Page 17 of Laird of Secrets
“Miss, I—” He was hardly sure what had happened. “I am sorry.”
She did not answer. He pulled the blanket aside and peered out.
And saw Ranald staring down at them over his shoulder. The air was fresh, foggy, dim. “Mrs. MacIan’s house is just there in the cove,” his uncle said calmly. “We cannot take the cart down there in such a mist. But you can walk.”
“Aye,” Dougal said gruffly.
“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” The girl sat up. Hay bits were in her hair. Dougal sat up too, stretching out a hand to pluck the hay from her head. He straightened her bonnet, tilted along her cheek. She brushed at her skirts and did not look at him.
Dougal sat up, then bounded over the side of the cart to the ground. He reached up to her, and she hesitated, then accepted his assistance. Under his hands, her slim curves fit so neatly, felt so good that he only wanted to pull her close again. But he let her slide to the ground. They stepped apart quickly, looking away.
“My knapsack,” she said, flustered.
Dougal grabbed the pack from the cart bed. Then he groped beneath the straw until he felt the hard shapes of the kegs hidden beneath thick straw. The revenue officers had nearly discovered those. He drew out one ceramic crock wrapped in straw and tied with string. Tucking it beneath his arm, slinging the knapsack over his shoulder, he turned.
“Miss MacCarran, let me escort you to the house.” He gestured for her to precede him. The fog was thick here, so near the water, and the twilight turned it to a lavender mist. He could see the warm glow of brightly lit windows ahead.
She tilted her head in silence. He could still taste her lips, still felt his heart pounding, and wondered what she thought. Then she yanked the knapsack from his shoulder, swung it to her shoulder, nearly knocking herself over.
“No need to go with me,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor, and Andrew,” she told the two still gaping at them. “Farewell, Kinloch.” She turned to walk along the road.
“Do not let her go, Kinloch,” Ranald said. “She’ll break an ankle in this murk and mist on the path down to the cove, and Mary MacIan will be after us all for it.”
“I will bring Mrs. MacIan the whisky that I promised her weeks ago.” Dougal shouldered the keg and followed the girl. She was certainly not just another dull teacher from the city, afraid of everything. She was young and lovely. She was stubborn, independent, intelligent.
And she kissed like a fallen angel, seductive yet innocent. But even if he craved more of that, and craved to know more about her, he could not trust her. She would have to leave the glen for her own safety and that of others. Nor could he allow a woman in his life. Not now. Not yet.
Especially the sister of a gauger.
Chapter 4
Through the fog, Fiona saw the MacIan cottage tucked below the trees. In the distance, water lapped and shimmered and ghostly mist drifted across the loch. Hearing the Highlander’s footsteps behind her, Fiona glanced over her shoulder.
“I do not need an escort, Mr. MacGregor.”
“Rogues about,” he said, shifting the small keg on his shoulder. He spoke in English now, as she had done. “And the path to the cottage is uneven. You could slip and fall, carrying those rocks.”
“And what are you carrying, or should I ask?”
“A gift for Mrs. MacIan and her grandson, the Reverend MacIan.” He caught up to her with long, sure strides as they followed the path.
“Was the cart full of illicit whisky, then?”
“I do not know. It was not my cart.”
She sent him a sour glance. “I suppose you bribe people with whisky so they will look away from what you and your kinsmen do in the glen.”
“A bribe? Miss, I am offended. It is simply tradition for the laird to give whisky to the manse. I have a distillery on my estate and I share freely.”
“And you and your kinsmen are free traders, I presume.” Though he had not admitted it, the fact seemed clear. “I will not say a word. It is your own business.”
“My business,” he said pointedly, “is operating a licensed distillery. My kinsmen work with me. This keg holds legitimate brew, the same that I bring to the MacIans with each new batch.”
“So the cart was carrying whisky to be shared with others?”
“What else would we do with it, Miss MacCarran? Smuggle it, with the law traipsing all about these hills?” He sounded amused.
“Mr. MacGregor, let me suggest a bargain,” she said impulsively. “I promise not to speak of what I have seen if you will promise to never—”
