Page 21 of Laird of Secrets
“Kinloch whisky is always welcome, and so is its bonny braw laird!” Mary MacIan smiled, hands folded, face crinkling. She was a tiny woman with a froth of white hair spilling out from a white cap. Her plain gown and tartan shawl hung loose on her small frame. As Fiona and MacGregor came inside, the laird bent his head to clear the lintel.
Fiona set her knapsack on the floor, and MacGregor set the keg on a table beneath a window. Standing in the small, simply furnished front room of the cottage, he looked large, imposing, handsome and mysterious. He smiled as Mary MacIan embraced him.
“I am sorry, dear, I cannot stay for long.”
“Aye, there’s gaugers about tonight for sure,” Mary said. “The lad was here earlier and told me of officers out on the road. Did you meet them?”
“All is well. Give my best to the lad.” He stepped toward the door.
“The lad?” Fiona asked.
“The Reverend, my grandson,” Mrs. MacIan said. “He promised to take you around the glen tomorrow afternoon, Fiona, so he will be back tomorrow.”
“That is wonderful,” Fiona said, looking pointedly at Kinloch. “I am looking forward to it.”
“A pity Miss MacCarran must leave the glen in the morning,” he said, gazing with equal intensity at her. She narrowed her eyes.
“She just arrived today!” Mary MacIan looked astonished.
“And I am enjoying my stay here. I will not be leaving.” Fiona walked to the door and opened it wide. “Good night, Kinloch.”
“Miss MacCarran.” He inclined his head politely, leaned to kiss Mary MacIan on the cheek, and stepped outside. Fiona shut the door firmly behind him.
“I wish he would stay,” Mary MacIan said. “Such a lovely lad, is Dougal.”
Fiona sighed, willing her heart to slow, her hands to stop shaking. The attraction she felt toward him was surprisingly strong, yet she told herself her reaction was just the result of an unexpected adventure in the romantic Highlands. He was a rogue, and she would well to avoid him until she left the glen.
“Och, hear the dog barking outside!” Mary said. “She will have heard the laird and come running. She loves that lad fiercely and would follow wherever he goes if we let her. She has gone all the way to Kinloch House, she has, and he brings her back each time. Och, I must get her in for the night, and out of the dark and the mist.” She opened the door. “Maggie! Maggie, come in!”
Hearing a dog barking out in the yard, Fiona went to the door. “Maggie!” she called helpfully. Through the darkness, she saw the black and white spaniel she had met earlier in the day, tail wagging like quill feathers. The dog was jumping to greet the man walking away from the house.
Kinloch bent to pet the dog. The mist swirled around him, and as he straightened and shooed Maggie home again, he turned to gaze back at the house. Fiona could feel his gaze upon her. He lifted a hand, then strode away, vanishing.
She lifted her chin. She would not leave. The bond she felt with this glen was fixing itself already in her heart, despite her encounter with its laird.
Maggie arrived then, jumping to the step and over the threshold, her tail brushing Fiona’s skirts. Stooping to pat her shoulders and welcome her home, Fiona closed the door.
* * *
Dawn’s silvery sheen and the chill of morning woke her early. Soon she was pouring steaming cups of tea for Mrs. MacIan and herself, while the woman cooked savory sausages over the hearth fire. Hearing a clattering of hooves and wheels, Fiona looked up.
“Is that my lad Hugh, come to take you round the glen so early?” Mary asked. Fiona went to the door and Maggie launched past her, barking. Fiona stepped outside and gasped.
A black carriage drawn by two bay horses was coming up the earthen path from the lochside road. Wheels creaking, heaving like a beast, it lumbered forward.
“A coach?” Mary set the sausages on a plate and hurried toward the door.
“Aye.” Fiona folded her arms, scowling as she remembered Kinloch’s promise.
“That’s the old coach from Kinloch House.”
“Is it,” Fiona said, pinching her lips together.
“And Hamish MacGregor driving it. He is one of the Laird’s uncles. What does he want here? Well, at least Kinloch is getting some use out of the old thing. The laird’s grandfather won it after a night of playing cards. But fine coaches are not meant for Highland roads,” Mary added. “Perhaps they are carrying a load o’ whisky. We could all make a profit. Oh,” she said, glancing at Fiona as if she had said too much.
“I believe Kinloch is sending his coach for me,” Fiona said. “He wants me to leave the glen. He says the school does not need a teacher at this time.”
“Ha! He knows how much we need a teacher,” Mary muttered, stepping into the yard. The coach drew up in front of the house, shuddering to a stop, horses blowing and shaking their heads, thick manes gleaming. The old vehicle swayed, joints and brakes squealing.
