Page 61 of Laird of Secrets
“Your proofs are never too strong,” Dougal said.
“It was Neill’s own batch,” Thomas said.
“Neill?” Fiona asked.
“My oldest brother,” Pol said.
“Neill is safe,” Thomas said, “and has learned the power of the whisky brew.”
Hearing shouts ahead, the men hurried, Fiona with them. Smoke rose anew above the pine trees. Something flashed among the trees, and she saw a narrow trail of flame snaking down the slope.
“Look!” she said, pointing. Dougal put out an arm to hold her back.
“The stream,” he called to the others. “It’s burning!”
Fiona cried out as she saw yellow flames licking furiously along the surface of the stream, the brightness whipping down the hillside like a dragon’s tail.
Above that stream of fire, tiny round lights swirled in the air. Sparks, Fiona thought—but they were pale in color, not the hot gold of the fiery stream.
The men surged forward, and she followed.
* * *
Fire danced upon the flowing water in bright ribbons. Dougal slowed, seeing its downward course, awed for a moment by its fierce beauty and danger. Sparks flew all about, snapping in the air. He glanced up, concerned the trees might catch the flame too. So far the fire was staying close to the stream, but he had seen this sort of thing burst out of control before.
Men shouted, running down the hill toward them. He put out his arm again to keep Fiona at a safe distance. She stayed back, staring as they all did at the burning water. Others gathered along the banks as well.
“There is little we can do now,” Dougal said. “It will extinguish on its own.” Others murmured agreement. Beside him, Fiona coughed a little in the smoky atmosphere.
He touched her shoulder in silent concern. Soot darkened her cheek, she had lost her pretty bonnet, and the flames, far too close, reflected gold in the sheen of her dark hair. He wanted to send her away, but knew she would refuse. He liked that in her, a stranger yet to this community; he was glad to see the ease with which the others had accepted her presence here on this hill.
Hamish came near, waving a hand toward the flames. “Gaugers will arrive soon for sure. That light can be seen for miles.”
“Neill must have dumped a fair amount of brew into the water,” Dougal said.
“Is it whisky that burns there?” Fiona asked. She coughed again, waving her hand in front of her face, blinking as the smoky air stung her eyes. The odor of the burning was strong, and the air was hazy with smoke. Dougal coughed too.
“Aye. When whisky is poured into a stream,” he told her, “it can catch a spark and burst into flame, and the stream will be covered in flames until the spirit burns out. In shallow water, like this stream, the fire can burn the length of the spill as it pours downward.”
“A terrible and beautiful sight. Like the end of the world,” Thomas said.
“It just looks like a waste of good whisky to me,” Hamish said pragmatically.
“You have seen this before?” Fiona asked. Dougal and the other men nodded.
“Most distillers will make a mistake at least once that sets a stream burning like hellfire,” Thomas said. “It is part of the risk. But do not be afraid, Miss MacCarran. You are safe with us. Just stay back.”
“I am not afraid. Just—amazed to see this.” Her gaze lingered on the bright dragon’s tail of the burning stream.
Dougal glanced around while they spoke, taking account of those along the banks and the others among the trees. He knew each one—kinsmen, tenants, comrades, young Neill MacDonald, too. The lad stood alone at the top of the stream near the smoldering remains of the hut and his black pot still.
“I will have a word with Neill,” he said quietly, stepping away, then turned back on a sudden thought. “Miss MacCarran, come with me, if you will.” He wanted to keep her near him. This night was fraught with too much risk.
She came with him, plucking her skirts free of the ground, neat boots and ankles, a quick and fit step, a strong and lovely woman—but he could not think about that now. Possibly he should never think on it again.
“Can I help in some way?” she asked, walking beside him.
“Just stay close while I talk to Neill,” he replied. “You have seen more of our enterprise than you should have. I am sorry.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, hoping he could rely on her silence. Hoping he truly could trust her. Certainly he wanted to—but the girl had one brother a gauger and the other a viscount, and she herself was prone to taking notes as she wandered hills where smugglers roamed. He could not risk trusting too soon, but must remain vigilant to protect his friends and the glen. His frown deepened.
