPherson’s
Ossian
, a stirring but controversial collection of ancient Celtic tales, which her brother William had once read with her. Despite his physician’s pragmatism, William was fascinated by ancient myths and legends.

How intriguing, she thought, to find this book, and so many others, in the keeping of a Highland laird who claimed to have little formal education, and a modest library of a few books.

But Dougal MacGregor was far more than a mere smuggler, she knew that now. The laird of Kinloch fascinated her, compelled her, so that she wanted to know more about him—all about him. Yet Maisie claimed he was not interested in marrying; besides, Fiona reminded herself sternly, according to her grandmother’s will she could not consider marrying a poor Highland landowner.

Fiona set the book down thoughtfully. She was not safe at Kinloch House—not at all.

A
fter a hot, soothing bath, while the dogs kept watch in the outer hall, Fiona dried herself and put on the linen nightshirt and a dressing gown of dark red brocade that Maisie had left for her. Both were large and cut in a style suited to a man. Her own things would air overnight, she thought, and she could wear them again in the morning.

From the robe she caught a scent of the man who had worn it before her, a blend of pine and spice and something indefinably masculine; she knew, somehow, that Dougal had worn the garment before her, and she could not resist pulling it snug around her. Rubbing her wet hair with the towel, she left the water in the bath, unable to empty it herself, and hoping it would not be inconvenient for Maisie to see to in the morning.

Hungry, she made a quick supper of the salted porridge and barley soup Maisie had left, with a cup of water poured from a jug. Then, realizing that not much was left for the MacGregors who would
return later, she looked around for something to leave them.

In the larder she found sliced cold meat, stored vegetables, seasonings, and barley, which she prepared and tossed in the soup pot, adding water from the jug, and soon a thick stew simmered in the kettle. Then she went upstairs, followed by the deerhounds.

In the library, she found an old encyclopedia and took one of the three volumes with her to the red chair, settling to read articles on natural physics and geological sciences, looking for more information to help in her continuing study of fossils. She was not as intent a geological scholar as her brother James, but found the subject of great interest, and resolved to go into the hills to search for more fossils soon.

And, she reminded herself, she would still have to find some actual fairies to sketch for the book that was with the publisher, awaiting the drawings that would complete the book. She wondered how she could ever supply those, with no fairies to sit for portraits. Scowling at the ridiculousness of that, she wished she understood why her grandmother had made the decisions that had caused so much trouble for all of them.

The dogs curled at her feet, snoring quietly, and she began to cough again. Picking up the glass of whisky and honey, having had a little earlier, she tasted it again, for a few sips of Maisie’s remedy had helped clear her throat and chest nicely.

She returned to the encyclopedia, but soon was bored. Checking the bookshelves, she discovered one of her grandmother’s own early books, a slim volume entitled
Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland
. The book was familiar to her from childhood, and she settled down, delighted to explore it again.

She picked up the glass once more, took a swallow, and turned a page, reading about the pookahs of Ireland. As she reached out to set the glass down, the dogs leaped to their feet, woofing loudly.

Startled, Fiona missed the table; the glass tilted and crashed to the floor, shattering, liquid spilling into the carpet. And as the dogs loped out of the room, she heard footsteps below and a deep voice murmuring to the animals.

Heart hammering, she ran to the library door, but could see little from the landing. The dogs had disappeared around the turn in the stairs, and she heard the timbre of a male voice speaking to the animals. The voice faded, as if the man walked back toward the kitchen with the dogs.

Anxious to get to her room—she did not want to be caught so improperly dressed while cleaning a mess of broken glass and wet carpet—Fiona ran back to crouch and pick up the shards, then realized she had nothing with which to mop up the liquid. Whirling, she yanked open drawers in a side cupboard and a table, finding only paper, ink, and sundry items. Frustrated, tempted to use the hem of her night rail for a mop, she turned, and gasped.

Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Lounging a shoulder against the doorjamb, he regarded her in silence. She saw quickly that his hair seemed damp, curling a little along his brow and the strong column of his throat. He wore a shirt that seemed clean, its folds still neat; open at the neck, sleeves rolled, it was tucked inside a plaid in a pattern she had not seen before, so that seemed to be a fresh garment, too, as did his woolen patterned stockings pulled to the knee, and his leather shoes.

“You have changed your clothes,” she said impulsively, then realized how silly it sounded to blurt that out as soon as she saw him.

“So have you,” he said, and lifted a brow, as his gaze moved up, then down and up again.

Fiona felt a strange and wonderful thrill go through her. She drew the robe around her, folded her arms. “I washed and changed, since I smelled like the smoke of the fire,” she said.

“I did the same.”

“Where are your uncles?” she asked, glancing past him toward the silent stairwell. “Did they come home with you? I really ought to go to my room. I should not be here, like this—”

“My uncles are still with the MacDonalds,” he said. “The immediate work was done for now, and some of the men decided that it would be a practical thing to consume the whisky in the damaged kegs. It should not be wasted, I suppose. But I doubt we will see my kinsmen for a while, perhaps
not until morning, judging by the way the lot of them, my uncles and the rest, were being practical about that whisky. I came back…to be sure that all was well here.”

“It has been peaceful here. Thank you once again for offering me shelter for the night.”

He nodded, holding the bowl in one hand. Then he took another spoonful of what Fiona realized was the stew she had made.

“This is excellent,” he said. “Far too good to be Maisie’s work. But she tries, bless the girl, which we do not. I assume you made this? All the more reason to keep you in the glen,” he added. “Cooking is a skill most welcome at Kinloch House, especially since Hamish’s wife Jean left.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She and Hamish go round now and then about his smuggling, and her desire for him to be a legitimate whisky maker.” He grinned. “He is a stodgy sort, but loves the free trading. And she has a temper. She will be back—or so we hope. I thought you would be asleep by now,” he finished.

“I was going to bed, but—oh, I do apologize for the broken glass.” She pointed toward the shards, and pulled the red robe close about her, folding her arms over it, too aware of her improper attire. “I hope the glass is not irreplaceable. I could not find a cloth to clean—”

“Fiona, it is no matter,” he said quietly, and came forward. “Use this,” he said, and gave her a
cloth napkin, which had been supporting the hot bowl he held.

Kneeling, she wiped the carpet with the cloth and picked up the rest of the shards, her hands shaking. His unexpected arrival, as well as his nearness, flustered her. As she hastily gathered the pieces together, one of the sharp glass angles jabbed her finger, slicing the skin in an instant, so that she cried out at the sting of it.

“Damn,” she muttered, the word slipping out before she knew it. “Pardon—it is a habit I learned from my brothers,” she said, then sucked on her finger.

Dougal laughed under his breath, then set his bowl and spoon down and dropped to one knee beside her. Picking up the broken pieces, he set them on the small table, then reached for her hand. He turned her fingers to examine the cut. “That needs a bandage,” he said.

“The bleeding has almost stopped,” she said, and rose to her feet quickly, just when Dougal stood, and her head knocked against his audibly. “Oh,” she gasped, feeling embarrassment more than pain.

“Are you hurt?” Dougal touched her head, brushing his thumb over the sore place, sending shivers through her that erased the ache. His fingers slid downward to cup her cheek, lingered, traced down to brush over her shoulder.

As if entranced, Fiona reached out with her uninjured hand and touched her fingers to the edge
of his forehead, where his head had met hers. His dark hair felt cool and silken rich under her fingertips, still damp from the washing he had done earlier. He smelled so clean, she thought; so warm and inviting, a mingling of a trace of soap and a measure of the masculine scent that was his own. She closed her eyes, sighed, opened them. He watched her.

Then she traced her fingers over his brow and down to the jut of his cheekbone and his jaw, its firm shape roughened by a few days’ beard growth. Yet she did not mind the texture, bristly yet soft, masculine and somehow so intimate, so meaningful, to touch it with freedom, with curiosity. She ran her hand along his bearded cheek, surprised a little by her own boldness—something in her drove her forward, made her want to do this, regardless of propriety, or the differences between them.

He watched her in silence, his eyes greenish and startlingly beautiful in the lamplight, ringed in black lashes beneath black brows. She leaned so close, and he toward her, that she could feel the warmth of his body, and the gentle drift of his breath upon her wrist. He bent close, and she felt herself move toward him in a natural curve.

She had felt his kisses before, heart-thumping and bold, and the possibility of it drew her closer still, logic slipping away—she did not know him, he was more smuggler than he would ever admit to her, she suspected. And she was a guest in his house, and only partially clothed—and yet as the
blood in her veins began to pulse, an urge within her body grew stronger, subtle at first, then powerful. She caught her breath against it, her only resistance.

Closer still, she leaned in toward him as he seemed to incline toward her, his breath soft upon her lips, and then his nose nudging hers—and she tilted her head back, a pulsing desire sinking deep into her body. She forgot the sting of the cut, the aching head, even her keen anguish at seeming clumsy, foolish, vulnerable. She lost awareness of where she was, what little she wore, or that she touched a strange man in an inviting, tender way as her hand lingered along his jaw.

He drew back. “We are forgetting that your cut still needs tending,” he said.

She glanced down. The sliced skin along the side of her index finger still bled. “It is fine,” she said, and sucked on it, but it still seeped. “I could use a bandaging cloth,” she admitted.

Dougal went to a narrow cupboard near the shelf of bottled whiskies and spirits, and drew open a drawer to remove a small folded cloth. “Maisie keeps napkins here, since we have whisky and other spirits in the library for a dram or a drink now and then.” He tore the cloth into strips, returning. “Give me your hand, my girl,” he said.

Fiona opened her hand on his palm, and let him wrap her finger with a narrow strip of cloth. Simple enough, and soon done, but even that touch sent shivers through her. She found herself watch
ing him, wanting more, breathing deeply and tingling throughout.

“I apologize for breaking the glass,” she said, to fill the silence.

“No matter. We are not fussy here, but for Maisie, who stores napkins in odd places all over the house,” he said casually. “We sometimes eat meals in here or in the study, and my uncles like a dram and a meat pie in the parlor or a bedroom as much as the dining room or kitchen. They put their feet on the tables and spill food on the furniture, and I have personally broken more cups than you can imagine.” He smiled.

She laughed. “Thank you for telling me so.”

He finished the small bandage and tucked his hand around her finger, holding it as he glanced at her. “Recovery is certain, I think. What was in the glass?”

“Whisky and honey,” she said.

“Ah, Maisie’s favorite remedy. We are dosed often around here with that. Did it help?”

“Help what?” she asked, staring at him. Were his eyes so green, or was it a trick of the lamplight, and the contrast of his thick black lashes, beautiful enough to envy?

“Did the whisky help your cough?” he clarified.

“I drank only a little, then spilled it. But it seemed to help.”

“The smoke of that fire was very thick. A number of others were overcome and coughing. I should not have let you come with us.”

“But I wanted to be there,” she said.

He nodded, watching her. “If you want a bit more whisky to help the cough, we have more in the bottles here. I do not know Maisie’s recipe, but it should be simple enough—what is that commotion?” He turned as the dogs began barking downstairs. “I had best go see what is bothering them. The spirits are kept over there. Pour a dram for yourself. The Kinloch whisky is just there.” He pointed toward the shelf, and left the room.

Some of the bottles lined up on the shelf, Fiona saw as she went there, bore handwritten labels, strips of paper glued to the bottles.
Brandy
, she read;
MacDonald’s Whisky
, read another;
Port
,
Claret
,
Sherry
, read others. A brown bottle said
Glen Kinloch.
Three silver flasks and two green bottles, all in a row, were labeled
Uisge beatha an Kinloch.

Kinloch whisky in the Gaelic, she thought; that must have been what Maisie gave her, minus honey and hot water. She plucked up the first silver flask, along with a glass from several set there to be used for drams, and poured out a little liquid, sipping it.

The whisky was slightly sweet, delicate, and had a seductive simplicity that was quite unlike any whisky she had ever tasted—its heat spread through her quickly, the smallest sip sinking gently, then creating an unexpected heat all through her. But she felt her tickly throat clear, and her chest felt better, almost expansive, a warm and wonderful sense.

She took another sip, seeking more of that sweetness, which seemed honeylike now, changing with the next sip to spicy, and the next sweet again, in a strange, alluring way. The brew had a wildness to it, a fleeting charm that she just had to taste again. Carrying the glass, she sat in the wing chair while the mellow warmth spread all through her. Her tickling cough seemed to vanish, and the pain in her finger was completely gone as well.

Waiting for Dougal, she picked up her grandmother’s book and skimmed the stories, thinking once more about the assignment that Lady Struan had given her. So far, in Glen Kinloch, she had seen no fairies. Finally she heard sounds on the stairs, and the dogs came inside first, loping gracefully as they came toward her. Dougal followed.