Sarah Gabriel (15 page)

“Did you?” she asked. “Enjoy…the other night?”

“Watching you stroll between gaugers and smugglers?” he hissed. “I did not.”

“Not that!” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Besides, my brother would never have arrested you.”

“He would not have had a choice, if Tam had ordered it done, or had done it himself. There would have been a skirmish, and you in the middle. I did not enjoy that,” he said, low and urgent.

“What of the…other, the—” She stopped glancing away.

“Ah, the kiss,” he whispered. “That was a taste of heaven, Miss MacCarran.”

She looked up at him in silence, blushing furiously, astonished with herself for even asking him, and now feeling her breath quicken. She nodded.

“But you should not be here, should you, with a smuggler tempted to kiss you again, and bring no good to your life. No doubt your brothers would agree that you ought to be safe in Edinburgh, behaving yourself. Until later, miss,” he said, and inclined his head. “A
fith-fath
on you and yours.”

She leaned forward through the gap in the door, close enough to feel the powerful draw the man had on her, despite his words, which had turned her around like a top. His eyes seemed so green, reflecting the forest hues in the plaid wrapped about him, one end draped over the shoulder of his jacket. Under dark brows drawn together, his gaze was striking, unfathomable.

She felt, wildly, suddenly, as if he spun a spell around her with just a look—like a man of the Fey rather than of the earth. She remembered again the kiss behind that standing stone, and drew a breath. Taste of heaven, indeed.

And yet, even when she had helped the smugglers, he had not spoken of it until now. He had avoided her, she realized, and now wanted to speak with her at last. Clearly he was determined to send her away from the glen. She squared her shoulders against the sudden hurt of the sensation.

“Sir,” she said, “if you and your uncles are set on being rid of me, I have need of a
fith-fath
of protection.” She kept her tone crisp to prove to him—and to herself—that she did not care if he would not.

“Being rid of you? Fiona,” he murmured, “tomorrow I want to show you something. Go inside now,” he said, his tone gone gentle. “They are waiting for you.”

D
ougal sat alone at one of the four tables in the front room of the small inn kept by Rob MacIan. The only patrons other than himself were three of his tenants gathered around a front table, discussing how soon they could send their cattle into the glen’s higher slopes to graze on the sweet hill grass there. The winter had been harsher than usual, Dougal overheard them say; the cattle were thin still, though it was nearly May.

His own cattle were also in need of the better nutrition of the higher slopes, where sunlight and clear mountain streams fed the grasses and flowers, and livestock could grow healthy after a long winter and a wet spring. The Highlands of Scotland did not produce good hay for cattle, though there were oats and barley for them.

Soon enough, the daughters and wives of these men, and some of the younger men, would drive the cattle into the hills to stay in shieling huts, modest cottages used in spring and summer by those who brought the cattle to the high slopes for weeks at
a time. With the hills more populated than usual, moving great lots of whisky kegs about would not be as conveniently managed as now, before the shieling time began.

The men had invited Dougal to join them earlier, but he had smiled and declined. He had agreed to meet someone at Rob MacIan’s inn, but the man had not arrived as yet. He sipped a tankard of ale in silence, watching through the small window near his corner seat. Along the road, he saw a black coach—not the shabby beast that Hamish drove, but a trim barouche pulled by four sleek bay horses.

He nodded to himself. Hamish would be disappointed to miss seeing such an excellent vehicle, he thought. Outside, the black coach drew up in front of the inn rather grandly, and while the tenants stopped their chat to look out the window, Rob MacIan emerged from an inner room. The innkeeper—who like his son the reverend was a tall, fair sort, though age and ale had made him big and ruddy—hurried to open the door and step out into the yard. Dougal heard Rob call to one of his sons to see to coach, horses, and driver; Rob would escort the passenger inside, offering his guest food, drink, and lodging if needed.

Sipping the ale again, a fine and fresh brew—by its taste, he knew the household in the glen where it was made—Dougal waited.

When Rob returned, he was accompanied by a tall, lean, dark-haired man in a black double-breasted frock coat, neat gray trousers, and high
black boots. As he entered, he removed his tall black hat, holding its curved brim, and ducked his head slightly beneath the lintel. He carried a cane that he clearly had no need of, as he had an athletic, restrained fitness in both form and movement.

The tenants watched in surprise and then glanced at one another. One of them looked outside again, probably expecting a tourist party, or perhaps a pack of revenue agents. He shot a look toward Dougal that expressed doubt and suspicion, and the laird nodded once.

The Earl of Eldin was certainly a handsome fellow, Dougal observed; striking really, his eyes piercing enough to take in the room and assess everything and everyone in it with a swift glance. Seeing Dougal seated alone, he advanced to the table.

“MacGregor of Kinloch, I presume,” he said.

“Lord Eldin,” Dougal said in greeting, and rose to his feet, for Eldin seemed to expect some sort of fancy greeting. He offered his bare, rough hand, gripping the earl’s gloved fingers, and was surprised by the strong handshake he got in return.

As they sat on opposite benches, Eldin put his hat on the table. Rob came toward them. “Sir, you must be thirsty after your journey,” he said, setting down a tankard of ale.

“From Auchnashee to here is not that far,” Eldin said, looking at the tankard with mild disdain. “I will have a dram of whisky, if you please. That local brew you recommended once before to me—ah. Kinloch. It is the finest in the Highlands, I hear.”

Dougal tipped his head as Rob hurried away. “My thanks,” he said.

“No thanks necessary,” Eldin said. “I am not flattering you, sir. If the brew is indeed that good, then I am merely stating a fact.”

“Indeed,” Dougal said. He sipped his ale again.

Eldin lifted his own tankard to drink as well, then set it down. “I am quite surprised,” he said. “That’s more than passable stuff.”

“Far more,” Dougal said. “A cousin of mine, Helen MacDonald, makes it.”

The earl swallowed from the tankard again. “It is light for an ale, and…delicate. Quite refreshing. I’ve never had the like. What makes the difference in the brew?”

“Heather flowers, I believe. Helen uses an old recipe known to the family.”

“Ah, heather ale! I’ve heard of it. This is excellent. Does she sell it?” he asked quickly.

“She does,” Dougal answered. “Though she does not produce it in much quantity, so of course the price goes higher for that.”

“No matter. I will seek out the woman and request that she provide ale for my hotel.”

“I will ask her,” Dougal said cautiously, “and send her answer to you.”

Rob returned quickly with a dark bottle and two glasses, which he poured out, the liquid golden, its familiar fragrance wafting as the drinks were poured.

“Sláinte
,” Dougal said, lifting his glass as Eldin
lifted his. The earl sipped the whisky, and Dougal studied him: wealth and elegant lifestyle were apparent even in the smallest immaculate details of the man’s garment, from the snowy linen neck cloth tied high and close, stuffed beneath the high lapels of the woolen coat, whose precise cut flattered a wide-shouldered torso and narrow waist, to the polished beaver hat set on the table, and the gold-headed cane leaned beside it.

Unconsciously Dougal straightened his shoulders, his jacket the same brown wool he favored, his plaid in the MacGregor hues of burgundy and green, his shirt plain linen with a simple open-throated collar, his hair unkempt, windblown, too long. Lord Eldin was a man of obvious means and sophistication, had probably been raised with luxury and ease, and Dougal felt the differences keenly.

But he felt no lack. Rather, he was more aware of his own solid, plain, reliable nature, and was satisfied with it. He suspected that Eldin was not as content as his expensive garments and shining black barouche might make him seem. The man had shadows beneath his eyes, and a grim set to his mouth. And he downed the whisky rather quickly, reaching for the bottle to pour another inch or so in the glass.

“Excellent,” Eldin said. “This is from your own distillery?”

“It is,” Dougal answered. He had not finished his own dram, and set the glass down.

“Legal or illicit?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might,” Eldin answered.

“You sent a message requesting that we meet here, Eldin,” he said. “What is on your mind?”

Eldin turned the small, thick-stemmed glass in his hand. “This is a coaching inn,” he said. “But it does not seem busy. Does it do much trade?”

“Rob MacIan’s inn has been here a long while,” Dougal answered. “His father and grandfather tended it before him. Most days its patrons are local men of the glen. Occasionally a coach will come by, filled with tourists who have read Sir Walter Scott and have come to take a look at the scenery of Loch Katrine and the surrounding hills.”

“And they are treated to this fine whisky?”

“If they order more than ale or wine, aye,” Dougal said. “Providing Rob has a store of Kinloch brew. Other local whiskies are available here as well. The MacDonald family in this glen make a particularly fine one, too, as well as the Lamonts, and MacIan himself produces a few hundred gallons a year of his own whisky.”

“Near everyone in this glen makes it, from what I hear,” Eldin said, “and most of it is illicit.”

Dougal sniffed, leaned back, propped a foot on the opposite bench, beneath the table. He regarded the man across from him. “What is it you want of me, sir?”

“You are the laird of this glen.”

“I am.”

“So you know all that goes on here.”

“Within reason. Why?”

“I have a hotel at Auchnashee, ready to open to tourists and travelers by summer,” Eldin said. “I would like to obtain good whisky for that establishment.”

Dougal nodded. “There is plenty of good whisky obtainable in this glen. If it is Glen Kinloch brew you want, then tell me what quantities you have in mind, and we can come to some bargain.”

Eldin sipped again, stared at the glass, considered something. “What is the finest you have ready for purchase? The
very
finest,” he added with slight but noticeable emphasis.

Dougal leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table as he studied the gentleman. This was Fiona’s cousin, he reminded himself, and he narrowed his eyes, seeing a resemblance, despite the differences gender made, in the fine cut of the features, the dark glossy hair, the direct, intelligent stare, the warning hint of stubbornness in the lean, firm jaw. But he saw something more in this fellow’s eyes that he had never seen in Fiona—a cunning, calculating layer of thought behind the polish of courtesy. Eldin might be a decent sort, but there was something Dougal did not trust about him—something secretive.

“The finest we have,” he said then, “depends on what price is offered.”

“A handsome price,” Eldin said. “Name it.”

“We have a batch that has been stored three years in oak casks,” Dougal said, and mentioned a price that was high, but not exorbitant.

“Is it legal, that brew?”

“From a licensed still,” Dougal said. The distillery had recently obtained its license, a detail he did not bother to add.

Eldin made a dismissive gesture. “What more do you have? I expected to hear about something more…valuable.”

“Something illicit?” Dougal cocked one brow and waited.

Eldin leaned forward. “Sir, I do not care a whit about the law. If the whisky is the best you can claim, then how it is obtained is of no matter to me,” he said, very low.

“We have something else,” Dougal said, making a quick decision. “Twenty years if it is a day, made with barley grown in fields my father planted, and with clear Highland water passed through heather blooms plucked at their height. Proofed to perfection, this spirit has been stored in sherry casks turned regularly, so that the richness of the old Spanish Shiraz, and the passage of the years that it takes a babe to become a man, mellows the whisky to an exquisite degree.”

“And?” Eldin waited.

“Very expensive,” Dougal said. Dipping a finger in the whisky, he wrote what seemed a considerable number on the table with the tip of his finger.

Eldin waved a hand. “Affordable. Is the revenue paid?”

Dougal stared at him. “What do you think?”

“I see. Too good for the government, a typical Highland sentiment. How many casks?”

“Seven are available.” Dougal had more, but would not let on.

Eldin sat back. “I will think about it.”

“Think all you like,” Dougal said. “Within the month, it will be gone.”

“Into England?” Eldin asked quickly.

“London is a lively market for good Highland whisky,” Dougal said.

“The blight in the French vineyards has reduced the amount of wine a man can obtain there,” Eldin agreed. “And the grain whisky made in England and Lowland Scotland is poor indeed, once one has tasted Highland malt whisky. A whisky that is hand nurtured and aged, kept in store as long as twenty years, and still has not been found by the revenue men—that is rare stuff.”

“Thus my price,” Dougal said.

Eldin nodded, played with the brim of his hat, then looked at Dougal. “And my cousin, Miss MacCarran? Have you met her? How does my fair Fiona, there in Glen Kinloch?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Dougal said, startled.
His fair Fiona?
What the devil did that mean? “We have met. The schoolhouse is on my estate. My niece and cousins attend there.”

“She is quite busy with the teaching, I imagine.”

“Miss MacCarran seems dedicated to her work.”

Eldin asked. “Does she wander the hills much?”

“She has a hobby of rock collecting, I understand,” Dougal said carefully. He did not want to reveal his interest in the lady, given the way Eldin watched him.

“Has she asked you about fairies?”

Dougal blinked. “She expressed curiosity about our local legends and folklore.”

“Tell her nothing,” Eldin said. “If you know fairy legends, do not share them with her.”

“I see no harm in it.”

“Be wary, nonetheless,” Eldin said. “Do you have a personal fortune, sir?”

Dougal bristled. “I find it none of your concern, with due respect, Lord Eldin.”

“It is of no interest to me,” he said. “But to Fiona…do not let on if you have wealth. Play the pauper.”

“Why?” Dougal asked sharply.

“She has other reasons to come to the glen besides teaching the children. That is sincere enough, do not doubt it,” he added. “But she has an undue interest in…fairy treasure, shall we say, gold in particular. And she has it fixed in her head that she will marry a wealthy Highland man, and none other.” He laughed. “Lofty aspirations for a girl whose family has little legitimate fortune of its own.”

Dougal leaned forward, feeling a sudden urge to throttle the man. “I find it surprising that a man would blacken the reputation of his own lady cousin,” he said. “And I would gladly blacken your
face with my boot, sir, if you give me but half an invitation.” He stared at him, poised to rise.

Eldin smiled, shrugged. “I am merely warning you, sir. I am offering advice.”

“I hardly know her,” Dougal said. “I have no interest in the lady.”

“That,” Eldin said, “is not quite the truth, is it.”

“Whether it is or not, I do not see it as your concern.”

“She is my cousin.”

“Then treat her with the respect due her, or any woman.”

“Well,” the man said, “I rest assured in your sense of honor, and I am certain that imbues your whisky as well. Will we bargain further?”

“I may not sell it to you,” Dougal said.

“Excellent, the honor is of a righteous kind. All the better for the whisky the man makes,” Eldin said, while Dougal stared, eyes narrowed. The earl leaned toward him. “I suspect the pauper status is the true one,” he said then. “I will pay your price for the Kinloch twenty-year, all seven casks of it.”