Page 14 of Laird of Secrets
Dougal would have to be a convincing Hector, an elderly cousin who lived at the other end of the glen. He groaned and coughed.
“Don’t believe them,” one revenue officer said to the other. “Rascals, the lot of them. Search the cart. You two sit there, and do not move.”
“My father does not speak much English,” Andrew said. “I will have to explain to him what is going on here.” He began to speak Gaelic in a loud, distracting voice.
Hearing footfalls, Dougal knew the revenue men had moved to the cart bed now, no doubt staring at the blanketed form in the hay. The girl tensed beneath him, and he lay motionless, his breath brushing the soft curls along her brow.
“Aye, there’s a man there under the plaid,” one of them said. “See his boot.”
Dougal coughed, adding an ugly groan at the end.
“Damn, that sounds bad,” the second man said. Thumps sounded, and then the rustling of straw as the gaugers poked dangerously close to Dougal, pulling at the plaid. Moaning again, he made a sort of retching sound. Beneath him, the girl was moving—crying? Panicking? He patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“Ill? Drunk on his own peat reek, more like,” one of the men growled. “What else do you carry besides an old drunken rascal? Kegs of whisky to be confiscated?”
Ranald growled in Gaelic to Andrew, who turned to the officers. “Not everyone moves peat reek about, sir. My father takes offense to be so accused.”
“Insulted until we find crocks and kegs under the straw, eh?”
“We’re carrying hay, and a very sick old man,” Andrew answered. “Hector is not drunk. He’s ill, and we need to get him to a healer who lives in these hills.”
“They’re all thieves and liars,” one of the officers snarled. He thumped the bottom of the cart bed so hard that the impact bounced through both Dougal and the girl. He knew by the sound that the man used a gun butt or a cudgel.
Dougal emitted an unearthly groan, even to his own ears. Both gaugers cried out and must have jumped back, swearing.
“I would not be touching Old Hector if I were you,” Andrew answered.
“What’s he got?” one officer asked.
Ranald muttered again in Gaelic. “Fever, sir,” Andrew translated.
“That’s nothing. Get him up. Let’s see him.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,”Ranald said quickly.
“Tinnie—tinneen gradoo? What the devil is that?” an officer demanded.
“A terrible sickness, sir,” Andrew said. “He has had the tinneas-an-gradh dubh before, but not so bad as this. Please do not touch him, sir,” he added hastily as one of the men stepped closer. “You might catch it, and it is a horrible thing.”
Dougal coughed again, loudly, clutching the girl to him. Her arms slid around him, probably to ease her position. She was shaking again, convulsing, and he rubbed her shoulder in reassurance. Then he realized that she was laughing.
He chuckled softly in her ear, the merest whisper of laughter. She relaxed a bit, softening against him. Her bonnet tipped askew, and his lips met the soft shell of her ear. She sighed, shifting.
Such a sultry movement, so close to him; a feeling rocketed through his body, eliciting a response that needed immediate suppression. He tilted away from her. She looked up at him in the darkness beneath the plaid. He caught that gaze and was lost.
For an instant, he forgot where they were, what they were doing. There was magic in her gaze. But he could not be distracted. He turned his head and faked another agonizing cough. The girl patted his shoulder in mock sympathy.
“Tinnie what? I’ve never heard of it,” one revenue man was saying to the other.
“A bad fever, sir,” Andrew said. “We hope to get him some help in time.”
“They’re lying, so they can get illegal whisky past us. Search the cart.”
They had the authority to do whatever they wanted, he knew. Excise officers were deputies of the law, charged with apprehending smugglers, collecting illicit goods, and collecting additional fees to supplement their meager wages. Thus the incentive to find criminals in the Highland regions was strong, encouraged by the government. Dougal paused, waiting. Then he groaned.
“It does seem bad. Best keep away, Mr. MacIntyre,” one man said to the other.
Dougal frowned. Tam MacIntyre was a tough, cruel law enforcer, lately promoted to chief revenue officer along the loch.
