Sarah Gabriel (22 page)

“Are your uncles back?” she asked. “I should go,” she added, half sitting up.

“The noise was just some gusts of wind that made the dogs nervous. My uncles are out for much of the night. After the fire, there may be…a good deal of activity in the glen tonight.”

She tilted her head. “To do with the revenue men?”

He frowned. “To do with avoiding them.”

She was glad to hear his frank answer, which seemed a step toward the trust she wished he would grant her. “They will find nothing, I know,” she said. “You are always careful.”

“Of course.” Seeming thoughtful, he went to the bookshelf, picked up the brown bottle, and poured himself a slight dram of whisky.

“You came back sooner than I expected,” she said. “Maisie said you would be out the night.”

“I was a bit concerned about you here, alone. I saw Maisie’s brother when I was out tonight, and he told me that she had gone to help their father.”

“Why concerned about me?”

“With the gaugers out, and your stubborn nature—” He shrugged. “I thought perhaps you might decide to go back to Mary MacIan’s.”

“I am fine, and I am here, as you see.” She smiled a little. “I did not expect anyone, or I would have—” She pulled the red dressing gown around her; aware that her feet were bare, she tucked those under her. “This is quite improper. If we were in Edinburgh, it would never happen. My great-aunt would never have allowed me to end up in such a situation.” She smiled more brightly. “I suppose that is why my life has been so dull.”

He huffed a laugh. “So you live with your great-aunt?”

“Aye, Lady Rankin,” she replied. “She is a dear, really. A bit stiff in her attitudes, and she prefers that I behave that way as well, though—” She stopped.

“Though it is not like you,” he remarked, as if he knew that about her. She smiled.

“I suppose that is why I like to go on teaching assignments in the Highlands whenever the chance comes along. I can get away from Edinburgh, and some rather boring people in my aunt’s social circles.” Fiona lifted her head. “I rather like adven
ture, and romance, and…well, a little wildness in life. I am not as dull as people think,” she said defensively.

“Not dull at all. Serene, I would say. Calm and capable. Sure of yourself.”

“I am always said to be the calm and capable one,” she said, and frowned.

“What would you prefer?” he asked.

She flung a hand outward. “A bit of wildness, but I do not think I have it in me. Dear Fiona, always so capable, does what she must, though she longs to be more adventurous, and a more interesting person. Well,” she said, “here she sits in a man’s dressing gown, all alone with the man who owns it. I suppose that is adventurous.”

He quirked a smile. “Dear Fiona,” he said, “seems just right to me. I would not change her.”

She blinked at that, felt her heart thump harder. She sipped the whisky, licked her lips, sipped again. “This is sweet,” she said. “Light. It’s very good.”

“I am glad you like Glen Kinloch brew.” He came closer, and half sat on the table, resting a hip there. Again he wore the kilt in the MacGregor pattern he favored, with a dark jacket, the shirt beneath open at the throat, without the fussiness of a knotted neck cloth—she liked seeing the strong column of his throat. She liked, too, the sight of his bare and muscled legs, the strong, flat knees and well-shaped calves, the woven socks and low boots.

“I have always thought that the costume of a Highlander gives a man an air of masculinity that
is very attractive,” she said. “To see a man’s muscular limbs and hints of the rest of the hard beauty of the male form is so enjoyable. The kilt brings out the confidence and ease of the natural character of a strong male. Females quite like it,” she said, and then felt a moment of sudden chagrin at her words. She felt almost wanton, having expressed herself so, and she looked up at Dougal MacGregor, wondering if he agreed.

“Thank you. I rather like my dressing gown and nightshirt on you,” he drawled. “It brings out the enjoyable contrasts between the male character and the female body. You look fetching in that thing—vulnerable, whimsical, and just very bonny.”

“My thanks, sir,” she said, tilting her head. “My brothers rarely wear the kilt, even at functions. A bit of the plaid while out hunting, for William and sometimes James. Patrick likes a more modern and sophisticated look, he says. But I have always liked the plaid.”

“I find it pleasingly simple myself,” he said, and took a sip from the glass.

Fiona drank from her own glass again. “This is lovely whisky.
Uisge beatha an Kinloch
,” she rolled off her tongue in Gaelic. “Oh dear,” she said, putting a hand to her head. Suddenly she felt flushed, dizzy—and quite content to be sitting there with Dougal, together in the library where she had dreamed so tantalizingly of him. “Oh dear,” she said again, feeling her cheeks blush hot. “This is strong whisky, and sweet, too. I like it.”

“A little is enough where whisky goes,” he said. “I rather think this batch has a mellow, spicy taste.” He looked at her, frowning. “How much have you had?”

“I had some earlier with honey and hot water. And about half this glass now. My cough is gone, I think. But I do feel a bit…light-headed.” She raised her brows, blinked.

“You have probably had more than enough,” he observed. “And an Edinburgh lady may well have no head for strong drink. Highland women are more accustomed to it. I apologize, I should not have suggested a second dram for you after Maisie’s dose. May I?” He reached out for her glass, but she set it on the table.

“I am fine,” she insisted. A strange sense of complete well-being, even joyfulness, was coming over her rather quickly, she realized. She stood, and wobbled a little, setting a hand to the arm of the chair. As she looked up, she saw lights and rainbows flitting about the top of the room. Reflections of the lamplight, she thought, watching them. Her head was definitely spinning. She set a hand to her brow.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She straightened, and looked at him, and a lovely sense of warmth came over her. “I feel…wonderfully, marvelously well.”

“Do you,” he said wryly, regarding her. “So in addition to sitting here with you alone, and you in a state of undress, I am now responsible for your becoming fou.”

“I am not fou,” she said. “But if I was fou, I did that myself.”

“We are not fou—well, not
that
fou,” he quoted softly, and she laughed.

“Burns! Just so,” she said, using the turn of phrase because he sometimes did. “And if I am in a state of undress,” she went on, “I made myself that way, when I took a bath.”

“Fiona,” he said, standing. “It might be best for you to go upstairs to bed.”

“Not yet.” She smiled. “I like your company.” She really did, she thought, and smiled again, tipping her head. But that made her dizzy, too, she realized.

“I like the company also. But those brothers of yours will come after me for this night.”

“That depends on what you decide to do this night,” she said. She picked up the glass and sipped again, and Dougal leaned forward and took it from her.

“Decide to do about what?” he asked, setting it on the table beside his own.

She felt a little wicked suddenly, and tipped her head. “Your black lovesickness. I am sure we could cure it.”

“How so?” he asked, leaning toward her. He lifted a hand, brushed it over her hair, and she closed her eyes, tilted her head, waited. He did not kiss her, but hovered close, and she wanted it—oh, she wanted it, and nearly said so, biting her lip, licking it then.

“What do you suggest?” he whispered again, his face very close to hers.

“Mmm,” she said, as his touch created shivers all through her. “Maisie’s potion fixes all.”

“I can think of other cures. But none of those would be the gentlemanly thing just now.”

“You are a gentleman, a laird—and a rascally smuggler,” she emphasized.

“Just so,” he said, and took her arm when she wobbled against him. Glad for the support, she wrapped her arm around his waist. He stepped back a little, put an arm around her. “Here we go, my girl, and off to bed with you.” He began to walk her forward.

“I am not your girl,” she said. “Am I?”

“Not so far,” he murmured quietly.

“You know, I have a touch of the black lovesickness myself.” She regarded him.

“Do you? I am glad I am not alone in that.”

“We are both in this,” she said, and tipped forward, so that he caught her again, and she leaned into his chest.

“Oh aye, it’s upstairs for you, my dear,” he said.

“The book I am reading! I forgot it,” she said then, as the thought occurred and she reacted without thinking, dragging him back toward the table where she had left the book.

He picked it up and glanced at the cover. “
Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland.
I have read this. An excellent collection by…Mrs. Rankin,” he read
on the spine. “With your interest in fairy legends, you will find this one illuminating.”

“I read it years ago, and must read it again. My grandmother wrote it.”

He lifted a brow. “Mrs. Rankin is your grandmother?”

She nodded. “She was Lady Struan, but wrote as Mrs. Rankin, using her sister’s name, which appalled my great-aunt.” She smiled a little ruefully at the memory. “Most of her books had to do with fairy lore. I read them when I was younger.”

“So you learned your interest in fairy lore from your grandmother?”

“Oh, quite,” she answered evasively, and glanced away. Seeing her whisky glass on the table, she picked it up again and sipped. The heat sank through her, relaxing her even more.

“Truly, I think the whisky has done its work for you,” he said.

“It has not cured my black lovesickness,” she said.

He lifted a brow. “Good night, Fiona. Best we say that.”

“So stern! I have been enjoying your library. I was surprised to find such a handsome collection here, when you had said there were just a few books.”

“A few compared to some collections,” he answered. “I am not a scholar, and when I was younger, I disliked studying. I wanted to—well,” he said, “later I realized the importance of educa
tion, and book knowledge. I could not complete my years at university, but I have taught myself something through reading.” He spread a hand wide.

“Taught yourself a great deal, it seems. Did you collect all these books?”

“Some of them. My father and grandfather acquired most of them. My father felt strongly about my education, and wanted me to complete a university degree and become a lawyer like your brother. It was different than I wanted for myself.”

“What was it you wanted, Dougal MacGregor,” she asked, leaning toward him.

“I wanted to be a smuggler,” he said.

“And so you got your wish.”

When he did not answer, she realized that he had never outright admitted it to her, though she was certain. Then she put her hand to her brow and looked up, as lights swirled and floated overhead. Some even seemed to encircle Dougal’s head, and sat upon his shoulders. “Oh my,” she said, and giggled. “That is a fine whisky, sir. I am seeing the lights again—dancing little lights!”

Dougal frowned. He picked up her glass and sniffed it. “Fiona,” he said slowly, “which bottle did you choose for your dram?”

“That one,” she said, pointing. The room spun. “That silver flask there—”

“Silver flask!” he said, low and thunderous.

“Oh, the lights, do you not see them?” She blinked as the dazzling rainbow glimmers began to spin, faster and faster, and began to take on shape,
sparkling like colored stars, forming a column, then the contours of a head, shoulders, body—

“Oh look!” she breathed. A woman appeared to be formed by the lights. She was exquisitely beautiful. Fiona sighed out and stepped close to Dougal, wanting the strength of his nearness. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Dougal, look!”

“What?” He glanced over his shoulder.

The woman smiled at Fiona and tipped her head, so that her golden hair slid over her shoulders in a spill of sunlight. Her eyes glittered like diamonds; her gown was like golden starlight and gossamer. She reached out a hand, her fingers sparkling with rings and a natural luminosity, and she touched Dougal’s arm, slid her hand along it. Then she looked at Fiona and set a finger to her lips, and moved away. Dougal did not move.

Heart beating fast, the wild thrill of it almost too much to bear, Fiona gasped and leaned toward Dougal. “There—she is standing by the center bookshelf now. Do you not see her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I need paper and ink.” She leaned toward him, so close she could feel his hair brush her cheek as he turned his head to listen. “I must make a drawing.”

“Now? Of what?”

“The fairy in the room,” Fiona whispered.

“Good God,” he said, looking at her. “You are seeing things.”

“I have seen what I most needed to find when I came to Glen Kinloch,” she confided.

“What do you mean?” He drew his brows together. “Did you come here for something besides the teaching assignment?”

“I did, but—oh, she is gone now.” She looked once again toward the slight, beautiful woman in gold and gossamer, but she had vanished. Fiona frowned, disappointed. “I do not think I imagined her, but I suppose you will say so.”

He glanced over his shoulder again. “I see no one.”

“The fairy was just there. I did see her, I swear it.”

He was watching her. “Tell me why you came to Glen Kinloch.”

“To see fairies, to get the money. And to find—well, to find you. Only you are not quite what my grandmother had in mind, or Sir Walter Scott, either. But my brothers will like you, if you will have me.”

“Have you—good God,” he said. “What about Sir Walter Scott? What money?”

She had blathered on, she knew, but could not seem to stop it. The whisky had loosened her tongue, opened her vision to the Otherworld, and her thoughts seemed to race in some strange way. This was unlike the effect of any dram of spirits or glass of wine she had ever had. “I did not have that much whisky,” she said. “What was in it?” She put a hand to her head.