Sarah Gabriel (7 page)

“Aye, there’s gaugers about tonight,” Mary said. “The lad was here earlier, and he told me about some officers on the road. Did you meet them?”

“We did. All is well. Give my best to the lad.” He stepped toward the door.

“The lad?” Fiona asked.

“My grandson, the reverend,” Mrs. MacIan said. “He promised to take you around the glen tomorrow afternoon, Fiona.”

“How wonderful,” Fiona said, looking at Dougal. “I am so looking forward to it.”

“A pity, as Miss MacCarran will be leaving the glen in the morning,” he said, gazing intently at her. Fiona narrowed her eyes in defiance.

“But she just got here!” Mary MacIan looked astonished.

“I did, and I just know I will enjoy my stay here.” Fiona walked to the door and opened it wide. “Good night, Mr. MacGregor.”

“Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head politely, then leaned to kiss Mary MacIan on the cheek. When he stepped outside, Fiona shut the door firmly behind him.

“I wish he could stay longer,” Mary MacIan said. “Such a pleasant lad, is Dougal.”

Fiona sighed, willing her heart to slow, her hands to stop shaking. The attraction she felt toward him was strong, insistent; yet she told herself it was only the result of an unexpected adventure in the Highlands with a handsome man, and the aftereffects of a tender and dangerous kiss. He was a
rogue, she reminded herself, and she would do well to avoid him during the time she spent in the glen.

“Och, the dog is barking outside!” Mary said. “She will have heard the laird and come running home again. She loves that lad fierce enough to follow wherever he goes. Has gone all the way to Kinloch House, she has, and he’s brought her back. We must get her in for the night, as it may rain again.”

Fiona heard Mary’s dog faintly barking out in the yard, and she opened the door again. “Maggie!” she called. Peering through the darkness, she saw the black-and-white spaniel in the yard, tail wagging like a quill feather as she greeted the man who walked away from the house.

MacGregor paused then, bending to pet the dog. The mist swirled around him, and as he straightened and shooed Maggie home again, for a moment he stood, gazing toward the house.

Fiona grew still, too. She could almost feel his gaze upon her, and she wondered if he felt her watching him as well. Then he strode away, vanishing into the fog.

She lifted her chin.
I will not leave
, she thought. She did not want to go—already she felt a powerful bond to the glen, despite her strange encounter with the laird.

And no matter what he wanted, she had tasks to accomplish before returning to Edinburgh.

Maggie arrived then, jumping onto the step and over the threshold, her damp tail brushing Fiona’s
skirts. Stooping to pat her head and welcome her home, Fiona closed the door.

The silvery sheen of dawn woke her, and soon Fiona was pouring steaming cups of tea for herself and Mrs. MacIan. While Mary cooked savory sausages over the fire in the hearth, Fiona looked up, hearing a clattering of hooves and wheels in the distance.

“Is that Hugh, come to take you round the glen?” Mary asked. Fiona went to the door and Maggie launched past her. Stepping outside, Fiona gasped.

A black carriage drawn by two bay horses made the turn from the loch side road and took the earthen pathway into the cove. Wheels creaking, body heaving like a beast, it lumbered toward the kailyard.

“What is that noise?” Mary MacIan set the sausages on a plate and hurried toward the door. “It sounds like a coach!”

“It is.” Fiona folded her arms, scowling as she remembered MacGregor’s promise.

Mary peered over Fiona’s shoulder. “That’s the old coach from Kinloch House! It’s hardly used—and that’s Hamish MacGregor driving,” she added. “He’s one of the laird’s uncles. What does he want here? Well, I am glad Kinloch is putting the old thing to use. That coach has been in the Kinloch stable a long while, ever since the laird’s grandfather traded good Kinloch brew for it after a night
of playing cards. But fine coaches are not meant for Highland roads,” she added. “I wonder if it’s carrying a load o’ whisky—a coach would hold a good deal, and we’d all make a profit. Oh,” she said, glancing suddenly at Fiona, as if she’d said too much.

“I believe Mr. Dougal MacGregor sent the coach for me,” Fiona said. “He thinks the glen school does not need a teacher at this time.”

“Bah, Kinloch knows how much we need a teacher,” Mary muttered. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she stepped into the yard. The coach drew up in front of the house, shuddering to a stop, horses blowing and shaking their heads, thick creamy manes gleaming, the body of the vehicle swaying, its joints and brakes squealing.

“Hamish MacGregor, get down from that seat!” Mary shouted.

“Greetings, Mary MacIan, and I am not getting down,” he replied. “I am in a hurry.”

“Then I will pull your ears off next time I see you in kirk, for disturbing my morning and ruining my yard,” Mary said. The coachman sighed and began to climb off the coach.

While Maggie barked and ran circles around the coach, Fiona called her back and walked into the yard. She waited in silence, lifting a hand to her brow against the morning sun, looking up at the silhouette of driver and coach.

“Good morning, Miss MacCarran,” the driver said when he stepped to the ground, the coach’s
worn springs bouncing beneath his weight. He was a solidly built man of middle age, with a round, mild face and close-cropped silvery hair. He wore a flat dark bonnet, worn jacket, and wrapped plaid over old trousers—the shabby but comfortable outfit common to many Highland men. “I am Hamish MacGregor, uncle to the laird o’ Kinloch, who sent me here.” He doffed his bonnet briefly.

“Mr. MacGregor, I am Fiona MacCarran. Very nice to meet you.”

“What’s this about, then?” Mary pointed toward the coach.

“Kinloch sent me to fetch Miss MacCarran. He said she has decided to leave the glen. Pity though, with her just arriving, and we needing a teacher, but still if she wants to go, she shall. Miss,” he acknowledged, tipping his bonnet again.

“It is no pity at all,” Fiona said. “I am staying.”

“Och, the laird will not like to hear that, since he sent me to take you to Auchnashee. Said you would be ready after breakfast. I will wait if you need more time to pack your cases.”

“Thank you, but I do not need time,” she said. “Please tell Mr. MacGregor of Kinloch that I am content to remain here.”

“And tell him to put his coach to better use and carry whisky about in it,” Mary said.

“Ha! And attract more attention from gaugers?” Hamish shook his head, then turned to Fiona again, his gaze stern and reproachful. “Miss, are you certain?”

“I am,” she answered.

“These are Kinloch’s best packhorses,” Mary said, walking over to pat the noses of the lead horses, two sturdy bays with heavy white feathering around their ankles. “Groomed very fine, I see, with their tails and manes combed out.”

“Aye, and with Andrew’s help I greased the wheels and repaired the carriage so the lady could ride in comfort, and no embarrassment at riding in a plain wagon, as she did last night.” He glanced at Fiona, who blushed. So he had heard about that; she wondered what else he had heard about last night, and from whom.

“Grease that old wagon all you like, Hamish MacGregor, you cannot make it a comfortable ride,” Mary said. “Take it back to Kinloch, and let those horses out to graze. They are not used to harnessing. Just pannier baskets,” she added with a twinkle in her eye that made Hamish chuckle.

“Och, very well,” he said. “I will tell the laird, but he will not like it.”

“Tell him that you did your best, and this is no fault of yours,” Fiona said.

“And tell him he will see Miss MacCarran on the first day of school,” Mary MacIan said. “The lad is visiting families in the glen to remind them to send their young ones to the glen school to meet the new dominie, Miss MacCarran. I will not tell the lad his visits were in vain!”

“So be it, then. Miss MacCarran, I am sorry to intrude,” Hamish said.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Will you have tea and sausages? We have oatcakes, too.”

“And plenty to spare,” Mary said.

“I would like that. And if I may, I will bring some back to the laird, as he likes a bit of Mary’s cooking now and then.”

“You will take some to him and Lucy, too,” Mary said as she accompanied Hamish toward the cottage.

Walking behind them, Fiona wondered if Lucy was the laird’s wife. At the thought, her stomach wrenched strangely, as if the name were unwelcome news. If he did have a wife, she thought, the man had been wrong to kiss her the night before.

And she should not have accepted it or enjoyed it; nor should she have dreamed of it at night, as she had done.

“Come, Maggie,” she said, turning to whistle the dog inside—but the smell of sausages had already captured the dog’s interest, as Maggie rushed past her into the house.

Fiona glanced again over her shoulder, hearing something distant and stirring—the sound of the bagpipes, she realized, but the fleeting melody had grown faint. She saw only the shabby old coach in the yard and two great horses nuzzling the grasses, the hills beyond bleak in early spring. A few sheep ambled, pale dots high on the steep slopes. Their shepherd no doubt played for them.

There, the sound came and went again. She stood for a moment listening, and gazing at the hills. But
she saw no one—certainly not a tall, black-haired man dressed in a rumpled jacket and plaid who watched from a distance to see if she had boarded the coach. Likely the handsome, infuriating laird of Kinloch had just assumed that she would do so, and had gone about his day, which no doubt included something underhanded and illegal.

Well then, let Kinloch be surprised to find her still here, she thought as she shut the door firmly. He had no right to expect her to do his bidding, even if it was his glen.

D
rone and melody filled the air, cresting off the mountain and returning fainter but richer, the sound soaring between the hills and out over the glen. It filled him inside, too, so that he need not think, nor stop again to look out past the glen to the loch side road where the coach must surely be rolling now, headed for Auchnashee with the lovely one he would never see again.

But he need not think about her now. Only the music of the pipes, its rich and layered tones ringing out in the air, should concern him now. As the last haunting note faded, he walked higher on the hillside, relaxed for a moment as the wind sifted through his hair. Then he drew breath, propelled air through the blowstick to inflate the woolen bag, inside which was a sheep’s stretchable bladder—the set of bag and four chanters was old, having belonged to his own grandfather—and then he tucked the full bag up under his arm and set his fingertips flying over the holes along the main chant pipe. The tune was older than the bagpipe
he played, and had been played in these hills by so many pipers over so many generations that the echo had a familiar ring to it, as if the hills themselves knew the song as well.

Dougal had always been a solitary sort of piper, playing mostly for his own listening, and for whatever sheep, cattle, mountain goats, and wandering locals happened to hear. He did not play at weddings or funerals, or for the monthly ceilidhs held alternatively in the two villages in the glen—Garloch at the northern end and Drumcairn at its southernmost point, with the lands of Kinloch, his own estate, set nearly halfway between the two, in the east. The two villages had longtime rivalries enough between them, such as ceilidhs, kirks, ball games, free trading, and fine whisky brews. The lairds of Kinloch had done their best to remain noncommittal. He remembered that his father had played for the people of the glen on local occasions, but he had rarely done so himself, leaving that to his uncle Fergus MacGregor.

Keeping apart from what went on in the glen was not a lesson he had learned from his father before John MacGregor had passed too soon—it was something Dougal had learned on his own, as a boy growing up a laird, with the faith and responsibility of many families on his shoulders. He had learned from his father to be loyal to those folks, and that faith he always kept, though he was not about to play the pipes for them. Truth was,
he did not think he was very good at it, though he enjoyed it for himself.

He had learned a good deal from his father, and after John was gone, from his father’s brothers, Ranald, Hamish, and Fergus, and from old Hector, too—together his kinsmen had taught Dougal nearly all he knew. He could credit the fine quality of Kinloch whisky to his father and old Hector; the playing of the pipes to the dark-haired blacksmith, Fergus; his knowledge of herding and husbandry to stodgy, calm Ranald; and an ability to fix almost anything that needed repair to Uncle Hamish.

Anything, that was, except that blasted coach, which had confounded both Dougal and Hamish’s efforts. As soon as the thing seemed fixed, it began to shimmy and creak once again.

What was broken stayed broken sometimes, he told himself, and he was learning to accept that. But he would rather fix troublesome coaches than his own heart. Once broken, it stayed that way—first with the early loss of his mother, then his father, and finally a girl he would have married, who would have kept a neat house and a kind bed for him. But she had asked him to give up smuggling, and he had refused; and so she had left the glen to marry a shepherd.

And may she be happy with her four small children and her placid husband, he thought. He had learned, in the years since then, that he was better off without a wife.

He glanced toward the loch that stretched for miles beside the glen, with the pale ribbon of the loch side road running alongside it, visible for a long way in either direction. Pausing in the tune he played—the last note rang out like a lamb’s bleat—he looked around.

The old coach was nowhere to be seen on the long stretch of the road.

Then he saw his uncle walking over a ridge toward him, with two dogs at his heels, the leggy gray beasts whose forebears had ambled the halls of Kinloch House for generations. Though they looked majestic and formidable, the reality of this lazy pair, Dougal knew, was nothing more ambitious than flopping in doorways. Yet Sorcha and Mhor were good guardians and amiable companions—and their presence now meant that Hamish had returned to Kinloch House.

“So you did not drive down to Auchnashee,” Dougal said as Hamish approached. “She refused the offer.”

“That she did.” Hamish paused beside Dougal on the hilltop, stooped, and picked up a nearby stick, tossing it and hooting to the dogs. They watched the stick fly, then gazed up at Hamish, and settled at his feet. “Useless beasts,” Hamish muttered.

“They know fetching only makes them look ridiculously obedient,” Dougal said.

“That lass o’ yours is not the least obedient,” Hamish said.

“My
lass?” Dougal laughed. “I did not expect her to agree—she has a prickly side—but on the chance she saw the wisdom in leaving the glen, I sent you with the coach. I take it we did not succeed in sending the lady packing.” He glanced at Hamish.

His uncle shook his head. “She has a touch of the stubborn to her, like Mary MacIan herself. She could not have learned it in a day or two of visiting. It is natural to her. It is a waste of time and breath to tell her to leave when she intends to stay.”

“Her brother is a gauger,” Dougal pointed out. “He might bring his comrades into our hills. She has to go,” he added quietly, feeling another twist of regret with the words.

“How, Kinloch? She is planning to open the school, and the reverend is going about telling all the families so. Mary told me while I was eating sausages there.”

“Sausages?” Dougal raised his brows. “Mary MacIan gave you breakfast?”

Hamish took a parchment bundle from his pocket. “These are for you and Lucy, too.”

Setting the bagpipe on the ground, Dougal unwrapped the packet and found several sausages and a stack of oatcakes. He ate a sausage, and the hounds at his feet stood, suddenly interested; he tore a bit away for each dog. “Mary has always been a fine cook, and these are excellent.” He licked his fingers.

“The Lowland lady made those for you,” Hamish
said. “Just before I left. She cooked more sausages after I ate some, and made fresh oatcakes and good strong tea, too. We three shared a fine breakfast. You should have been there,” he added.

Dougal ate another sausage; it was seared, savory, and perfect. Though he wanted more, he wrapped up the rest to take home, and wiped his fingers on his plaid. “So she cooks, eh? That might be enough reason to keep her here.”

Hamish chortled. “Wish we could, Kinloch, now that your aunt Jean has run back to her mother again, leaving the household to you and me once more.”

“Jean would come back if you both were less stubborn.”

“Bah. It’s peaceful without her. The Lowland lass can cook. That is enough for me.”

“Lucy is getting old enough to help.”

“The girl has no interest in domesticity. It comes of being raised by scoundrels.”

“We are not so bad,” Dougal said. “Aunt Jean taught her to make her bed and keep her clothes neat, to sweep the floors, sew a seam, and cook a little. She learned well.”

“She makes salty porridge and tea, and we cannot live on that. And she is too young to tend the fire in the hearth. She needs a mother. You might have married the shepherd’s wife,” Hamish added.

“She did not want me,” Dougal said.

Hamish grunted. “Then you ought to marry this
Lowland lady, and we could have good sausages and more, and she would teach the school and keep quiet about her husband’s free trading. And we would all be content.”

“You have thought it out,” Dougal said. “Jean could not have done better.”

“For the sake of our stomachs, someone needs a wife in our house.”

“Jean will return,” Dougal said, knowing the pattern of Hamish and Jean’s stormy, passionate marriage. “Miss MacCarran would expect us to fend for ourselves. It would help none of us if I were to marry a gauger’s sister.”

“Blast all gaugers.” Hamish shrugged. “If she cannot stay, then she must leave. A pity the reverend invited her here now. Had he waited a few weeks, it would be different.”

“Perhaps.” Dougal bent to pick up his bagpipes. He and Hamish began walking, the dogs following. Aware that he wanted her to stay, he drew in a breath at the strong feeling—a surge of craving, even true need. He barely knew the woman, but the kisses she had returned to him had stirred him so deeply that he had not been able to forget.

He was not desperate for female companionship, he told himself. He dallied now and then with one girl or another—making sure each was willing, and each living beyond the glen. Usually he encountered girls in the larger towns, often the willing sisters or widows of acquaintances when he went with his kinsmen on cattle drives. But in
truth, a while had passed. And this Lowland girl was something different, he knew that very well.

Scowling, he looked about for a distraction. Picking up another stick, he threw it. The two deerhounds seemed nonplussed. “Lazy beasts,” he said.

“I know how to get the Lowland teacher to leave,” Hamish said. “Let the fairies do it.”

“What?” Like his other uncles, Hamish was tough as an old ram, and unlike them, was highly skeptical of local tales and fairies and such; his statement surprised Dougal. “I thought you did not believe in the legends of Glen Kinloch.”

“Bah, nor do I. But we have legends and haunts enough to frighten any Lowland girl. We’ll tell her all about Glen Kinloch’s fairies and haunts and the like. She’ll run back to Edinburgh, and we will carry on without a visit from the new gauger. But without a cook,” he added.

Dougal huffed a laugh. “If I try to convince her to leave again, it would seem suspicious. Her brother would be here the very next day to ask what we are up to in Glen Kinloch.”

“And we would have to deal with the ladies—what did Hugh call it? The Edinburgh Society for Ladies Who Fancy Themselves Better Than Highlanders, or suchlike.”

“The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society for the Education and Betterment of the Gaels.”

“Wha’s better than us?” Hamish said, and Dougal laughed. “What would scare that lass away from this glen, and none the wiser but us?”

“Very little,” Dougal said. “She breaks rocks for amusement.”

“Tcha
,” Hamish said, shaking his head. “We will tell her about the sprites who haunt the caves, or the tall ancient race of fairies who live in the hills, or the ghosts—”

“None of it will work. When she first met me on the mountain, she thought I was one of the
Sidhe
or a ghost. I only startled her for a moment.”

“Bah,” Hamish said again. “Then we will warn her of women stolen away by the fairies.”

“Scaring her is not the way,” Dougal said. “So do not take your scheme to the other uncles.”

“We cannot risk the gaugers learning that we have a supply of whisky long aged, and more valuable than any cargo we have yet taken out of this glen. When we move that down to the loch, we do not need the sister of a gauger wandering the hills breaking rocks.”

“True. I hate to sell that cache of whisky, Hamish,” Dougal murmured.

“You have no choice. We have all agreed. The sale of that whisky can help you buy back the land that might be sold out from under us.” His uncle looked hard at him. “Unless you wish to give up the fairy brew and earn a fortune, as some of us think you should do.”

“Never,” Dougal said. “My father honored the old traditions, and I will do the same.”

“Fairies do not exist, Kinloch,” Hamish said. “Your father honored old legends, and that’s fine.

But he made a bad bargain that we knew nothing about until recently. Sharing the fairy brew for tradition’s sake will not benefit the glen. Selling it will.”

“I will not sell the fairy brew.” Exhaling, he walked beside Hamish. “We will find another way to stop the risk to the glen.”

“What if you told the teacher about the risk? She has a soft heart, that one. I could tell.”

“How do we know that she could be trusted with the truth about Glen Kinloch? We have far too many secrets here.”

“We do. But sometimes a man must give up one thing to gain something else of worth.”

“Tell that to Jean’s stubborn old husband,” Dougal drawled.

Hamish snorted, and strolled ahead with the deerhounds bounding after him.

Thoughtful, Dougal walked behind them toward Kinloch House. He could think of nothing worthwhile enough to give up the Kinloch secrets. Nothing at all.

“Good evening, Grandmother. Miss MacCarran, how nice to see you.” The young man entered the cottage even as he spoke, and removed his black-brimmed hat, bowing a little.

“My lad is here!” Mary MacIan smiled, looking up from setting plates on the table. “Hugh, you are just in time for supper.”

“So I hoped,” he said with a quick grin, and bent to kiss his grandmother’s cheek.

“Mr. MacIan, greetings,” Fiona said, crossing to take his black hat. “We have not seen you for a few days. Welcome.”

“Thank you. I have been especially busy, though anxious to visit my grandmother and her charming guest again.” Hugh MacIan grasped her hand for a moment, bowing, eyes sparkling. Dressed in the old-fashioned black frock coat and white neck cloth commonly worn by Free Church Highland ministers, he nevertheless was a handsome and robust young man; thick sandy hair sifted over his brow as he tilted his head, and his smile was wide and boyish. Yet the quick blush and fluster she felt at his smiling attention was nothing like the powerful reaction she had felt toward Dougal MacGregor during that undeniably exciting encounter, thoughts of which had preoccupied her at times.

“Did you ride far over the glen today, Hugh?” Mary asked.

“I did,” he answered, “visiting the good folk to let them know that the school would begin again tomorrow. I rode from Drumcairn to Garloch, and halfway back again just to share supper with you.” He smiled at her, then turned to Fiona. “Miss MacCarran, I believe I mentioned that I hold the living at the manse near Kinloch House, on the opposite side of the glen,” he told her. “Garloch and Drumcairn are the villages at either end of the glen. My father, Rob MacIan, keeps the Knockandoo Inn by Drumcairn bridge, at the lower end of Glen Kin
loch. He asked me to send his welcome to you, and invites you to visit the inn for a good meal at his blessing.”