Page 40 of Laird of Secrets
The clouds dispersed again, and in the pale moonlit glow, she saw lanterns flare, saw two men on horseback along the road. Their hoofbeats were rapid, and she could hear shouts in the distance. She watched, skirts whipping in the wind as she held tight to the leash while Maggie barked, strained for release.
“Customs and excise!” one of the riders bellowed. “You there! Stop!”
She recognized the voice of Tam MacIntyre, the officer who had stopped Ranald MacGregor’s cart the first night she had come to the glen. Maggie pulled at the leash, growling low.
Fiona patted her. “Stay. Good girl,” she murmured. She held the dog in place in the darkness near the standing stones. The dog continued to growl. “Hush, stay,” Fiona said.
“Dougal MacGregor!” Tam called. The sound carried as the horsemen pulled up their reins. The group of men ahead stopped, and one man walked back toward the excise officers. “Kinloch. Why am I not surprised to find you out here tonight?”
“Ah, Tam!” Dougal said. “Who else is with you?”
“What is in those baskets, Kinloch? MacCarran, go look in those panniers. I wager this lot is smuggling something.”
MacCarran. Oh God—her brother! Fiona gripped the dog’s leash tightly and crouched now beside Maggie, holding the dog’s trembling body, her own now shaking in fear.
* * *
Dougal crossed his arms and surveyed the mounted gaugers. “Smuggling? You are mistaken,” he said calmly.
“What else would bring you lot out here tonight, with packhorses?”
“MacIntyre, what are you doing here in Glen Kinloch, on my land? It is outside your jurisdiction,” Dougal countered.
“The stink of peat reek whisky from Highland stills, carried in the panniers of those horses, brought us here,” Tam said. “And your glen has no customs and excise man, so we must extend ourselves, and we are overworked and none too happy about it. The one who held this post died a while back. Curious, that.”
Now Fiona saw Fergus, his silhouette distinct and recognizable, leave the group to come toward them. “That one? He died in his bed months back, and you know it. He was not fit for chasing about these hills. Bred in the south, and too old.”
“Even so,” Tam said, “here we all are. I would vow those baskets and kegs hold a cartload of illicit peat reek.”
“Call it the best Highland brew, as it deserves,” Dougal said. “I doubt you could prove it illegal, though. Goodnight to you. Be on your way.” He turned and began to walk back to the group, his heart pounding at the chance he took. Each basket carried by these dozen horses held whisky in bottles and kegs, from his own stills and others. Yet no gauger could easily distinguish the product of different stills, not as well he could, and they would have a devil of a time knowing which kegs were carried legitimately and which were not. Their assumption—rightly so, he had to credit—was smuggling activities. But they had to be dissuaded of that.
Fergus leaned toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a righteous path,” Dougal murmured. “I learned it from the reverend.”
“Ah. So we are insulted, and carrying a legal amount.”
Dougal nodded subtly, glancing back toward the gaugers sitting their horses in the middle of the road. “Where did they learn about this run?”
Fergus shrugged. “Not from any of us.”
“Kinloch!” Tam called. The sound of a cocking pistol broke the silence.
Dougal touched the gun hidden beneath the swath of plaid that covered him from shoulder to waist. “Mr. MacIntyre, would you disturb the peace of my glen?”
“Bold lad,” Tam growled. He and his deputy—MacCarran, of all lads, Dougal realized—urged their horses forward. “So you are moving the peat reek to a ship on the loch,” Tam said. “We spied one out there earlier.”
“Did you? I know nothing of a ship. Anytime we move whisky, it is from one household to another in lawful amounts. We share it regularly hereabouts.”
“So I am to believe this is all innocent?”
“Believe the truth. Tonight we carry a few bottles of the legal stuff, and sacks of barley kept over the winter. We are taking it to those who need extra stores.”
“Lawful amounts of whisky, with barley to feed the poor?” Tam spat. “Saint Kinloch, is it. MacCarran, I told you to check those panniers. Hurry and do it!”
The younger man dismounted, looking reluctant, and came toward Dougal. “Mr. MacGregor,” he murmured.
“Mr. MacCarran.” Fiona’s brother, he noticed, was a tall, fine-looking young man with dark hair and features that, although longer and harder, looked familiar.
