Sarah Gabriel (25 page)

Since then, she had not seen him. She had glimpsed him at the kirk session when she had attended service with Mary to listen to Hugh MacIan’s long sermon on the inherent responsibility of all in the glen to think of their neighbors. Restless, she had looked around during the service and had met Dougal’s gaze. Her heart near leaped into her throat and she could barely look away, wanting only to go to him. She had forced herself to turn away and give no sign of anything out of the ordinary. But the moment—the spark of gazes touching across that crowded church—had felt as keen and needful as if she had actually touched him as she longed to do.

Later she had seen his uncles with Lucy in the kirkyard, but as she greeted them, and some of her students and their families, she had not seen Dougal again, her spirits falling in disappointment. Everyone had greeted her with warmth and affection, and she had felt truly welcomed in Glen Kinloch perhaps for the first time since she had arrived. Mary MacIan had confided that Fiona’s presence at the MacDonald fire, accompanied by the laird himself, had gone a long way toward convincing the glen residents that the new Lowland teacher was truly one of them.

Yet she wanted the acceptance of their laird, too; though she had kept away, something within her needed desperately to be with him again. She had so much to explain—her grandmother’s will, her brothers’ need for the fortune that could come to them if they all met the conditions. But how could she ever tell him that the will required her to marry a Highland man of wealth and title? For now, she would wait, and keep silent.

If Dougal regretted the evening they had spent together, the dilemma would be solved. But if she did not obey the dictates of the will in the matter of her marriage, what then? Patrick had once suggested contesting the will.

Now her thoughts tumbled with possibilities, though she had precious few answers.

Maggie began to bark, and Mary called out to her, but the dog launched past them and raced ahead toward the slopes that gently rose from the glen floor. “Perhaps she sees some sheep, or a fox, to be so excited,” Mary said.

Fiona nodded, then saw several people moving across the slope higher up, running quickly, and she heard their distant shouts and laughter. “What are they doing up there?”

Mary shielded her brow for a moment, watching. “Playing at the ba’.”

“The what? Oh, the ball game—they’ve done so in the schoolyard. I wonder why they are at it so early this morning.” As she walked closer with
Mary, she recognized some of her students along with their kinsmen.

“They are practicing,” Mary said. “There will be a game soon, for all the glen.”

Fiona looked at her in surprise. “The whole glen?”

Mary nodded. “It is a tradition in Glen Kinloch, played on New Year’s and again in the spring, usually the first of May. It is nearing May now, so the laird has called for a game.”

“He did? I heard nothing of it.” Not that she had heard anything from the laird recently, she thought, watching the players as they ran in the characteristic cluster that seemed to mark the form of the football they played in Glen Kinloch.

“The word went round among the men. You are not expected to play, being a lass.”

“I played the football with my brothers when I was young.”

“Aye,” Mary said, “but not like this.”

“How is it played here? It seemed the same to me in the schoolyard.”

“Practice in a schoolyard or on a hilltop is one thing. The game itself is quite another. They play from the east side of the glen to the west.” Mary gestured wide to indicate the whole of the glen as they walked. “It is played by all the men and boys, a hundred and more, with one ball. They form two packs, those from the north end of the glen and those from the south, and they start in the
center—there, near where the burn crosses past those rocks,” she said, pointing.

“They play over the whole glen?” Fiona asked, incredulous. “All of them?”

“Crossways over the glen,” Mary said. “From the fieldstone wall below Kinloch House, across the glen floor, and down near the loch side road, where there is a group of standing stones.”

Fiona knew the place. “That’s about two miles,” she said.

“Aye, not far at all for such a game.” Mary nodded as if it was nothing much.

Astonished, Fiona watched the men and boys practicing on the hillside. “With one ball?”

“Just the one. And the two great teams, and the distance over the glen. It goes on all day, into the night. Sometimes into the next day.”

“All for a ball?”

“Och,” Mary said. “All for the fun of it, you see. The ball is just stuffed with goose feathers. It means nothing to them. The game, that is all of it, and who wins, the North side or the South side.”

“Does the laird play too? His house is in the middle. Which side does he take?”

“Other lairds did not always play, but this one does—no one could keep Dougal MacGregor out of it, and he is a very strong at the ba’ and both sides want him. So each year he plays a different side. He will play for Garloch and the North this year. The South has more players.”

“Are they not even, the two teams?” Fiona said.

“Oh no, it is decided by where a person is born. All but the laird, born in the midst of it.”

As they crossed the glen and began to climb the slope toward Kinloch House and the school, Fiona could see the spaniel chasing back and forth, and the men and boys hooting and pushing. Someone in the middle of the pack got the ball, for she saw it thrust triumphantly upward in a pair of hands, only to disappear moments later into the cluster. “When is the game?” she asked.

“Hugh says the laird called for the game on the Thursday, I think.”

“Thursday! But the lads have school!”

“Oh, there will be no school that day. All the glen will either be playing the game, or watching it. The laird should have told you.”

“He did not,” Fiona said. Again she felt a sharp sense of separation from him, and despite her sense of being accepted by the glen folk in the kirkyard the day before, she sighed, feeling very much an outsider again—it suddenly seemed so important for Dougal to include her in what seemed to involve everyone in the glen. Even Mary knew, and had not told her.

“It sounds like great fun. I am sure you will all have a wonderful time.” She forced a smile.

“You must come, too,” Mary said. “Remember this is what the lads do, and they make their own plans for it. You are welcome to watch and to cheer them on with all the lasses in the glen. None of us would miss seeing a game of the ba’.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said. “I appreciate you telling me, for I had not heard.”

“Did you think the laird would invite you to come?
Tcha
,” Mary said. “He knows you will be there, because you are part of Glen Kinloch now. Asking you to come—och, only outsiders would be
invited
,” Mary said.

Dougal stood on the hillside above Kinloch House, his pipes tucked under his arm, and he lifted the chanter to blow another series of plaintive, haunting notes. The hour was late in the afternoon, near enough to dusk. He had seen Fiona earlier that day, walking with Mary MacIan toward the house, but he had been out in the hills at the time. Previously he might have hurried to the house to greet them, to accept Mary’s rent—he had discovered later that she had come there on that excuse—and to see Fiona again. But something told him to keep his distance for a little while. He suspected she felt the same, for he had not seen her but from afar.

His heart and hers would have to cool a little, he told himself, like the embers in a blazing hearth-fire, before he could know for certain that the love he wanted, after that initial fiery burst of feeling, indeed existed. Instinct told him that what had begun between them would burn steadily for a very long time.

But he had to know for sure. Lifting the chanter again, taking a breath and filling the great rounded
bag under his arm, he set his mouth to the reed and blew, long and steadily. The sound built and grew, rising and lingering as it echoed around the hills. Burgeoning, flooding, the sound stirred a powerful emotion in him.

What he wanted with Fiona was the sort of love that would last forever, and he hoped she wanted the same. He would seek her out to talk to her as soon as they could be alone together.

In his heart, he felt that this was right not only for him, but for the people of the glen as well. The fairies, after all, had shown the way. Fiona could see them; they had appeared to her. And that was fair proof for the laird of Kinloch.

“W
hen we play the ba’ this time,” Dougal told his uncles, while they stood at the cave entrance watching over the hills, “we must all know our parts so that all will go well.”

“Aye, we each go into the game, play for a bit, then get out and go off to the caves,” Fergus said. “With so many playing and all the rest watching, no one will notice who is in and who is out. What of the gaugers?”

Hamish looked toward them, arms folded. “They have been much about in the glen lately, between the gauger’s sister being here, and now the fire. The young customs man may have told the others that his sister is here—and perhaps she has told her brother what she has seen here.”

Dougal frowned. “She would not do that.”

“We do not know for sure,” Hamish said, “and there are more gaugers now than before.”

“True,” Dougal admitted. He had not told his uncles that he trusted Fiona now, though he rarely felt sure of anyone’s loyalty, outside of his closest kin.

Ever since his father’s death, Dougal had found it difficult to trust anyone. But he was ready to trust Fiona implicitly, as well as to love her. He was ready to give himself over to dreams of a wife, a family. But his uncles, as yet, did not know that; he wondered if any of them suspected it, from looks they had given him and comments they had made about the teacher, and the night she had spent at Kinloch House, though he had said as little as possible about that.

He ought to marry the girl—and now that he had taken time to sort out his feelings, he knew he had begun to love her. That was clear. But he had devoted his life to the glen, to the production of whisky, and the freetrading of it. What did he have to offer a Lowland lady? He had no fortune, no title to share, no great accomplishments: just the glen, his simple life, and himself.

Not long ago he had been determined to send her from the glen, yet he had fallen to her indefinable magic, spun about by feelings and needs he had scarcely known were there. Now he could not imagine life in Glen Kinloch without her.

Yet unanswered questions still unsettled him. Why was Fiona so concerned about fairy drawings, which seemed somehow connected to money and to Sir Walter Scott? Had she babbled a little due to the whisky, or did she have some other purpose besides teaching while in Glen Kinloch? And he wondered if any of it had to do with her brother.

He could not allow any customs officer to disrupt the transport of the valuable cache of whisky
he had stored away. Soon that lot would be moved and sold, for on the day of the ba’ game, a cutter was expected to sail up the loch. He and his men only had to wait until then.

“Hugh is in the glen, I can see him from here,” Hamish announced from the cave entrance. “And he is not alone.”

“Who is with him?” Dougal asked, walking toward the opening to stand beside Hamish and look out. From that vantage point, he could see straight down the slopes toward the road and the loch beyond. In the glen, not far from the lochside road, he saw two men walking over the meadowland. “What the devil—it is Eldin.”

“Why is the reverend talking with Eldin?” Fergus asked, as he and Ranald came to look.

“Shooting,” Ranald said. “I thought I heard something earlier. Looks like Eldin is carrying a gun. He’s come up to the glen for a little sport.”

“Interesting,” Dougal growled, and stepped outside, making his way down the slopes at a good pace. Within ten minutes or so he lit out across the glen floor, hearing another shot ring out. Hailing the reverend with a raised arm, he hurried toward them. Eldin and Hugh walked together, talking, while a lad followed, leading a horse. Slung over the saddle was a brace of hares and another of birds. Three hounds trotted along between the groom and the men who strolled ahead.

Dougal strode toward them, and Eldin turned.

“Kinloch! Nearly shot you, man.” The earl propped the butt of his long gun against the ground. Looking less formal than at their previous meeting, he wore a long brown coat, buff trousers and high boots, and a trim waistcoat with a standing collar and a neat neck cloth. Hat in one hand, gun in the other, Eldin looked at Dougal.

“Greetings, sir. I hope you do not mind—I met the reverend at the coaching inn the other day, and told him I wanted to come out for a bit of hunting.”

Hugh nodded, looking uncomfortable. “Eldin took down a couple of hares earlier,” he said. “The curlew are flying today, returning for the summer, nesting in the hills. He’s got two already—he’s a wicked shot, is the earl,” he added. The reverend’s deep, quick frown told Dougal to beware, that Hugh did not trust the earl and did not like the situation. Nor did Dougal.

He walked closer to Hugh. “On my land, in my glen,” he said in a low, fierce voice, “my permission was needed for this.”

“Sorry, Kinloch,” Hugh murmured, glancing away. “Truly.”

“Pardon, sir, but this lower section of the glen is mine, I believe,” Eldin cut in. “I am purchasing the government deed to the southern part of the glen, which became available.”

“Not until next month,” Dougal said. “This is a peaceful glen, and I will not condone hunting for
sport, with the glen folk going about their daily business here, and no warning given.”

“Glen Kinloch is known for its idyllic atmosphere, and will please the tourists who come up to look at the famous loch,” Eldin said. “Though I have heard it said that in the dead of night, it is not so peaceful here as you would have us believe.” He tilted a brow.

“Tourists are not about in the dead of night, so you need not be concerned,” Dougal drawled.

“Nonetheless, I have applied for the deed rights, and as there was no offer made from another quarter, they are granted to me. You have not applied, I understand, to buy back your own deed.”

“Not yet,” Dougal said. He did not add that he was waiting for the funds from a profitable source, sending a ship for more than seventy kegs of whisky at a generous price.

“Recently,” Eldin said, “I offered to buy a portion of your excellent whisky for a handsome sum. You would have had enough to buy the deed that was cleared after twenty years, which I can now claim. By the way, you never sent word as to when you will sell those casks to me,” he added mildly.

“I know that,” Dougal said. “This is still my land, and there is no hunting today.” Nodding curtly, he turned and strode away.

The main parlor of Mary’s house was quiet that night, the little mantel clock ticking, the fire crackling, and soft rain falling outside, a peaceful harmony of sound as Fiona sat at the table. She leaned
forward, her hair sliding loose over her shoulder, her notepad open on the table, the pencil in her hand. She tapped the point thoughtfully against the table, studied what she had done, then pursed her mouth and tried again. Rubbing at it with her fingertip, smudging here, adding a light, airy line there, and a darker line there, she worked at the drawing.

The image almost looked like the fairy she had seen in Kinloch House. Almost, yet something essential was missing. Perhaps, she thought, it was because the portrait she was drawing from memory was flat, done in gray pencil tones, lifeless compared to the sparkling, translucent, dimensional vision of the lady who had appeared in the library.

She sighed, turned to a fresh page, and began again, sketching loosely, quickly, as if coaxing the image out of the page with the strokes of the pencil. But still, it did not seem quite right. Over the last few days, she had made several sketches, mostly of the fairy lights, bright bits done in pale watercolor over pencil, floating over flowers and streams, some with small faces within them, an additional detail spurred by imagination—and she had tried more than once to sketch the beautiful ethereal creature she had seen in the library.

Sighing, she set her pencil down, and picked up the folded letter that lay near to hand on the table. She opened the letter and read it yet again.

Maggie, sleeping by the fireside, suddenly lifted her head and woofed softly, then stood. Fiona set the letter down just as a tapping sounded at the door. She rose, heart thumping, and went to the door. So did Maggie, tense and snorting, head and tail up and alert.

The knocking sounded again, stronger now. Fiona leaned toward the door. “Who’s there?”

“Kinloch.” His voice was quiet but clear, and her heart bounded. She released the latch and opened the door.

Dougal stepped inside, rain blowing in with him, and the dog leaping up to greet him. He rubbed her head, patted and praised her, and then looked at Fiona.

“Good evening,” he murmured.

She drew a breath, folded her hands. “Mary is sleeping.”

“I did not come to see her,” he said, and glanced past her. “Schoolwork?”

“I am working on some drawings.” She hastened to the table to close the notebook. When she
turned, Dougal was there, pulling out a chair for her.

“Sit, please,” he said. “We must talk.”

“Would you like tea?” she asked. “Ale, or…whisky?”

“Nothing. Sit, Fiona,” he said, and pushed down on her shoulder. “I have something to say.”

“Say it, then,” she said, glancing away. The days he had let go by without speaking to her after their blissful night together had hurt her increasingly with each passing hour. Now that he was here, the tension that emanated from him did not bode well; she expected an expression of regret and murmurs of gentlemanly apology; and a new, stronger suggestion that she leave Glen Kinloch. She looked down, hands fisted—and then lifted her chin, opened her hands, mustered dignity. Whatever he had to say, she could endure it. Perhaps she did not belong in the glen after all.

But her pounding, longing heart told her otherwise.
Love is not enough reason to stay
, she told herself,
if it is not returned
.

Dougal sighed. “I owe something to you.”

“No apology is necessary,” she said in anticipation.

He turned the chair beside her and sat, leaning forward to take her hand in his. For a moment he stroked the back of her hand with his thumbs, and began to speak once or twice, subsiding as if gathering his thoughts. Fiona would not look at him. Could not.

“I owe you marriage,” he said simply, “after the night we spent at Kinloch. I should have shown better behavior than to disgrace you so.”

Surprised, she stared at him. “You never disgraced me. I wanted that, as I thought you did. And there is no obligation,” she said hastily. “Perhaps it is better for me to leave the glen soon, as you have wanted, but I would like to finish the teaching first.”

“Leave? Fiona—”

“I will always remember that evening, but I do not need a marriage proposal. There is nothing to make up to me.”

“That is not my intent.” Holding her hand in his, he turned her fingers thoughtfully. “When I was a lad,” he said, “my father taught me the way of making the fairy brew, which is a bit different than the usual. He told me that the lairds of Kinloch must keep the process secret, and share it only with the laird’s children. Even the closest of kin are not told all the laird knows.”

Fiona listened, waited, frowned, for she did not understand the track of his thoughts. Silent for a moment, Dougal entwined his fingers in hers, sending delicious shivers through her. She closed her eyes, yearning deep, aware that she might never feel this sort of tenderness again, when this interview was over.

“My father never told his brothers the full truth of the fairy whisky, which he had from his father—but I have told them some of it over the years. Not
all,” he said, “but a good deal. But now I find that it is burning in me to tell you. Not now,” he said, “but someday. I feel it strongly within me that you—” He stopped.

She leaned closer. “That I understand what it is to live with the fairy lore in one’s family?”

“That you are the woman I want,” he said, looking up, his eyes so green and sincere that it took her breath away to meet his gaze. “And one day we will bring our children to the place in the glen where my father brought me, the day I learned the secret of the fairy whisky of Kinloch.”

She stared, heart pounding. “Oh, Dougal,” she whispered, stunned, touched deeply. Her heart filled with love, poured with it, for him, and yet she said nothing, words swept away by emotion.

He looked down at their entwined fingers. “So you see, it is not duty that brought me here,” he said, “but affection. I will leave the decision to you.” He let go of her hand, and stood.