Page 26 of Laird of Secrets
“Miss MacCarran, have you changed your mind?” MacIan asked.
“The Laird of Kinloch seems to think a teacher is not needed in the glen. We told Hamish MacGregor it was just a misunderstanding,” Fiona replied.
The reverend frowned. “I shall speak to Kinloch.”
“It is already resolved,” she said, as she moved dishes to the table.
“Will you share supper with us?” Mary asked her grandson. “There are mashed turnips and mutton stew, very tender. Fiona prepared it herself, and it is quite good.”
He nodded and drew out the chairs for the women. When they were seated, they bowed their heads for the grace that Hugh MacIan murmured in a voice that seemed more suited to sentimental love poems than insistent biblical sermons. Fiona served the turnips and the stew, and as they ate, she glanced at her new friends, content in the cozy atmosphere, and content to stay.
Mary’s front room combined parlor, dining room, and a narrow kitchen, and a wide hearth wall, furnished simply with cupboards, a wooden table, a few comfortable chairs. At the back of the small house, two snug bedrooms curtained off from the larger room held a box bed in each. A side door led out to a small garden.
The walls were whitewashed and smoke-stained, the old, dark rafter beams overhead were hung with dried herbs that added a light, clean fragrance, which combined with the sweet musty smell of the peat fire made the modest house seem very cozy. The table was set with very fine things—crisp bleached linens, blue and white porcelain, good silver pieces. The few furnishings were of excellent quality with polished wood and velvet cushions, the lanterns were of very good metalwork, and the window curtains were Belgian lace. Aware of the history of smugglers in the area, Fiona wondered if they had brought Mary such nice things—and if her late husband had engaged in transporting goods himself.
Hugh smiled at her. “Miss MacCarran, I hope you cleared your, ah, misunderstanding with the Laird. You will surely see him at the glen school.”
“Oh? Will he take the class?” That puzzled her, as she had the impression Kinloch was an educated man. “You mentioned in your letter to the Ladies Society that there might be adult students in the school.”
“There could be, since some in the glen do not have much English.” He smiled. “But Dougal MacGregor is hardly one of those. The schoolhouse is on his estate, and his young relatives will be in your class.”
“Ah. He did not mention that to me.”
“He keeps to himself and says little enough. May I have more turnips? They are delicious.”
Fiona passed the dish to him, privately not surprised that Kinloch had said little about the school. But he had been determined that she should leave and abandon her obligation to the school and its students.
Later that night, as she drifted to sleep curled up in the box bed, which was deep, snug, quaint but very comfortable, she remembered how good Kinloch’s arms had felt around her, and how sweetly their lips had melded together beneath the old plaid in the pony cart.
And she realized why she had not protested. She had been kissed before by suitors—but she had never known that kissing could feel so tender, so loving and perfect. She had craved more, had not wanted to stop him.
Best forget that, discourage imagination, she thought, and apply herself to the responsibility of the school and its students. Her lessons were prepared and she was ready to begin class. What she needed now was a good night’s sleep,yet her thoughts continued to race. Punching the pillow, she settled again.
If she met the Laird of Kinloch at the glen school, she must be cautious.
Chapter 6
Standing in the morning sunlight in the yard of Kinloch House, Dougal watched the glen folk walking along hills and paths, coming from various directions toward the hill where his house—and the school—were perched. Kinloch House was tucked in the lee of the pine-covered slopes that formed this side of the glen’s bowl, and the school was a short walk across the shoulder of the same hill. Watching his tenants approach, he felt keyed and nervous, his normally calm and stoic heart thumping fast.
His glance strayed again to the place where the hills framing the glen parted, leading to the cove by the loch. Fiona MacCarran would be heading to the schoolhouse that morning too. Despite himself, he kept looking in that direction.
Even from a distance, he easily recognized the people approaching. He knew each one, each family. For generations, their kin had rented holdings from the lairds of Kinloch—and would always have that right if he had any say in it, no matter the clearings that were happening in other glens and regions.
Mothers carried small ones and guided older ones along, some of the girls and boys running ahead. Fathers came too, leaving their work for a bit, as it was an important day for the families. The children leaped rocks and runnels while their parents called, laughing or warning. Some walked through clusters of sheep grazing on the slopes with flanks marked with colored dye. Goats, too, scrabbled along steeper climes, while the children were reminded not to bother them.
The wind was cool, and bright sun crested the hill as Dougal lifted a hand to his brow. In late April, the slopes were greening up. Heather would not flower until late summer, its evergreen shrubs barely green at the tips; gorse bushes showed yellow buds; bluebells and buttery primroses spread blurs of soft color over the glen slopes, beside burns, and among trees.
The wild beauty of Glen Kinloch was more dear to him than he could ever express. He would do whatever he must to keep it safe and untouched.
“Kinloch!”
Turning, he saw Uncle Fergus coming toward him. The man hunched forward, walking in that rushing way he had, arms and fists swinging. His powerful torso and legs and his thick black hair and beard reminded Dougal of a black bull, enhanced by the leather apron he often wore. Dougal waved and waited, gazing past his uncle toward the house.
Long ago, the structure had been a small, sturdy castle, an old tower house built generations earlier by a MacGregor whose cattle reiving activities had warranted the protection of stout stone walls. After the strife and grief of Culloden had torn Scotland asunder seventy years earlier, when the Kinloch MacGregors and many thousands of others lost men and fortunes, the house had fallen into ill repair.
Resources were scant for keeping the old mortared stones together, but Glen Kinloch was populated with people of strong Highland stock who could live anywhere, under any conditions. Eventually, they recovered from those devastating days, and his kinsmen had done everything they could to support the glen folk, keep the old tower house upright and dry in the rain, and keep livestock grazing in the hills. Dougal was determined that his people and his kin would always flourish under his watchful eye, no matter what he must do, what risks he must take.
The greatest threat to the Highlands these days was no longer English troops, but the steady infiltration of Lowlanders and Englishmen buying up huge tracts of Scottish land for sheep runs, hunting lodges, and holidaying sites.
