Sarah Gabriel (12 page)

“A Dhia
,” he murmured against her lips. “What is it you do to me? We neither of us need this now. You do not need a rogue in your life, and I—”

“What if I do?” She pressed close to him, splayed her hands on his chest. “What if I do need this—want this?” Her own questions surprised her, shook her very spirit. What these men did was wrong, yet she craved to be with him. How could that be right?

He stepped back, his fingers sliding away from her face. “Go,” he whispered. Then he turned.

Heart tumbling, she watched him return to the group. The strong rhythm of his stride seemed so familiar, and her body ached suddenly, strangely after that compelling, unexpected encounter. The men and horses walked onward, the quiet sounds of their passing eerie, as the wind stirred through the night. They reached the road and turned along it.

Gasping out, Fiona ran then, regardless of the uneven terrain, stumbling a couple of times before reaching the road. Maggie ran toward her, and Fiona reached for the dog’s collar to lash the rope to it. “Come here. Good girl,” she murmured.

Then a low whistle sounded, and the dog whirled and ran after the smugglers. Fiona realized that the dog had not been defending territory, but greeting friends familiar to her, men she often met out on the hills and moors at night—one of them, at least, known at Mary MacIan’s house.

Looking toward the lanterns that flashed like yellow stars, Fiona sensed her own choice. She could cross the road and return to the house and safety—or turn and follow Dougal—and follow the urge so powerful that it took breath and logic full away.

Her life was dull and limited, she saw then, even given her Highland travels; she longed for adventure, for a bold spark of passion in her life; she longed for love again, something wilder than the tame love she had known. And what she felt with Dougal hinted at something more powerful than she might ever have imagined for herself, if only she could find the courage to move in that direction.

Yet smuggling was wrong, was criminal, no matter how he might explain it away. Her own brother was part of the law effort against such men. And she was only a dreamer, she told herself. There could be nothing permanent, nothing right in this—Dougal himself agreed, for he had told her to go home, to lock the door and keep safe.

Yet his lips had said something altogether different; his kiss had been tempting and hopeful. And she did not know what to do, what was right. Adventure was one thing, folly another.

While she stood in the road, the clouds dispersed once again, and in the blue glow of moonlight, she saw the flare of more lanterns, and saw two men on horseback appear along the road, not far from where the larger group walked. Shouts sounded in the distance. Without thinking, she hastened toward them, to see what was happening.

“Customs and excise!” a man bellowed. “Stop there!”

Fiona recognized the voice as belonging to Tam MacIntyre, one of the men who had stopped Ranald MacGregor’s cart the first night she had met Dougal. Hearing the dog bark, Fiona saw Maggie dashing back toward her as if frightened, whimpering a little.

Lashing the rope to the dog’s collar, Fiona patted her. “Good girl,” she murmured.

Knowing she should go, Fiona lingered in the darkness, holding the dog’s leash, keeping to the side of the road. She could see a little way down the
road. The dog began a low rumbling growl in her throat. “Hush,” Fiona said. “Stay.”

“Dougal MacGregor,” Tam said, and the sound carried toward where Fiona stood unseen in the darkness. “I am not surprised to find you and your men out here tonight.”

“Ah, Tam,” Dougal said, confirming her suspicion. “And who is with you?”

“A deputy. What is in those baskets, Kinloch? MacCarran, take a look in those panniers.”

MacCarran.
Oh God, Fiona thought; her brother was with them. Her hand tightened on the dog’s leash, and she crouched beside Maggie, petting her, listening, trembling.

Dougal crossed his arms and surveyed the gaugers who had so suddenly appeared in the road. “Smuggling? You are mistaken,” he said calmly.

“What else would bring the lot of you out here tonight, with packhorses?”

“Allow me to ask what you are doing here in Glen Kinloch, on my land? It is out of your jurisdiction,” Dougal countered.

“The stink of peat reek whisky from Highland stills, carried in the panniers of those horses, brought us here,” Tam said. “That, and the fact that there is no customs and excise man here—the one who had this northern post died a while back. Curious, that.”

Fergus stepped forward. “That excise man died in his bed a few months back, and well you know
it. He was not fit for chasing about these hills. He was bred in the south, and too old.”

“Even so,” Tam said, “here we all are, and I would bet you lot are carrying illicit peat reek.”

“Call it the best of the Highland brews, as it deserves,” Dougal said. “Though I doubt you can prove it is illegal. Good night.” He took the reins of his horse and began to walk away—heart pounding at the chance he took. Every basket carried by the dozen horses with them that night was filled with whisky in bottles and kegs, from his own stills and those of others. But it was true that no gauger could easily distinguish the whisky of different stills.

Fergus fell into step beside him. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Taking a righteous path,” Dougal muttered. “Something I learned from the reverend.”

“Ah. We’re insulted, and we’ve the legal amount?”

“Something like that,” Dougal murmured. He glanced back to see the rest of his comrades falling into place behind him, walking down the road, while the gaugers sat their horses in the middle of the road. “Where did that devil come from tonight? How did he learn about this run?”

Fergus shrugged in silent answer.

“Kinloch!” Tam called. The sound of a cocking pistol cracked in the silence.

Dougal turned, lifting his hand to the gun hidden beneath the swag of plaid draped over his shoulder. “Mr. MacIntyre, still disturbing the peace of my quiet glen?” he asked mildly.

“Bold lad,” Tam growled. He and his deputy urged their horses forward. “So you’re moving peat reek down to meet a ship on the loch,” Tam said. “One was spied out there earlier.”

“Was it? For all you know, we might be moving whisky that was produced in lawful amounts, taking it from one household to another.”

“Innocent, hey? I am not likely to believe that.”

“As it happens, we do not have illicit whisky with us, nor any spirits. We are carrying barley that has been kept over the winter, taking it to some households in the glen that are sorely in need of extra stores.”

“Lawful amounts of whisky, and barley to feed the poor?” Tam spat. “MacCarran, check those panniers. Do it quick.”

The man riding beside Tam got down from his horse and came forward. He glanced at Dougal and nodded curtly. “Mr. MacGregor,” he murmured.

“Mr. MacCarran,” Dougal replied. Fiona’s brother was a tall, fine-looking young man, Dougal saw, with dark hair and a face whose features, resembling his sister’s, seemed oddly familiar.

“Sir, if I may,” MacCarran said, and reached toward the horse.

Dougal stepped back to allow MacCarran to look inside the baskets. The young man’s expression did not alter as he shifted aside small sacks of barley, used for packing to stifle the clink of glass bottles as the cargo was moved.

Dougal leaned forward. “Patrick MacCarran? Good to meet you, sir.”

Patrick looked up, startled. “Have we met?” he murmured.

“Your sister is teaching in the school here,” Dougal said. “Teaching my niece, and the others.”

The young man frowned. “We have no need to discuss my sister, sir.”

“We do not, nor should we,” Dougal agreed. “Let me only say that she is well thought of here.”

Patrick’s hand stilled on the barley sacks, his fingers inches from the bottles. “Say what you mean to say,” he growled, low.

“MacCarran! Hurry up there!” Tam shouted.

“Take your sister away from here,” Dougal said quickly. “There is too much risk for her, and for you, in this glen.”

“I should keep her away from rogues like you,” Patrick said.

“I will keep the rogues away from her, including myself. Just get her gone from here. She is as stubborn a girl as I have ever met. Insists on staying, no matter what I—” He stopped.

Patrick tilted his head. “Aye, sir, that is my sister,” he whispered.

“Does MacIntyre know she is here?”

“I do not discuss family business with him.”

“See that he keeps ignorant of it. Do not trust the man in anything.”

“Why should I trust you?” Patrick asked, low.

“Trust me or not, as you like. Just get Fiona out of here. It is not safe for her.”

Patrick’s frown deepened. “Best if we all part ways peaceably this evening, I think.”

“Just so,” Dougal murmured. “You will not regret that decision.”

Without a word, Patrick MacCarran moved to the next horse, and the next, checking each basket. When he was done, he went back to Fergus’s pony, opened the panniers and lifted the contents, and carried that back toward his waiting comrade.

“What have you found?” Tam said.

“Only a few bottles,” Patrick said. “The panniers are all carrying barley sacks.”

Fergus, standing with Dougal, huffed quietly. “Smart lad,” he muttered.

Tam laughed. “Transporting barley is no crime, though they will just make more whisky from it. What about the bottles?”

“Most of them are like this one, sir,” Patrick said. He stretched up an arm and gave the bottle to Tam, who took it, opened it, sniffed it, and upended it.

“Bah, empty!”

“Mr. MacIntyre, my guess is that these men are transporting barley for their own use, and as you say, that is no crime. As for the whisky they’re carrying—most of it is in their bellies already. I would guess they’re fou, most of them. Drunk as can be.”

“Fou,” Tam growled, and looked at Dougal. “You devil, Kinloch.”

Dougal grinned, crossing his arms. Fergus did his best to wobble just then, grabbing hold of his horse’s bridle. Another one of the men—Thomas MacDonald’s eldest son, Neill, Dougal noticed—leaned over and pretended to retch.

“I will check those damn panniers myself,” Tam said, and began to dismount.

“I wish you would take my word for it, sir,” Patrick said. “It would look better on the report for both you and me. I always do my utmost, sir.”

“So far,” Tam said in a snide tone. “But you’re an idiot if you think those sneakbaits are not transporting peat reek tonight.”

“Here, I also took this,” Patrick said, and handed Tam what more he held—two full bottles of Glen Kinloch’s finest, Dougal noticed. “I thought you might find a use for it.”

“Ha, I will,” Tam said. “But I had better take a look myself—what the devil!” he said, looking past the group and down the road. Patrick turned, and his mouth dropped open.

Dougal turned, too, and swore.

A woman walked toward them along the road, leading a dog on a rope. A dark plaid draped over her head covered most of her, but for her skirt hiked high, and bare feet. The dog trotted obediently beside her as she neared the men clustered on the road. She kept her head down.

Though the woman looked like a Highland Gael, Dougal recognized Fiona immediately, along with Maggie; the dog had followed the men through the
hills, for she loved the sport of smuggling runs. And Fiona, he saw, had not gone home as he had advised her. He stepped forward, but Fergus put up a hand to stop him.

Patrick MacCarran walked toward her, speaking quietly to her for a moment. She shook her head and passed by him, and moments later approached Dougal, while the dog trotted beside her.

“Ah, Kinloch, is it you?” she asked in Gaelic.

“You know damn well it is,” he growled in that language. Maggie looked up hopefully for the petting he would not give her just then. “What are you doing here?”

“Speak in English, then?” She smiled as if he had actually asked that of her. “I will try. Are you bringing the barley you promised us for our soup?”

“We are,” he said, scowling furiously at her.

“Tapadh leat
,” she said. “Thank you. My grandmother will be pleased,” she continued in Gaelic. “
Oidhche mhath
, good night, sirs.” She walked toward Tam MacIntyre, the dog pulling on the leash, beginning to growl.

Dougal, watching, felt as if his heart had leaped into his throat.

“Good evening, sir,” she told Tam. “A thousand wishes for your long health and happy life.” And she smiled radiantly at the excise man, Dougal noticed. She had never yet smiled at him that way, luminous and innocent, and he felt the pang of that—and alarm for the risk she was taking. Once
again he stepped forward, but Fergus blocked him firmly with an outthrust elbow.

Then Fiona turned to her brother as if she had never seen him before, bid him good night as well, and walked past all of them down the road, pulling the dog with her.

Tam’s horse sidestepped, and MacIntyre tightened the reins. He snapped something to MacCarran, who walked toward Dougal.

“Tam says he has no time for this nonsense with you lot,” MacCarran said.

“Ah,” Dougal remarked. “What did your sister say to you?” he asked, quick and low.

“She asked what I found in the baskets and I told her barley and some whisky. Then she told me to make sure you lot were safe—and for me to leave her be, as she has no intention of leaving the glen anytime soon.” Patrick looked hard at him. “MacGregor, keep a care for my sister,” he said, “and watch your own activities in this glen, or I swear your life is forfeit.”

Dougal returned his gaze evenly. “I will keep a care for her,” he said. “Do not doubt it.”

“You, sir—take the barley stores to the young miss and her grandmother,” Patrick said loudly, for Tam’s benefit, Dougal guessed. “See to it quick, and go back to your homes.”

He turned and went back to his horse, mounting again, while Tam snapped that he was taking too damn long. Then Tam McIntyre looked toward Dougal, and pointed.

“We will not see you out in these hills again, MacGregor, by moonlight or darkness, is that clear? Next time I will bring more men. Be sure of it.”