Page 1 of Laird of Secrets
Prologue
May 1807, Scotland, the Central Highlands
Just before dawn on his thirteenth birthday, Dougal MacGregor climbed a hill behind his father, whose steps were long and sure. Tall for his age, Dougal kept pace and glanced around in the half-darkness, where surrounding mist obscured the trees and rocks on the hillside. Even in daylight, the climb was risky, but his father knew every step and misstep over these hills. Born in Glen Kinloch, John MacGregor was the glen’s laird, a farmer, and a clever smuggler.
Dougal was proud to be Kinloch’s son and eager to be the newest keeper of the family secret, which his father had promised to reveal to him that very morning.
Where hill met mountain the way grew steep, but Dougal and his father had the strong legs and good lungs of Highlanders used to long miles. His late mother, Anna MacIan, had often said that her son was even more handsome than his brawny dark-haired father. Dougal wanted to be as fine a man as John MacGregor of Kinloch one day, and watch over the people of Glen Kinloch with the same fairness his father showed.
He wanted to be a smuggler like John, too. The free trade put coin in poor Highland pockets, though the new laws and regulations had made the enterprise more dangerous. But Dougal would rather run whisky over the hills and outwit the revenue men than go to school. Books and learning were not half as enjoyable as leading gaugers on a merry chase by moonlight, and reaching the shore of the great loch, where sloops waited to take whisky kegs along to the river, and out of Scotland entirely. Dougal had gone with his father and uncles on a few runs, and they had declared that a swift and clever lad was a boon to the work.
John MacGregor did not want that life for his son. He was adamant that Dougal would have an education; he wanted books and cravats in his son’s future, not illicit exporting. He had saved every spare penny and a modest inheritance to ensure that one day his son would attend university in Glasgow and become a lawyer. Education and personal wealth were the best ways to save Glen Kinloch, John insisted. If the laird was able to assure the well-being of the people of the glen, they could remain in their own homes tending their livestock and brewing whisky for their own use, with no need for smuggling.
Dougal knew that over the past two generations, Highlanders had been forced from their homes due to the greed of wealthy men who bought acreage to stock the hills with wool-producing sheep, or to turn land into shooting preserves. Clan chiefs with funds could save their lands, but Glen Kinloch was a small, poor lairdship. So the laird had turned to smuggling for better coin.
And he had decided that books and neckcloths would be part of his son’s future. In a few short years, he would send Dougal to university and away from the glen and all he loved. Until then, the boy attended the little glen school whenever there was a dominie to teach there. Currently, that was a sour-faced man paid personally by Kinloch. Though he was quick and clever at learning, Dougal preferred tending the herds and fields with his father. Even more, he liked the excitement of the smuggling runs.
Climbing the hill behind his father that morning, Dougal was eager to learn the Kinloch secret, so closely guarded by each laird that Dougal knew only part of the story. Something to do with a fairy promise and the gift of a recipe for a magical whisky made only at Kinloch. Finally, he would learn the whole of it.
“Come ahead, lad,” John whispered, leading Dougal to the top of the steep slope, where trees crowned the ridge. Far above, the peak of the mountain loomed through a ring of mist. “Look for the markings that show the way.” He gestured at the ground.
Dougal looked at thick clusters of heather spreading over earth and rock, newly green but not yet blooming. “What marks?” he asked.
“Fairy footprints. See, just there.” John pointed.
Then Dougal saw marks on the rock like tiny feet all in a row, marching up the mountain. He blinked in awe. “The Fey came by here?”
“The fairies leave their mark where they walk or dance. And their footprints show the way to fairy places. But only a few can see the marks.”
“I see them.”
“The MacGregors of Kinloch have the gift, and we know the secret of this place. Come ahead.” John led the way upward.
The sky was lighter now. A wall of sheer rock rose to one side, while below, the vast glen looked like a bowl of mist. Dougal looked around. “Da, can the revenue men find us up here?”
“Not in this fog. The gaugers rarely come up this high, most of them being Lowlanders not fit for the climb.”
“I feel as if someone is watching us,” he said uneasily.
“Could be the mountain fairies. They will not harm us. Come up to me,” his father said, offering a hand as he helped his son climb up over a cluster of boulders.
Something glinted on the ground, and Dougal stooped to pick up a small, shining stone. It was a crystal of the sort called cairngorm, its peaty color glowing in the dawn light. He dropped it into his jacket pocket and walked on. “Da, tell me again about the Kinloch gift.”
“Aye then. Long ago, the first laird of Kinloch and his wife were walking on this very mountainside, when they came upon an ailing fairy woman about to give birth. They delivered her babe and gave her a dram of whisky made in their own still, thus saving her life, and they were thanked by the woman’s husband. The next night, he knocked on the door of their home and gave them a gift—the secret of making a magical brew.”
“Fairy whisky,” Dougal said. “A magical brew that men would kill for.”
John huffed. “Your uncles have been going on again. True, Kinlochuisge beathais legendary, and the secret of the brew is guarded closely by the laird of Kinloch and his family. Some covet our whisky and would have the recipe. But Kinloch’s fairy brew must never be sold for coin. Only sharing it freely keeps our luck with the Fey. Remember that always, when you are laird.”
Dougal nodded. “I will. It must never be sold, only given away. And I will guard the secret with my life.”
“We will hope it never comes to that. Remember, too, that riches may come if the fairy whisky is sold, but consequences will follow. So be warned. Besides,” John said, “our Glen Kinloch brew is excellent stuff, and earns us enough coin to live by. So we need never sell the fairy brew.”
Dougal had tasted the regular Glen Kinloch whisky,uisge-beatha ghleann ceann loch, but he had never tasted the fairy brew, which his father called simplyuisge-beatha an ceann loch. “What is so different about theuisge-beatha an ceann loch?”
“The fairy sort has powerful magic, and must be sipped with care. Not all are affected by the magic. Some consider it simply a good whisky. And we never let on.” He winked. “Now look there.”
Following his father’s gesturing hand, Dougal saw a small birch glade on a ledge along the slope. The light of dawn slanted through mist and trees as Dougal and his father approached, their footfalls crushing grass. He heard the keen cry of a hawk overhead.
