Page 69 of Laird of Secrets
The brocade robe carried the scent of the man who had worn it before her, a drift of pine, spice, a hint of woodsmoke. Sure that Dougal MacGregor was the owner of both robe and shirt, she pulled the brocade snug about her for a moment, inhaling its faint, comforting aroma. Rubbing her wet hair with the towel, she hesitated to leave the bathwater for someone to empty in the morning, but she saw no bucket with which to try to do it herself.
She ate a quick meal of porridge and barley soup, washed down with water poured from a jug. Noticing that the simmering kettles had cooked down a bit by now, she realized that the MacGregors might be very hungry when they returned later, and so she searched for something to add to the soup.
Finding root vegetables, seasonings, and barley in the larder, she chopped carrots, onions, and potatoes and tossed those and the other ingredients, including more water, into the soup. As the kettle simmered anew, she glanced through the window to see that the night sky was inky black now, and the hour quite late. The bath and her brief nap earlier had revived her, and she did not feel tired enough for sleep. Instead, she went up the steps to the small library, followed by the deerhounds.
Exploring the shelves, she set a large volume of the old encyclopedia on the table and settled down to read sections on natural physics and geological sciences, hoping for information about fossils. Though not as dedicated a geological scholar as her brother James, she was fascinated by the particular subject, and she looked forward to her next chance to walk the hills in search of more discoveries.
Besides, she reminded herself, Lady Struan’s will required Fiona to find evidence of fairies and make sketches of them for her grandmother’s book, which her brother James had been asked to edit. Having no idea how to supply such drawings, Fiona frowned. She wished her grandmother had shared more of her belief in fairies and such, beyond childhood stories. The lady’s eccentric will was causing a kerfuffle for her grandchildren now.
Stepping over the dogs curled snoring at her feet, she replaced the book on the shelf and searched through other titles. After a while, tucked in a corner, she discovered a slim volume of one of her grandmother’s own books,Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland. With a delighted gasp, remembering the book from childhood, she took it with her to the red wing chair and sat to read.
A little whisky mixture remained in the glass Maisie had brought earlier, so she swallowed a bit as she read about the fairies and pookahs of Ireland. As she set the glass down, the dogs woke, leaping to their feet, woofing loudly.
Startled, Fiona missed the table, and the glass tilted and crashed to the floor. As the dogs tumbled eagerly out of the room, loping down the stone step, she heard booted footsteps somewhere below and a deep voice greeting the animals. Heart hammering, she stood and went to the library door.
She could see little beyond the shadowed landing. Again she heard a deep, resonant male voice speaking calmly to Sorcha and Mhor.
Dougal MacGregor.
His voice faded as he walked away with the dogs, perhaps to the kitchen. Not eager to be caught improperly dressed—in the laird’s very clothes—while raiding his library, with broken glass and whisky on the carpet. She ran back into the room to kneel and pick up the shards. But she had nothing to contain them, or to mop up the liquid spill. Whirling, she pulled open drawers in a side cupboard, finding only paper, ink, and sundry items. Turning again, she stopped, startled.
Dougal MacGregor stood in the doorway. He held a bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he regarded her silently, and she saw a smile play about his lips as he ate a spoonful or two. His hair was damp, curling along his brow and framing the strong column of his neck. He wore shirtsleeves and wrapped plaid with stockings to the knee and leather shoes. All seemed fresh, not dingy with smoke and dirt as before, when he had left the house.
“You changed your clothes,” she blurted.
“So did you,” he said, lifting a brow as he looked at her.
Fiona pulled the robe closer. “I bathed and changed to be rid of the smoke.”
“As did I,” he said. “Thank you for leaving the bathwater. You look very nice in those things, Miss MacCarran.” He took another spoonful of soup from the bowl. “The soup is excellent,” he went on. “Too good to be Maisie’s work. If she cooks, most of her soups are mush by the time we eat. She tries, bless the lass. The rest of the time we are left to our own attempts. Did you make this?”
“I added a little to what Maisie prepared to extend it. I am glad you like it.”
“I do. Cooking is a rare and welcome skill here at Kinloch House. Ever since Hamish’s wife Jean stormed off and left, we have had very little good food, I think.”
“Stormed off?”
He shrugged. “Now and then she and Hamish go round about his smuggling. She wants him safe at home making legitimate whisky. And one cannot blame her for it.” He smiled. “But Hamish loves the free trade as much as he loves Jeanie. She has a temper, but she will be back. So we hope. I thought you would be asleep by now,” he added.
“I could not sleep and came in here to read. But I must apologize for breaking a glass.” She pointed toward the shards on the floor, and pulled the robe tighter when it gapped open. “Maisie gave me some whisky. I hope the glass is not an irreplaceable piece. I could not find a cloth to clean the carpet—”
“Fiona, it is a small thing and no matter,” he murmured, coming into the room. He set down the bowl and unfolded a cloth that he held beneath it. “Will this do? Let me help.”
“I will do it. Thank you,” Fiona said as she took the cloth and knelt to wipe the carpet stain and pick up the shards. She realized her hands were shaking. His unexpected arrival, and his nearness, flustered her. As she picked up glass, a sharp point stuck her finger, and she cried out suddenly.
Dougal dropped to a knee beside her, reaching for her hand, turning it over in his to look at her bleeding finger. “That will need a bandage.”
“It will soon heal,” she said, pulling back her hand, rising to her feet quickly. Dougal did as well, and their heads knocked audibly. “Oh!” She touched her forehead, more embarrassed than hurt.
“Let me see.” He brushed his thumb over the sore spot, sending shivers through her that erased the ache, but caused other sensations. His fingers slid down to cup her cheek, lingered, traced to her shoulder.
Slowly, Fiona touched his forehead, where his head had bumped hers. His dark hair felt cool and silken under her fingers, still damp. He smelled clean, she thought, a warm mingling of soap and his own natural masculine scent. She closed her eyes, sighed, opened them. He stood watching her, silent.
She reached up to trace her fingers gently over his brow and down to his jaw, its lean shape roughened by beard growth. The texture was bristly yet soft, his skin warm beneath the prickle, so masculine and intimate. She thrilled to touch him with such freedom, while he watched her in silence as she cupped his bearded cheek, surprised by her own boldness.
In the candlelight, his eyes were green and beautiful, edged in black lashes under black brows. She leaned close to the breathing warmth of his body, and he bent down, leaning with her in a shared and natural curve.
She longed for the heart-melting kiss he could give her, the chance of that drawing her nearer still. Logic fell away. He was a scoundrel, and she was a guest in his house, only partially clothed, and should not be here, doing this.
