Sarah Gabriel (8 page)

“I would be pleased to do so,” she said. “There is much of the glen I would like to see.”

“Miss MacCarran had an adventure the other night after you left here, Hugh,” the old woman said. “Out walking in the mist, she met Kinloch, who brought her back safe.”

“Kinloch! I am glad you are safe, Miss MacCarran,” the reverend said. “He is an interesting fellow to meet on a dark night.”

“I was never in danger,” she replied. “I am quite accustomed to hill walking.”

“You met Kinloch in these hills at night, and did not think yourself in danger?” He laughed. “We’ve a brave lass for our glen teacher, Grandmother,” he added with a wink.

Fiona thought of Dougal MacGregor, who had not been far from her thoughts the last few days. Of course she knew the smuggler might be dangerous—he had nearly kidnapped her, and had kissed her to distraction before she had even known his name.

“I was collecting rock specimens on a hillside,” Fiona said. “Mr. MacGregor offered to take me back in a cart driven by his kinsmen, and I accepted, for it was foggy and growing dark. They were traveling through the glen.”

“Traveling?” the reverend said, with a glance at his grandmother.

“He introduced himself as the laird of Kinloch, so I felt safe.” That was not entirely true—from the first moment she had sensed a risk unlike any she had ever known—not physical danger, but a threat to heart and soul, stirred by a kiss, a smile, a caress in the dark.

“When the Kinloch MacGregors are out and about in the hills, it is best not to notice them, or to know too much about their business,” Mrs. MacIan said.

“We are not accusing the laird of anything,” the minister said, “but you should be aware that the hills are not quiet at night. There are sometimes revenue officers and smugglers about. This area has some free-trading traffic, like many Highland regions. Nothing to be concerned about, really,” he added.

“Thank you for the warning.” Fiona turned away to stir another scoop of butter into the mashed turnips that she and Mrs. MacIan had prepared for supper. Both Mrs. MacIan and her grandson knew that Patrick was an excise officer at the other end of Loch Katrine. He had introduced himself as such to them when he had escorted Fiona to the glen. And now the MacGregors knew. She had not anticipated it being a problem, but she would be wary. “I will remember your advice in future,” she told Hugh MacIan.

“Good, since you will be staying,” Mrs. MacIan said.

The reverend looked puzzled. “Of course she is
staying. She has agreed to teach at the school until summer.”

“Kinloch sent Hamish with that wreck of a coach to take her back to Auchnashee, where her kinsmen there could put her on a coach for Edinburgh,” Mary said.

“Truly? Miss MacCarran, have you changed your mind?” he asked.

“Not at all. Mr. MacGregor of Kinloch seems to think that a teacher is not needed in the glen just now. We told Mr. Hamish MacGregor that it was just a misunderstanding.”

The reverend frowned. “I shall speak to Kinloch.”

“It is resolved,” Fiona said hastily, as she moved dishes to the table.

“Will you sit for supper with us?” Mary asked her grandson. “There are mashed turnips and mutton stew, very tender. Fiona prepared it herself, and it is quite good.”

He nodded and drew out the chairs for the women. When they were seated, they bowed their heads for the grace that Hugh MacIan murmured in a voice more suited to love poems than biblical sermons. Fiona served the turnips and the stew, and as they ate, she glanced around.

The room was the single room common to many Highland cottages, combining parlor, dining room, and the narrow kitchen space with a hearth wall, a cupboard, and a large wooden table. Two small bedrooms were curtained off along the back of the
house, and a door between those led out to a small garden.

The house was small and modest but the table was nicely set with Mrs. MacIan’s good things—crisp bleached linens, blue-and-white china, and silver pieces. They contrasted with the humble whitewashed and smoke-stained walls, and the old, dark rafter beams overhead, hung with dried herbs. The few pieces of furniture were of very good quality, she had noticed from the beginning—polished woods and velvet cushions—and the windows were draped with beautiful lace curtains in a Belgian pattern. Aware of the smugglers in the area, she wondered just how those things had been acquired.

Hugh smiled at her. “I hope you have cleared your, ah, misunderstanding with the laird, too, for you may see him at the glen school when your class begins.”

“Oh? Is he—will he take the class?” Fiona covered her surprise “You did mention in your original letter to the Edinburgh Ladies’ Society that there could be adult students in the school.”

“There may be, since many in the glen do not have much English.” He chuckled. “But not Dougal MacGregor. You will see him indeed. The schoolhouse is part of the Kinloch estate.”

“Is it? The laird did not say so, when I met him.”

“He keeps a good deal to himself, even something as small as that.”

Fiona nodded, and passed the dish of turnips when the reverend requested more. She was astonished that Dougal MacGregor had said nothing to her of his connections with the glen school. But then, she realized, he had wanted her to leave the glen and abandon her obligation to the school—so he had no reason to tell her.

Later, as she drifted to sleep in the enclosed box bed, which she found quaint and surprisingly comfortable, she remembered again how good Dougal MacGregor’s arms had felt around her—and how her lips had melded to his when he had kissed her under cover of the old plaid in the back of the pony cart.

And she knew why she had not protested. She had never felt anything so stirring and unforgettable, and she had not wanted that moment, or that feeling, to stop.

Best she forget about it and apply herself to what was real, including her responsibility to the school and her students. She had worked for days to prepare lessons. Unable to sleep now because of the path of her thoughts, she punched the pillow and settled back, ready to go over some vocabulary lists in her mind.

If she did see the laird of Kinloch again, as Reverend MacIan had suggested, then caution would be her watchword.

I
n the crystal-clear morning sunshine, Dougal stood in the yard of Kinloch House and looked out over the glen. He felt a sense of anticipation, a keyed nervousness he could not define. Neither the heart-pounding excitement of a smuggling run nor the lusty hunger of lovemaking, whatever it was set his heart thumping, his thoughts racing.

And though he would not readily admit it, he kept glancing across the hills toward the cove by the loch, and the paths leading from it, looking for Fiona MacCarran. She would be heading to Kinloch that morning to begin as the teacher in the glen school.

He could already see people walking through the hills from various directions, approaching the house, set on its hilltop perch in the lee of the pine-covered slopes that formed the bowl sides of the narrow glen. Even from a distance, Dougal recognized them, for they were all his tenants; their families had rented their holdings for generations from the lairds of Kinloch.

Mothers walked carrying their small ones or guiding them along, while the older girls and boys ran ahead; fathers came, too, those who had left their work for a bit. Some of the children ran, leaping runnels and rocks, while their older siblings came after them, no doubt told by their parents to act more sedately and to keep an eye on the younger ones. As they climbed the slopes from the glen floor, they walked past clusters of sheep grazing the slopes; some of the flocks belonged to Kinloch estate and some to the tenants, their flanks marked with blue or red dye.

The wind was cool and the sun bright, and Dougal lifted a hand to his brow. In mid-April, the slopes were greening up, but the heather would not flower for months yet, the evergreen shrubs barely green at the tips; here and there, clumps of gorse bushes showed yellow buds; mingling with the grasses, bluebells and buttery primroses scattered over the slopes and into the glen, soft blurs of color where the grasses grew thick beside the burns that crisscrossed the moorland.

Glen Kinloch was beautiful, he thought, a little wild and more dear to him than he could express—and he would do whatever he must to keep it safe.

“Kinloch!” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the youngest of his uncles, Fergus MacGregor, coming toward him from the direction of the house. The man waved, hunching forward as he walked in that rushing way he had, swinging arms and fists, his powerful torso and legs, thick black
hair and beard reminding Dougal of a black bull, the impression enhanced by the dark leather apron he wore. Dougal waved back and waited, glancing past his uncle toward the house.

Kinloch House was in fact a castle, the old ruined tower house built generations earlier by a Kinloch laird whose cattle-reiving activities were enough to warrant the protection of stout stone walls. After the strife and grief of Culloden had torn Scotland asunder in the middle of the last century, when like so many the MacGregors of Kinloch lost men and fortunes, too, the house had fallen into ill repair, with scant funds to keep its mortared stones together. Two generations later, Kinloch and its tenants had recovered somewhat, being strong Highland stock; Dougal was determined that they would withstand whatever else swept over them, and flourish again.

The latest, and worst, threat to visit the glen was the infiltration of Lowlanders and English who came with wealth and spare time, buying up Scottish land for sheep runs or hunting and holidaying. Against that, Dougal would do whatever he could to protect his glen and its people.

He would never sell the fairy brew; yet if it could be sold for what it was worth, it would save all of them from the brink of this dilemma. The stored cache of good Glen Kinloch whisky would do instead. Aged to a rare degree, it would fetch a good price.

The track of his thoughts changed when he saw
Fiona MacCarran. The memory of kissing her came so quickly that his heart seemed to leap in its place, as if he were a hopeful boy rather than a man, one who had more than enough on his mind already. He had no place for a woman in his life just now—especially the sister of a gauger who could take him and his kinsmen down.

She carried a bound packet of some sort, he saw, clutched against her, one arm across her chest to hold it, probably books or papers for her school session. Sunlight gleamed over her dark hair, which the wind spilled loose from under a plain straw bonnet. Her gown, a deep shade of blue, accentuated her slim shape, and she wore a simple plaid shawl over her shoulders. Oddly and suddenly, it came to him that the blue of her gown would match her eyes.

He frowned, for normally he was not so observant. And it did not serve him now.

Whatever had moved him to kiss her that night, he could not say now. He had apologized for it, and would not apologize again. The night and the mist and the girl’s tender beauty had taken him over like a fool, and perhaps the romance of the moment had taken her, too. If he had it to do again he would have tasted that temptation once more, but he did not think she would return it.

Walking beside her was Hugh MacIan, the kirk minister. Miss MacCarran looked trim and small beside the reverend, who had the muscular build of a Highland warrior of ages past, though in his
somber black suit he looked like a city man. But MacIan was a clever smuggler; Dougal smiled, wondering what the Lowland teacher would think if she knew it.

He saw her smile up at Hugh as they talked. Dougal frowned; he knew that bright smile, knew the feel of that trim waist under his hands, the scent of that delicate, pale skin. He knew she would smell like lavender and fog, and he could imagine the taste of her lips beneath his, sweet and warm. Suddenly he wondered if she would find the handsome, educated kirk minister more appealing than a Highland laird who had forgone the university in favor of smuggling and illicit distilling.

Then he scowled, and reminded himself that it did not matter. She would soon be gone. Even so, when Hugh took her arm to guide her around some boulders on the hill, Dougal felt a frisson of jealousy roll through him.

“Kinloch!” Fergus joined him. “The lass is ready.”

“What lass?” Dougal was startled out of his thoughts.

“Lucy! She’s ready at last, and not glad about it.”

Glancing toward the house, Dougal saw a boy and a girl standing on the step. His heart gave a tug to see the smaller of the two, his dark-haired niece Lucy—who was in a stormy humor, her hands fisted at her sides.

“The lass does not want to go to school, but Jamie does,” Fergus said. Jamie was Fergus’s
grandchild, the son of his daughter, who had wed a Kinloch shepherd. Tall for his age, with blazing red hair that contrasted with his placid nature, young Jamie put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. She shrugged it off.

“Lucy has decided that smugglers do not go to school,” Fergus went on.

Dougal sighed. “And she intends to be one. I sometimes wonder if it is wrong to raise my sister’s daughter among kinsmen who think nothing of breaking the laws when it comes to whisky smuggling. Kinloch House is not the place for a wee lass to grow up.”

“Oh, it is, for she is treasured among us, and though we be thieves and smugglers sometimes, we are good men for all that,” Fergus said. “She’s indulged, to be sure, and we can all be more stern with her. But she is blessed with charm, that lass, and she knows it. Still, you and Ellen were reared at Kinloch House by your father and then your uncles and aunts, smugglers all, and you two did well enough,” Fergus pointed out. “Jean has been a help, and that was good for Lucy. Until she left,” he muttered.

“Aye, now that Aunt Jean has gone, I find it not so easy to raise a girl-child.”

“Och, Jean has left Hamish before,” Fergus said, “and not for long. She will be back.”

Dougal watched as Lucy pushed Jamie off the step. “That lad has the patience of a saint,” he said, as Jamie climbed back up and gallantly refrained from pushing back.

“She’s a spirited wee creature, lovely as her mother was, but with more courage than Ellen ever had, bless her soul,” Fergus said. “When Lucy is a young woman, you will see lads at your door, and hell to pay.”

Now Dougal saw Jamie take Lucy’s hand, but the girl jerked free and stomped away. “She will be lucky to have anyone knocking at the door for her, least of all Jamie when he’s grown.”

“The teacher and minister are nearly here. Lucy and Jamie should join the rest at the school. Jamie! Go on!” Fergus called, gesturing.

Dougal noticed the schoolyard filling with a small crowd. Not far from the tower house, the school was a low, rectangular whitewashed building surrounded by an earthen yard and tucked between grassy hillocks chewed neat by sheep and goats. A few students and some glen families, too, had crossed the hills to gather there; those without students had come out of curiosity to see Glen Kinloch’s newest teacher. Dougal was more than curious himself, considering he had not seen Fiona MacCarran since he had sent Hamish to offer to drive her back to Auchnashee.

“She will be a fine teacher for the bairns,” Fergus said. “We need her here. She’s a bonny wee thing. Not like the old one they sent from Edinburgh last time.”

“She’s a dangerous wee thing,” Dougal remarked. “Remember the brother.”

“Aye,” Fergus agreed. “True, it is not the best time for her to come to our glen.” He looked at
Dougal. “I saw Rob MacIan last evening at the tavern. He said Lord Eldin approached him not long ago—he came to the lower end of the glen with the lady’s brother—and he told Rob that he’s interested in purchasing the very best Highland whisky for his new hotel at Auchnashee. He is willing to pay handsomely, and he let it be known that he does not care if it is illicit.”

“Excellent. I hope Rob told him that Glen Kinloch whisky is the best in the Highlands.”

“In the whole of Scotland,” Fergus said. “Rob declared that he had tasted all of it, from Moray to the Isles, and knew for sure.”

“He may be telling the truth,” Dougal drawled. “Since he spoke with Eldin, ask him to send discreet word to Auchnashee that there may be some casks available.” He named a sum.

“A lord like that one would pay more. And pay a higher price for Highland fairy brew, I suspect, if he knew we had some put away. At Auchnashee, he may hear word of it.”

“You know my answer to that,” Dougal muttered. “We will get a good price for the usual Glen Kinloch brew once we move it down the loch. Even selling to the buyers I have contacted, we will have some left to sell to Eldin if he wants.”

By now Lucy and Jamie were walking across the yard, but the small girl turned toward Dougal, her expression determined. He waved briskly to send her onward. She frowned, and went reluctantly with Jamie.

Fergus laughed. “Lucy thinks smugglers need not learn letters and maths, but should devote their time to distilling whisky and moving kegs through the hills. Reminds me of a lad I knew once,” he added, smiling as he glanced at Dougal.

“She is seven years old. Her time should be devoted to her chores, her studies, and running through the hills to play. I’ve told her that free traders need an education like anyone else.”

“She could be a free trader, and a good one—no harm in that when she’s older.”

“She will get an education,” Dougal said with determination. “I will see to it.”

“Now you sound like your father.”

“Good. I never fulfilled my father’s plans for me, but I will see to it for my sister’s child.”

“Well, thanks to your father, you had a fine education here at the glen school, along with the year and a half in the city before you left. We could not force you back there—”

“Nor afford it,” Dougal answered wryly.

“Aye, but I hope someday you will still return to Glasgow and the university.”

Dougal shook his head. “I am needed here. For now, the glen school session can wait until we find another dominie—one who is not related to a customs officer.” Dougal watched as Fiona climbed the hillside with the reverend.

“And one who will not distract the laird,” Fergus murmured in a wry tone.

“Aye,” Dougal said without quite listening. He
was watching Hugh MacIan gesture widely to show Fiona the scope of the glen. As Fiona turned, she seemed to look at Dougal across the breadth of the hill. He felt the tug of that gaze. When she set her hand on her upper chest as if she took a deep breath, he wondered if her heart beat faster, as his did.

“Hamish thinks we should scare her off,” Fergus said.

“We will not,” Dougal said sternly.

“The last society teacher who came here thought we were just a lot of Highland savages. She left quick enough, could not bear us. This one, though—she has a bonny, bold air to her. I told Hamish she will not be frightened of what goes on here.”

“I believe you are right.”

“But she might meet some dangerous men here, the worst rogue Highlanders in these hills, and think better of being here,” Fergus said. “I could send Arthur and Mungo to visit her—”

“I would not trust those two near her.” Why the devil had he put it that way?

Fergus shrugged. “Then let her teach here, and we will behave like angels, so that she has no tales to carry to her brother.”

“We could do that, I suppose, though it would be easier to send her off,” Dougal said. “For now, I’d best go welcome her myself, as the laird.”

“Aye. Och, I nearly forgot. The school roof will need some work.”

“Again? We repaired it last fall, when it leaked after the rains.”

“And we’ll work on it again, and again after that,” Fergus said. “The structure is old.”

“We do need new thatch and new beams,” Dougal said.

“We need a new building,” Fergus grumbled.

Dougal did not answer. He was distracted again, watching as the girl reached the top of the hill and crossed the long rolling hillocks leading toward Kinloch House and the glen school. She and Hugh were still a good distance away. “I’ll go meet them,” Dougal said again. “Let the others into the school, if you will.”

Fergus nodded. “She is a bonny thing,” he said, gazing where Dougal did. “And we have a few days until the cargo must be moved. Let her enjoy some time in our pretty glen before we decide what to do about her.”

“Not too much time,” Dougal muttered.