Page 38 of Laird of Secrets
“I promise.” Her heartbeat quickened.
“Just so.” He handed her the knapsack, fingers grazing hers in the transfer. Even through her glove she felt that casual contact, kept its memory in her hand.
As he walked away, long strides taking him over the slopes, kilt swinging, she watched him for a moment—then sighed and turned to examine some nearby rocks.
Safe home, he had said. Suddenly she felt as if her life was too safe, dull and intellectual rather than exciting and filled with passion. She had taken a risk in coming to the Highlands, yet clung to the safety of her scholarly pursuits.
Some impulse made her want to run after MacGregor of Kinloch, walk with him beside the burn, search for wildflowers to please a belching old copper still. She wanted to taste with him the wild whisky, laugh about fish in the mountains and fairy tracks in the hills.
Already he was in the distance, walking with his kinsmen into the hills where he belonged. And she was a visitor, a Lowlander, an outsider.
Chapter 8
The scratch of nib over paper seemed loud in the quiet front room of Mary MacIan’s home at such a late hour. By the light of a flickering lantern, Fiona dipped pen to ink and continued to write, while the peat fire crackled and Mary snored softly in the back bedroom. Done with writing out the week’s lessons, verses in Gaelic translated to English to share with her students, Fiona now replied to a letter from James that had arrived by the mail coach just that day.
Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes and pushed at the old door, but the house was peaceful. Since Mrs. MacIan had a habit of retiring early, Fiona used the quiet evening hours to prepare lessons, compose letters, and work on her drawings.
She still owed a letter to her great-aunt, Lady Rankin, but would leave that for later. Though she loved her aunt, who had raised the twins after their parents had been lost in a shipwreck, she knew the viscountess dismissed Fiona’s charitable work, thinking most Highlanders little more than quaint savages. Lady Rankin would rather see her great-niece make a good marriage and stop pining, as she put it, for Archie MacCarran.
Fiona would far rather write to her twin brother, enjoying their exchange. She knew he wanted to hear about her work in Glen Kinloch, and she looked forward to having his thoughts in return.
I am delighted that dear Elspeth is feeling so well,she wrote to her brother, having already reported on the glen, the school, and her students. I look forward to becoming an aunt, though my anticipation cannot match the joy of the babe’s dear parents! How wonderful that Elspeth is weaving a new tartan blanket for the little one. The green plaid she made for me is very pretty and keeps me warm.
She went on, telling him of the mail coach driven by Hamish, uncle to the Laird of Kinloch, and mentioned the distant kinship between Elspeth and her grandfather and Kinloch himself.
Next she told him that she had not yet made drawings for their grandmother’s fairy book, being at a loss as to what to illustrate. But Lady Struan had requested the drawings from her, to be judged as worthy or not by Sir Walter Scott. Fiona did not want to disappoint—and wanted to honor Grandmother’s belief in fairies, though she herself was very uncertain of such things.
I wish all of us could succeed in our tasks regarding the will as beautifully as you have done, finding your Elspeth with her family lore of fairy ancestors. I do not hold out hope for such luck myself!
As she began to write about the excellent specimens of trilobites that she had found in limestone, along with evidence of a thick quartzite layer beneath Old Red Sandstone, she stopped, glancing up as the door banged again in the wind.
Startled, she inadvertently smeared ink on the page. She sanded and blew, then rose to secure the door, fearful its old latches might give way in a strong wind. Outside, she could hear Mary’s dog barking. The sound was agitated and incessant. Mary had asked Fiona to let the dog in last thing at night, but hearing the frenetic barks now, she wanted to call her back.
Grabbing her shawl from a hook by the door and taking the dog’s rope lead, she pulled open the door and stepped out into a whipping wind.
“Maggie!” Looking around, she did not see the black and white spaniel anywhere, although the dog was usually happy to stay in the yard nosing about and guarding. “Maggie, come!”
She walked across the earthen yard, clutching the shawl against the chilly wind, which held a hint of rain. Wind tugged at the fat, unkempt knot of her hair, spilling it over her shoulders. She pulled the plaid over her head and walked on, calling repeatedly for the dog.
Clouds drifted across a nearly full moon. Across the meadow in the cove, the loch reflected the moonlight. Fiona stopped, turning to look for the dog, and took in the beauty of the dark, sparkling night: black mountains against an indigo sky, the pale wafer of the moon behind swift clouds. Someday if she found time to paint, she would want to capture the mysterious beauty of a night like this one. Lifting her face to the wind, she heard the sound of gusts layered with the lapping of water against the pebbled shore.
The dog barked again, and frantically; the sound seemed close to the cove, and Fiona went in that direction. Overhead, the moon peeked bright between the clouds, revealing the loch’s rippled surface—and a boat far out on the water, its elegant black silhouette just visible in the darkness.
She paused. Wanting to fetch the dog inside, she did not want to be seen by anyone aboard a smuggling vessel. Surely it was one of those; there was no other good reason for a ship to sail along the shoreline that touched this remote glen, especially at night.
Half running, searching in earnest for the spaniel, she reached the path that led from the cove to the main road. She called out softly, not eager to be heard. Whatever went on in Glen Kinloch at night, it was safer not to know.
A flash of black and white ran over the meadow toward the main road. Fiona turned and hurried after it. Maggie barked again, a warning, protective sound.
Glancing warily around in the darkness, Fiona sensed a chill run down her spine. “Maggie,” she called. “Maggie, come here, girl!”
When she came to the main road, the clouds parted overhead, bathing all in silvery moonlight for a few moments. Another bark, and this time she glimpsed a patchy white coat heading up a hillside. Fiona left the road to pursue her quarry.
Some urgency in the air made her want to hurry. She glanced around at the shimmering loch, the empty road, the dark, massive slopes rising up from the roadside. Higher on the nearest hill, Maggie barked again, and Fiona felt a sense of relief, seeing her within reach. She climbed upward in the unreliable moonlight, shawl clutched in one hand, dog’s lead dangling in the other.
“Maggie! Come here!”
The wind snapped at her plaid and blew her hair free. The clouds extinguished the moonlight like a candle flame, the darkness so complete that Fiona nearly stumbled on the slope. Here, the ground was thick with heather, juniper, and grass, and scattered with rocks. She dared not run too quickly for fear of falling.
