Page 22 of Laird of Secrets
“Hamish MacGregor, get down from there!” Mary called.
“Greetings, Mary MacIan. I prefer not to get down. I am in a hurry.”
“Then I will pull your ears off when I see you next in kirk, for ruining my yard,” Mary said. The coachman sighed and began to climb down.
Maggie barked and ran circles around the coach while Fiona walked outside. She lifted a hand against the morning sun, looking up at driver and coach.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran,” the driver said as he stepped to the ground. He was a solidly built man of middle age with a round, mild face and a wild mane of silvery hair. He wore the shabby but comfortable outfit common to many Highland men—old jacket and trousers, plaidie across his chest, flat bonnet tilted on his head. “I am Hamish MacGregor, uncle to the Laird o’ Kinloch. He sent me here.” He doffed his cap briefly.
“How nice to meet you,” she said.
“Why did Kinloch send you here?” Mary asked.
“He said the lady wants to leave the glen. Pity, with her just arriving, and we needing a teacher, but if she wants to leave us, she shall.”
“It is no pity at all,” Fiona said. “I am staying.”
“Och, the Laird told me to take you to Auchnashee. I will wait if you need time.”
“Thank you, but you may go, Mr. MacGregor,” she said. “Please tell Kinloch that I am content to stay.”
“And tell him his coach is better used to carry whisky about,” Mary said.
“Hah!” Hamish looked at Fiona. “Miss, are you certain of it?”
“I am.”
“These are Kinloch’s best packhorses,” Mary said, walking over to pat their noses, two handsome bays with long pale manes and creamy feathering around their ankles. “Groomed very fine, I see, all combed out.”
“Aye, Andrew and I did that, and greased the wheels o’ the carriage so the lady could ride in comfort, rather than be embarrassed riding in a plain cart.”
Fiona blushed. So he had heard about that. What else had he heard?
“Well, take it back to Kinloch,” Mary said. “And let those horses out to graze. They are not used to harnessing. Just pannier baskets,” she added wickedly, and Hamish chuckled.
“Och, very well. But the Laird will not like it.”
“Tell him you did your best, and it is no fault of yours,” Fiona said.
“And tell him he will see Miss MacCarran on the first day of school,” Mary said. “The lad is out reminding families in the glen to send their young ones to the glen school to meet the new dominie. I will not tell the lad his visits were in vain!”
“So be it. Miss MacCarran, I am sorry,” Hamish said.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Will you have tea and sausages with us?”
“Oatcakes too, and plenty to spare,” Mary added.
“Aye, and thank you. If I may, I will bring some back to the Laird. He likes Mary’s cooking.”
“Take some to him and Lucy too,” Mary said as she ushered Hamish into the cottage.
Following them, Fiona wondered if Lucy was the laird’s wife. At the thought, her stomach wrenched. If he had a wife, she thought, the man was indeed a rascal.
Again she reminded herself that she had been wrong to accept and enjoy his kisses, and very wrong to dream of him last night, waking in a warm haze of pillows and plaid spread, and thinking herself still in his arms.
“Come, Maggie!” She whistled the dog inside. Hearing a sound in the distance, Fiona paused to glance over her shoulder. Was that—bagpipes? Already the note was fading. She saw only the shabby coach, two horses nuzzling at grass, and far blue hills beneath a blue sky. A few sheep ambled like pale dots high on the steep slopes. Perhaps their shepherd played for them, she thought.
The sound came again. A tune. She stood listening, glancing. No one was about.
