Authors: Highland Groom
“We are walking through a stream,” Lucy said. “It is so deep that my skirts are wet.”
“When we are out, I will come back to mine this gold,” Jamie said. “It is inside these walls, isn’t that so, Miss Fiona?”
“Aye, very good,” she answered. “Gold indeed,
and the stream rushes right through the channel, adding the flavor of the gold to the water.” Realizing what that meant, she gasped.
“That would make excellent whisky,” Lucy said, echoing her thoughts. “I will tell Uncle Dougal. He will want to know.”
“I think he may already know,” Fiona said, and smiled so widely that she nearly laughed. “Look where this leads!” Ahead, the water rushed and pooled, propelled upward toward the opening.
“Water does not flow upward,” Jamie said. “How can it be?”
“It is an artesian well,” Fiona said. “It bubbles up from below, and bursts forth like a fountain. This one comes up away from the loch, and through the hill, and out on the hillside in a well. I think that is what we will find. Come ahead, and watch your step.”
Through the opening, she saw a bright sunset sky in glorious colors—purple and red below wide streaks of amber cloud—and the exit, edged with thick grass. Climbing through the tight opening, where the water rushed out, took an effort that soon had each of them soaked. For a moment Fiona thought it was a little like being birthed into a new life, a new place. Into Glen Kinloch, where she would always stay.
Stepping out, she reached down to help the children out, one by one. “Come up to me,” she said, and they did, and then all fell to the ground, exhausted, wet, and laughing a little.
“Look,” Lucy said. “Oh, look! Bluebells!”
Fiona looked around, and saw them—thousands of them, covering the ground like a haze of purple-blue, the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.
“This water will make a fine whisky, between the gold and the bluebells,” Lucy said, sounding so much like her uncle that Fiona smiled.
“Very fine,” Fiona agreed, brushing off her skirts. “The perfect fairy brew, I suspect,” she added, while the three young ones stared at her in astonishment.
This little glade and spring had to be the place, she thought, looking around, where Dougal and his father before him had collected water for the fairy whisky. He had never told her the whole of it, not yet—but she cherished his hint that he would tell her, and their children, someday.
She gathered the children near and looked around for the way out of the glade. Then she heard a rumble beneath their feet, a sound like deep thunder. The well burst forth, soaking them as it rose upward, past the rim of the well.
“Dougal,” she cried. “Patrick—the others—they are still in the caves!”
Turning, she began to run down the hillside with the children behind her.
Dougal and the others ran from the cave at last, having gone back to drag Eldin free of the rubble—he was hurt, but not badly, and limped with them, silent and as stunned as they were. Stepping
out into the sunset light, coated with dust from the limestone, they hurried around the narrow loch side pathway as the rumbling continued underground.
“Fiona,” Patrick said, running alongside Dougal. “And the children—trapped!”
“I think they made it through,” Dougal said. Fiona is a brilliant girl, she found the old water channel back there. I had forgotten it. She got the children out safely.”
“What if the walls collapsed on them?” Hugh asked, catching up to them, still giving Eldin a hand as the earl limped beside him. “We will have to get help and go back—”
“I think I know where they are,” Dougal said.
“The whisky—” Eldin said. “All that whisky—gone, too, if the walls fell.”
“Not gone,” Hugh said, breathless. “The collapse was in the back of the caves—not where the kegs are stored. We may be able to go back and dig it out. Most of the kegs should be fine. It is Fiona and the children we should be concerned about.”
“Fiona is fine. I know it,” Eldin said. “I feel it when she is not safe.”
Dougal turned to look at him, then met Patrick’s grim gaze in silence.
“Where is the fairy brew?” Eldin asked.
“Kept elsewhere, not here,” Dougal answered. “And I will never sell it. Patrick—keep pace with them. I will find Fiona and the children—I think I know where they went.”
He hurried ahead through a gap between two
hills and headed upward, while the other men fell far behind. As he climbed a hill, though he was deeply weary, after the day of football and the events in the cave, he found strength to keep going. He could not rest until he knew Fiona was safe, and that Lucy and the others were safe with her. Behind him, at one point, he heard shouts and turned to look down the slopes. Men on horseback rode across the glen, waving Patrick and the others to a halt. Recognizing Tam MacIntyre with other gaugers, he knew then that the law officers had caught up with Eldin, and he felt sure, pausing there for a moment, that Patrick would know just what to say. He hoped that Hugh MacIan would not be implicated—the reverend was not a bad man, only grievously misled by Eldin. Turning away, he felt sure that he could trust Patrick MacCarran to handle it properly. One day Patrick might well be his brother-in-law.
Fiona had to be safe and unharmed, he thought, growing desperate, frantic. A burst of strength came over him and he climbed onward, breathing hard, coated with dust, running upward as if he had not played to exhaustion at the ba’ or clambered from a cave. He ran as if his life, and the lives of those he loved, depended on his effort now.
But still he did not see them. If the tunnel had indeed collapsed—he could not bear the thought, and ran onward. “Fiona!” he called out in sudden panic.
Then, breathing hard as he paused to look around, he saw her just along the rim of the up
permost hill. She was holding hands with Lucy and Jamie, while Annabel walked beside them. The golden red sunset poured down over them, and Dougal noticed then that Fiona and the children all looked wet and exhausted. Lucy clutched bluebells in her hands.
Bluebells. He laughed outright as he ran toward them. So the tunnel had led safely to the hidden spring, just as he had hoped. And Fiona, recognizing the geological structure of the place, had taken the children that way. The fairies, he was sure, had watched over them.
As Fiona came closer, he reached out and grabbed her, lifted her up and spun her about. Her arms encircled his neck, and her laughter was sweet in his ears, her cheek soft against his.
Setting her down, he kissed her, tasting heaven upon her lips in that slow, soft, endless kiss. She opened her lips under his, telling him that her feelings matched his own, relief and deep love, warm and washing over him. He held her close, wrapped his arms around her, moved his lips over hers, and felt his very soul ripple and awaken fully, keen to be with her.
“Oh, my dearest girl,” he murmured against her mouth, her cheek, her damp hair. “I am indeed a rich man.”
“Very rich, Uncle Dougal,” Lucy said. He pulled back and looked down, reaching out to touch the child’s head, pulling her close, while he smiled at the others, too. Lucy held up the bluebells. “We
found these for the whisky. And there’s gold, too,” she said.
“Gold?” He frowned a little, looking around, seeing them nod all at once.
“We saw it,” Jamie said. “Lots of it!”
Fiona pulled Dougal close, reaching up to rest her hand against her cheek. “And even if that gold stays there forever,” she whispered, “we are so fortunate, so blessed and wealthy. We need nothing else to make it so.”
“Nothing?” He smiled. “Oh, there are always needs, my love.” He dipped his head to kiss her again. “Needs, and dreams, and desires.”
“Obligations, too,” she said, and gave him that bright and luminous smile that he had once coveted, that beautiful smile meant for him, now.
“Ah, those as well,” he murmured, bending close again. “And they will be easily, and happily, fulfilled.”
F
iona read another rhyme aloud for her students, and paused to listen to them recite it back to her—Gaelic to English, and English to Gaelic—and then she glanced at the door, hearing a commotion outside. Lessons had begun but half an hour ago, and it was early yet, though she had thrown open a window to the cool spring air. Hearing the rumble of voices outside, she excused herself and went to the door to open it.
Several people stood out in the yard, men and women, some older children and adolescents. She recognized Neill MacDonald and his father, along with Helen MacDonald, Annabel’s mother, and several others whose names she did not know.
“Good morning,” she said, heart thumping anxiously, having no idea why they had gathered outside the schoolhouse. She wondered, with a sudden ache, if they had come to send her away, for her time in the glen was nearly up, her teaching contract done. “What can I do for you?”
She saw Mary MacIan now, walking through
the little crowd. Mary had been saddened and disappointed to learn of Hugh’s involvement in what had happened in the caves, and she had blistered him with her opinion. Hugh had apologized to her, and to Dougal and Fiona, and had kept to his side of the glen—but few knew the real details of that ordeal. Dougal had seemed inclined to forgive his cousin, at least eventually, and had not told his uncles the whole truth of it. But they had guessed what Hugh had wanted, once they learned of Eldin’s wishes that day.
Fiona caught her breath as Dougal appeared just behind Mary. Her heart bounded a little to see him there. For an instant, he was the only one she saw in that group, her gaze intent on his, questioning, pleading.
She did not want to leave the glen, if that was why they had all gathered here. Perhaps word had gone out about what had happened that day—perhaps they had all decided she must go, that her cousin Lord Eldin was a terrible man who would bring not only ruin but tourism to the glen. But he had sailed for the Continent, so Patrick had sent word, and likely would not return for a long time.
A few days had passed since the ba’ game, and Fiona had resumed teaching, guiding her students through their lessons, and comforting their fears over some of the events that had happened in the glen. Everyone had heard about the collapse of the caves under the loch, a natural phenomenon that she explained away with a few geological terms.
The few who had had been present kept the rest of it a strict secret, including the children, who were pleased to be entrusted with knowledge of the hidden caches of whisky as well as gold.
Dougal had been busy rescuing whisky kegs from the collapsed cave, selling some to the promised merchants by night, when the cutters came, as he had agreed. The rest he had sold to Eldin for an exorbitant amount. Before he left for his holiday abroad, her cousin, keenly aware of the value of his reputation as an earl and peer, had realized that it would be best if no one ever knew about his disgraceful behavior in the caves under Loch Katrine.
He was trying, Fiona thought; Nick was trying to make amends, though she would never trust him. He was like an untamed raptor, she knew, a powerful hawk or raven that could be cooperative, though its loyalty would never be certain.
Now she looked at the group gathered before her. Dougal glanced away as the woman who stood beside him murmured something. He leaned down to listen. Fiona did not recognize the woman, who was handsome and sturdy, with thick brown hair under the drape of her plaid. When the woman turned to look at Hamish standing beside her, and when Hamish took her hand in both of his, Fiona realized then that Jean MacGregor had come back to her husband.
And suddenly she wanted very much to stay in Glen Kinloch, so that she could come to know Jean, whose warm, laughing glance made her feel welcome—all their smiling faces did. And yet she
frowned, nervous, twisting her hands behind her. Her teaching contract was over, but Dougal had not yet told her completely what was in his heart, and though she hoped…she did not know for certain.
“Fiona MacCarran,” Mary said then, addressing her in Gaelic, as was so often the case. “These people would like a word with you.”
She nodded and looked again at Dougal, who now watched her with a calm expression that revealed none of his thoughts. Behind her, the students had left their seats to come to the door, too. “Aye, what is it?” she asked.
“We would like to know if you will teach us,” Mary said.
Fiona blinked. “Teach you?” she repeated in surprise.
“We want to learn to read English,” Mary said. “Some of us should learn to sign our names, and some of us need more words in English. And a couple of these rascals ought to be able to read their own arrest warrants.” A ripple of laughter followed. “And so we want to join your class.”
Stunned, Fiona glanced at Dougal, who nodded slowly, silently.
“I would love to teach you,” she answered, and several of the people nodded. “But the schoolhouse is nearly full now, with twelve scholars. The roof leaks, and the wall is damaged. It needs replacing soon or it may fall upon our heads. And I…my teaching arrangement will end soon. According to
that, I need no longer stay in the glen,” she added, glancing again at Dougal.
He tilted his head, watching her, and said nothing. She could not read his expression.
“You could stay,” Mary MacIan said. “Teach here at the school as long as you like.”
Fiona fastened her gaze to Dougal’s own. “I would like that.”
He nodded slowly. “What else would you like, Miss MacCarran?”
“You know very well,” she said then, crisply and quickly, unable to hold back. Mary MacIan laughed, as did Jean and Hamish, and some of the others. Dougal’s lips twitched.
“You could stay,” he said. “And teach us…what we most need to learn.”
“What is it you would like to learn, Dougal MacGregor?” Fiona asked. Her heart bounded.
He smiled then, widely. More people turned to stare at him, then at her. “I think you know, Miss MacCarran.”
“Will you be joining the class, too, Kinloch?” Thomas MacDonald asked.
“I might. I will need to read some of those warrants,” Dougal drawled, amid laughter.
“He can read those well enough, he has done it before,” Thomas said, and turned toward Fiona. “Miss, we can help rebuild the school, if that will convince you.”
“That would be very nice.” Fiona could not speak for the quick tightening in her throat.
Dougal walked forward then through the throng. “You could marry the laird,” he said quietly, “and stay forever.”
She caught her breath, and watched him come closer. Though she heard gasps and saw smiles in the crowd, she held Dougal’s intent gaze. “I could,” she said then. “I could marry the laird, if he will have me.”
“Will he meet the approval of your kin, and your lawyers?” he asked quietly.
“That does not matter,” she murmured, and held out her hands. “I will tell them that I will marry a rogue, regardless of his fortune. Unless it matters to the laird himself—”
“Not at all,” he replied, and laughed, deep and mellow. He was close then, and stepped through the crowd, lifting her off the step and to the ground, taking her into his arms.
When he kissed her, she heard cheers and laughter all around—and then only the strong, steady thump of his heart against hers, and the pulse of her blood, gone to wildness, within her.
“Fiona,” he murmured in her ear, and kissed her again. “Tell those lawyers of yours that we shall marry soon, and invite your brothers and your kinfolk to our glen. We shall have a wedding to rival any your family could give you in the Lowlands.”
She pulled back, looking up at him. “Why so quickly? There is no need for haste. Well,” she said, blushing, “not that I know about, yet.”
He rested his brow against hers. “It is nearly time
to go up into the hills,” he murmured, so that only she could hear, “to the place where the bluebells grow. I want to take you there as my wife. I have a story to tell you—the whole of the legend of Glen Kinloch.”
She drew back to look at him. “I thought the tradition was for fathers to tell their sons.”
“I am changing the tradition,” he said. “We will improve upon it, you and I. The Fey will be glad of it. They love you, as I do.”
Fiona slipped closer into his embrace, her lips upon his cheek, her whisper in his ear. “I want to know more about it—and I promise to keep the secret all my life.”
“I will see that you do,” he whispered. “Every day of it.”
Behind her, Fiona felt a pull at her skirts. She turned and saw Lucy, her small face flushed and her smile wide. “You could have bluebells for your wedding bouquet,” she said.
“What a lovely idea,” Fiona said. “I hope you will carry them for me.” Laughing, she gathered the little girl close, and Dougal rested a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. The child wrapped her arms around both of them as best she could—and then Fiona smiled again, for Lucy reached out impulsively to snatch Jamie by the arm and drag him into the shared embrace.
Dougal chuckled in her ear. “She does torment the lad.”
“Someday,” Fiona said, “that will surely change.”