Sarah Gabriel (19 page)

“Stay here, if you please, Miss MacCarran.” She nodded, and coughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Keep away from the building—the smoke is very strong up there.”

He walked toward Neill, who turned, looking in shock, eyes wide, soot smeared on his shirt, face, blond hair. The boy shook his head in dismay. Nearby, the stream swept past the charred and smok
ing hut, the water still appearing to burn in places where whisky pooled on flat rocks in the stream.

“I am sorry, Kinloch,” Neill said.

Dougal rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am sorry that you and your father have lost your whisky stores. But we all know the risks, lad.”

“I saw MacIntyre coming,” Neill said. “I had to pour it out into the stream quick as I could.”

“I knew you had a good reason to dump the brew. Where did you see him?”

“After we had been fighting the fire, and it seemed to be burning down, I stepped away to get more water, and I saw the signal—the washing spread out on the hillsides between here and the south end of the glen.”

Dougal nodded. He knew, they all did, of the simple system long used in the glen to alert others that excise men were in the area. Bedsheets would be spread on the hillsides as if left to dry and bleach in the sun—just one signaling method among several, so that the gaugers never quite caught on. “And you saw the customs men?”

“I did, after a bit. Three men walking the ridge of a far hill. They were not from Glen Kinloch, and big Tam MacIntyre was with them. I’d not mistake his bulk,” he added.

“Then they might still be nearby. Well, if the gaugers come past here, there is no evidence left of a still. Any sort of building could have been here, the way it looks now. That is to your advantage,” Dougal said.

“The copper still is destroyed,” Neill said. “Blown apart when sparks landed on it. The very fumes seemed to alight. My father paid a good deal for that still and copper coil.”

“Fires can happen. Your father knows that, and they can be rebuilt and a new coil purchased. Any copper pieces that can be used again should be hidden away for now.”

“Geordie took them,” Neill said, referring to another of his brothers. “He will hide them. I am sorry, Kinloch,” he said again.

“I exploded a still when I was younger. So it goes. You will make more whisky.”

Neill nodded and peered past him. “Is that the schoolteacher? Pol and Mairi like her very much. They talk about lessons at supper. They have never talked of lessons before.” He seemed relieved to have another topic to discuss.

Dougal glanced over his shoulder. Fiona waited, looking about; she coughed again, cupping her hand over her mouth. Meeting his glance, she began to walk toward him and Neill.

“Da says he hopes this dominie will stay a long while, so that we can all be better educated,” Neill was saying. “He’d like for me to go to school with my brother and sister to learn more. But I told him I am a man now, with no time and no use for schooling.”

“Age does not matter when going to school,” Dougal said. “It is important to get whatever education you can, and when the opportunity comes to you, do not turn it down.”

Fiona nodded agreement, her eyes red-rimmed from smoke, Dougal saw. He introduced her to Neill, and she held out her hand. “I am very sorry for your troubles,” she said.

The young man shrugged. “We will get another still and make more whisky, and soon enough have another batch to—”

“Tomorrow or the next day,” Dougal said quickly, “once the debris cools enough, my uncles and I will help to clear it. And you and Thomas will decide together about rebuilding. Nothing more can be done today. And Miss MacCarran, you should not be so near the smoldering hut, with that cough.”

“I am fine. Neill, you look tired, and should rest,” Fiona said quietly. “Come away.”

Dougal noticed how calmly she spoke, her tone seeming to reassure Neill, who nodded and relaxed a bit. She had a serenity about her, Dougal thought, a quality he greatly admired yet would never in his life master. Perhaps that was the reason Neill stared at her as if he were under a spell; he could well understand it himself.

“Miss MacCarran,” Neill said, “this is not the time to ask, but could I attend your school? Now that I have no still to watch after…and it would please my father.”

“You are more than welcome,” she answered. “If your father agrees, you may begin next week, if you feel ready.”

Murmuring thanks, Neill smiled. Standing by,
Dougal knew his own dilemma had deepened, for he and his uncles had agreed the teacher could not stay. Yet now he felt certain that she could not go, either—Neill and others like him needed her. He himself needed her—and then he realized that it was not the first time he had felt that way about her.

“I may as well go to school,” Neill told Dougal. “I am not much of a whisky brewer.”

“Everyone makes mistakes when they first begin something that they will become expert in doing,” he answered. “It will all come right again, lad.” Seeing Thomas approach, he took Fiona’s arm to guide her away and allow father and son to speak in private.

The stream had absorbed the burning whisky, though sizzle and smoke lingered in the air, and patches still burned. Hamish, Pol, and others stamped out little flames here and there along the bank as Dougal and Fiona walked toward them.

She coughed again, and Dougal, unable to stop himself, rested a hand on her back, thumping a little, rubbing. “Let’s get you away from here,” he said.

“It is just smoke, and the wind is clearing it a little now—oh!” She gazed upward, eyes wide. “Look!”

“What is it?” He peered upward, expecting to see smoke or flame; yet what he saw was unexpected, and entrancing. Small orbs of light floated overhead.

“Tiny lights,” she said, very low. “I saw them earlier. I thought they were sparks, or a reflection from something. Do you see them?”

He did not want to admit it, though he knew very well they were not sparks. “I am not sure what you are seeing,” he said carefully.

“They look like fireflies or sparks,” she whispered, leaning close, her shoulder touching his arm. “They are so lovely!”

Lovely indeed, he thought, staring down at her, and then glancing toward the lights again, which swirled and glittered like dabs of sunlight. He had seen them earlier, when he and Fiona had crossed the glen. The flitting, sparkly things had swirled toward the woodland, as if beckoning them toward the fire and the burning stream—whether it was meant as a warning or a lure, he could not tell. Perhaps the fairies were not happy that the stream had been set afire—and perhaps like the humans, they found it a fascinating spectacle.

He had seen them a few times in his life. Once he had seen them with his father, who had explained that the tiny lights were visible only to the special few who could perceive them. The lights marked the presence of fairies—they were not fairies themselves, but proof of their magical presence. The Fey hid their true forms, so legend claimed, showing themselves only rarely.

And Fiona could see the orbs. Dougal looked at her, puzzled. She smiled up at him. “Do you not see them?” she repeated. “What are they?”

“It is an odd reflection coming off the water,” he said. “The sunset is filtering through the trees, and that could cause odd effects. The hour is late, Miss MacCarran. We should not linger. The smoke is bothering you, and fresh air will help. Pol can walk you back to Mary MacIan’s.”

He took her arm to guide her away from there, away from the Fey, who were not only calling to him, but to the schoolteacher as well. And what the devil that was all about, he could not say.

“P
ol has gone with his brother to hide the parts of the copper still, so Thomas said,” Hamish told them when Fiona and Dougal returned. “The lass cannot walk home alone, not with Tam MacIntyre and his men out there.”

Dougal frowned, talking to his uncle in private, while Fiona stood a little distance away, watching those who stood along the banks of the stream. She was still coughing, holding a kerchief over her mouth. “The smoke is affecting her. She should rest before walking across the glen. I will take her up to Kinloch House for a bit.”

“I wonder if we could ask her to cook us some supper,” Hamish said, peering past him. “She’s a fine cook.”

“And a guest, Hamish,” Dougal reminded him. “If Maisie is still there, we will need her to stay, though Lucy has gone to Helen MacDonald’s for the evening. We cannot have it said that the teacher stayed at Kinloch House with only the laird and his kinsmen in residence. Jean has left you again,
and Ranald’s Effie is visiting her sister—it would not be proper to have the teacher there now, without a woman in the house.”

“Maisie can stay the night, then, she often does for Lucy,” Hamish suggested. “See to it, and hurry back. We have work to do this night.”

Dougal nodded. “Miss MacCarran,” he called, walking toward her. She turned, and the sunset poured golden light over her face and hair, and illuminated the gentle curves of her body. For a moment, she seemed such a vision of grace and beauty that he stopped, lost his bearings, forgot his resolve. He wanted her, the feeling sharp and deep—a desperate need of body and soul out of keeping with the time and place.

“Mr. MacGregor?” she asked, walking toward him.

“May I invite you to rest at Kinloch House? You’ve inhaled some smoke, and to be honest, cough or not, it is not wise for you to cross the glen just now.”

“Stay at Kinloch House alone…. with you?” she asked, looking up, eyes wide, clear, so beautiful and—somehow hopeful, he thought—that it took his breath away.

“I will be back very late. We must help the MacDonalds tonight. A serving girl is at the house, a daughter of another MacDonald family, who often helps to watch Lucy. So you will not be alone…there. You are welcome to stay the night.”

“Thank you, but I should not. What of Mrs. MacIan?”

“I will send someone to tell her that you are safe at Kinloch House for the night.”

“I do not want to be any trouble. I can make my way back to Mrs. MacIan’s.”

“Not tonight,” he said, taking her arm. “I assure you, it is too dangerous.”

“Do you mean gaugers? I am not afraid of excise men.”

“You should be,” he said. “They are not all like your brother.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Then perhaps I will rest at Kinloch House for a bit.”

Dougal took her arm and escorted her out of the smoky woodland, out into the wide glen. That in itself was dangerous, once they were in the open, and he hurried her without any conversation. Though she coughed and sniffled some, she did not complain and kept up with him. Glancing behind him now and then, he could see the smoke rising above the trees; surely Tam MacIntyre and his men would see that, and want to know what was going on in the forested hills. Dougal intended to hurry back to the MacDonalds’ property quickly.

“This way,” he said, guiding Fiona past the patch of trees that guarded the distillery, and toward a broader path that led toward Kinloch House. As they crossed a rough bit of terrain, rocks and uneven turf, and then a narrow burn, he took her hand to aid her over the water, stepping from stone to stone. She grasped his hand, and when they reached the other side, neither of
them let go, though he knew she no longer needed the support.

Fiona glanced over her shoulder. “The lights,” she said. “I still see them. How odd!”

“Just the sunset,” he said without looking back, tightening his fingers over hers.

The moment she entered Kinloch House, climbing a few steps to its plain entry door, Fiona felt curiously at home, though so far she had seen only the crumbling exterior of the tall peel tower, formed by two rectangular sections joined at an angle to each other. The door opened into a stone-floored foyer, with a curving stone stair to the left, and a series of doors to the right.

Sunset light poured into the hall from windows along the turning stair, turning whitewash and wood to golden tones. A quick glance ahead through open doors in the corridor revealed small rooms, quaintly furnished with old pieces, worn patterned rugs, wood floors, and walls that were either paneled or whitewashed. The place seemed simple, clean, comfortable, and inviting.

“It’s lovely,” she said, turning to look at Dougal as he shut the door behind them. Just then two large hounds careened around a corner and loped toward her so fast that she stepped back, stumbling. Dougal took her arm.

“Steady,” he said, and she did not know if he spoke to her or the dogs—tall and gray, the sort of noble beasts that she had seen in old portraits.
Despite their majestic appearance, they were clumsy gluttons for Dougal’s affection; he rubbed their heads and shoulders vigorously. She did, too, laughing when the dogs butted against her seeking more petting.

The laughter made her start coughing; the irritation would not clear, and Dougal patted her back, too. When he rubbed her shoulder, she felt a soft tickling sensation all through her, a feeling so wonderful and indulgent that she sighed, rolled her head a little, and wanted more. He bent toward her, his hands warm on her shoulders and neck, and for a moment Fiona felt tempted to turn into his arms.

But he drew his hands away and gave his attention to the dogs again. “This is Sorcha and Mhor,” he said. “They are useless creatures, but so congenial that we keep them around. Let me show you the house. There’s not much to it; the plan is very simple,” he said, as he gestured forward. She went with him, the dogs bumping between them, turning a corner. “Two upright towers with a turning stair between them. This is the parlor,” he said.

She peered inside, seeing a modest wood-paneled room with a worn Oriental rug on the bare planked floor, a settee upholstered in faded green, a pair of cane-seated chairs, old tables, and a Jacobean cupboard under a window. The fireplace crackled with reddish flames and the musky scent of peat.

“This is the dining room,” Dougal said then, pointing to the room beside it, along a hallway that angled into shadows. The dining room held a table and a few chairs on another shabby Oriental rug, and corner cupboards were crammed with mismatched porcelain; shelves and walls were painted pale green. The fireplace was cold, the room silent.

He showed her a small kitchen with high stone walls and an arched fireplace taking up one wall; a stout table filled the center of the room. A second parlor served as a study; there, a large desk held a jumble of papers and books, and two chairs held more books.

“I do accounts here for rents, livestock, and the distillery,” he said, and led her back to the foyer. “On the upper floors there are several bedrooms and a library, separated by floors, with only a few rooms downstairs. The house is very old,” he added, sounding almost apologetic.

Fiona nodded. One of the deerhounds nudged her, and she rubbed its head. “Kinloch House was once a castle?” she asked.

“A peel tower,” he explained. “Most of them are like this, simple block shapes with two sections joined in an L or a Z shape. The straightforward design provided solid protection, centuries ago. My ancestors needed to defend against cattle reivers and king’s men in the past. We also have a priest’s hole, which my father opened up so that it could be used as a storage room.”

“How fascinating it must have been to grow up in a place like this.”

“Fascinating, aye. The place is supposedly frequented by ghosts and visited by fairies, too.”

Fiona felt a kindled interest. “Fairies? Have you seen any yourself?”

He shrugged. “As a boy I thought I saw something, now and then. A child’s imagination,” he added with a half laugh. “The house is a bit of a shambles now, being so old. Parts of it are always in need of repair. Some days the whole thing seems likely to fall down around our heads, but it has always been a good home,” he finished quietly.

“I can tell,” she said. “It is a warm and welcoming house.” She felt relaxed and reassured standing beside Dougal in the house he so clearly loved. “In a way, I felt at home the moment I entered, though it may seem fanciful.”

“Not at all,” he murmured. “Kinloch affects people that way sometimes. They say the fairies of the estate determine who is welcome, and who is not.” He tilted his head, looking at her. “I think they approve of you.”

She brightened. “I would love to know more about your fairy traditions. My grandmother wrote books about Highland lore, so my brothers and I were raised on such stories.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding to himself. “You could probably tell me more fairy legends than I could tell you. There are only one or two legends in Glen Kinloch that I can recall.”

“I think you know more than you let on,” she answered.

He smiled. “I nearly forgot that you came here to rest after the fire. You can warm yourself by the hearth in the parlor—Maisie sets a good fire in there. Or you may use the library upstairs. It is small, though with some good books, including a few in Gaelic. If you feel tired, you are welcome to rest in one of the bedrooms, and stay the night. Maisie will be here to assist you.”

“Will you be here?” she asked.

“Likely not. I will go back to the MacDonalds’ to offer my help.”

“I need not stay long, truly. I do not want to be any trouble to you, or to Maisie.”

“You would be safer here than crossing the glen this evening,” he murmured.

“Would I?” She tilted her head, looking up at him. He made her feel solidly safe and yet enticingly vulnerable, all at once. “Do you really expect trouble this evening?”

“Possibly.” He stared down at her for a moment too long, so that Fiona caught her breath. “Sit in the parlor. I will find Maisie,” he said, as he guided her into the room. Then he left, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Wandering about the room, Fiona looked at two portraits hung over the settee—a man and a woman, the male with a striking resemblance to Dougal—and she sat on an old, creaky chair with a flat cushion. The fire burned low in the grate and gave off a lovely
warmth and the sweetish smell of peat, and though she coughed, she felt that she was improving, as if the inviting, relaxing atmosphere of Dougal’s simple home had its own sort of healing influence.

When footsteps sounded again, she looked up to see a young woman carrying a silver tray with tea things on it. She was plump and red-faced, with soft coppery hair spiraling out from under a soft white cap. Her apron was mussed and stained, her dark blue gown patched at the hem, and she did not curtsy, as a Lowland serving girl might have done, but smiled, her expression pretty and bright. Fiona could not help but smile in response.

“I am Maisie MacDonald,” the girl said in Gaelic. “The laird said to fetch you some tea. Here it is, with some oatcakes, butter and jam, all we had this day. Not expecting guests,” she added, and Fiona heard a slight reproach in it.

“Thank you, Maisie.” Fiona peered toward the door. “Where is the laird?”

“Gone to help my cousins with their troubles. Oh, what a terrible fire!”

Fiona agreed, looking again toward the door, feeling disappointed that Kinloch had left. She turned as Maisie filled a blue-and-white china cup with steaming tea and handed it to her. “Thank the Lord, no one was hurt in the blaze.”

“True. But the loss of the building, and so much whisky, is a hardship for them. They have plenty stored away, though.” She frowned. “I heard you coughing, miss.”

“There was thick smoke when we went to investigate the fire,” Fiona said. “It seems to have irritated my throat and chest. I’m sure it will clear.”

“My mother taught me a good remedy for coughs—whisky with honey and hot water. There’s a good store here, as in every Highland home, and it’s a fine quality. Will you take a wee dram? Some ladies think it improper, but whisky is very good for the health of the body. Many Highland ladies take some
uisge beatha
every evening—some more than that.” She grinned.

“Thank you, Maisie,” Fiona said, stifling the tickling cough. “I remember the whisky and honey remedy from my childhood in Perthshire. It will help clear the rest of this.”

“Perthshire, is it? Very good, miss. I will see to it. Will you be staying the night?”

“I believe so.” She made up mind quickly. “Kinloch extended the invitation, and I am a bit tired. Will someone bring word to Mrs. MacIan, so she will not worry?”

“The laird promised to send one of the lads who help at the distillery to do that.”

Fiona nodded her thanks and sipped some tea; it soothed her throat, which felt sore from breathing smoke, and her voice was a bit hoarse, so the thought of a whisky remedy was not unwelcome. She noticed, then, that her hair and garments smelled strongly of smoke. “I would like to wash up,” she told Maisie.

“I can prepare a bath for you if you like, though
it is nothing fancy here, just a plain hot bath with a good soap, which my own mother makes from lavender and heather bells. If you do not mind me saying it, miss, you do smell of the char.” She wrinkled her nose.

Fiona laughed, not used to such frankness in serving girls—her great-aunt Lady Rankin never tolerated opinion in the household staff—but she found Maisie charming rather than rude. When the girl left the room, Fiona heard one of the dogs barking outside. Setting down her teacup, she walked to the window.

On the far side of the acres surrounding Kinloch House, she glimpsed, through trees and distance, a man running at a steady pace. Despite the sunset fading to darkness, she recognized Dougal MacGregor—she was surprised how very familiar the rhythm of his stride, the set of his shoulders, the dark banner of hair seemed to her. And she realized that he was not heading for the slope that led to the distillery and the short route to Neill MacDonald’s burned-out still.

He moved in another direction, heading diagonally up a slope that would take him to the mountainside where she had first met him.