Page 37 of Laird of Secrets
She laughed. “I hope the Laird of Kinloch does not mind if I take a few rocks.”
“He does not care in the least. Steal as many as you like.” His eyes sparkled with humor. “Fish on a Scottish mountain—how curious.”
“This one,” she said, choosing another drawing, “is an ancient shrimp.” She handed it to him. “There, at the bottom, a row of tiny arthropods, left in limestone.”
He studied them carefully. “We call these fairy tracks.”
Fiona tilted her head, fascinated. “They do look like tiny footprints.”
“When I was a boy, I was sure they were fairy footprints. Since then I have read a little about old fossils, but I never thought they might be the fairy feet my own father told me about when I was young.”
“Few fossils are complete enough that we would recognize them as tiny animals. It takes a keen eye to see them at all, impressed in the rock. There are plants, too, leaves and ferns and bark, if one looks closely enough.” She smiled. “I rather like calling them fairy tracks.”
“It is better than calling them Highland shrimp,” he agreed, and laughed with her. Then he stood and held out his hand. “Come up to me,” he murmured.
Fiona paused, recalling the first time she had seen him on another hillside. She had taken him for one of the Fey then, and he had used that same odd, lilting phrase. Now he was smiling, affable—and yet still compelling and mysterious, as if he did indeed have a magical aura about him on this misty hillside.
She very much liked the man she saw now, already familiar to her, who smiled easily and did not insist that she leave this place. She set her gloved hand in his proffered palm, and let him help her to her feet.
Brushing dirt and grass from the skirt of her dark blue gown, adjusting the drape of the plaid shawl, a gift woven by her new sister-in-law Elspeth, now Lady Struan, she looked up and smiled. “What brings you into the hills this afternoon, Kinloch? Surely not fossil collecting.”
“Flowers, Miss MacCarran.” He lifted her knapsack to his shoulder and began to walk beside her. “You roam the hills for rocks, and I am looking for wildflowers.”
“For your lady love?” she asked. “You carry no bouquets.”
“My lady love wants a different sort of bouquet,” he said. “She is a great belching thing, pretty and shiny, but she is fussy and demanding when the steam begins to roll off her. But oh, she gives great comfort when she is ready.”
“A copper still?” she asked.
“Ah, she understands her rival,” he said with a quick twinkle in his hazel green eyes. Fiona felt a tiny thrill run through her.
“Why does she need flowers, then?”
“Spring flowers will be growing along the course of the burn near here, and I need to know what they are. The burn water feeds the stills down the slope.”
“Fascinating! I did not know flowers were involved in illicit whisky distilling.”
“Legal whisky, Miss, I vow. Am I always a criminal in your regard?” He set a hand to his heart in mock wounding, and she laughed lightly. “All manner of things are taken into account when distilling pot-whisky.”
“Why spring flowers?”
“They flavor the water. Whatever grows by the burn will make the water taste sweeter, lighter, give the water and so the whisky a hint of fragrance. Some plants along the water can lend a tart or a bitter taste. Grass, wild onion, garlic, even some of your precious rocks, where the water flows over them, can affect the whisky as well. So I come out now and then to check the burns and streams. Then I know what will go into each batch of brew. The barley, the peat, the water,” he said, “all help determine the flavor and character of the whisky. We keep a close eye on all three.”
“It sounds like an art.”
“More art than crime,” he replied, glancing at her.
“Ah,” she murmured, returning his gaze steadily. His devotion to every detail of the whisky was a fascinating revelation. The making of whisky was clearly a passion, not just a business.
“If you do not mind, Miss MacCarran, though I would be honored to escort you today, my own search takes me in another direction. And I see my kinsmen are waiting.” He gestured with a thumb.
Glancing there, Fiona saw two men waiting on another slope, one a young man she did not recognize, the other an older man who resembled Kinloch’s uncles. “Please do not let me delay you. I am content to wander. It was very nice to chat with you.”
“And with you. Fiona MacCarran,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “Do not wander too far. Stay near the road and the loch.”
“I will.”
“Safe home before dark. Promise me.”
