Page 7 of Laird of Secrets
Enough dreaming, he thought. Whoever she was, it was imperative to convince her to leave the hillside, indeed the glen, quick as she could.
Dougal MacGregor, the laird of Kinloch, leaned a shoulder against the cave entrance and watched the young woman. She climbed the slope steadily, closer to the surge of the great, dark mountain behind him. Inside, the cave held a valuable cache. Within arm’s reach was a loaded pistol with which to protect it. He stood still, silent, wary.
The lass had come too far and too high into the foothills, and on her own. He found it odd that she had not gone back when her companion had left not long ago. What sort of fellow would leave a lady in the wild hills of Kinloch, where rogues even worse than the laird himself roamed day and night?
Perhaps she was a willful creature. Dougal had noticed that the young gentleman urged her to go with him, but she had staunchly refused, it seemed, until the lad had gone on his way. The lady had stayed to chip away at rocks, strangely enough. He did not know her, but the young man had looked familiar—
“The new gauger,” he muttered.
A new excise officer had been installed at the southern end of Loch Katrine. Dougal had seen him once or twice, although they had not encountered one another yet; he hoped that would be never. Why would a government excise man escort a lady into these hills? Every customs officer in the region knew smuggling scoundrels lurked here. Was the lad so green that he was unaware of the danger?
As one of the worst of those scoundrels, Dougal frowned. Whatever brought the couple into these hills, he would wager it was not tourism.
With a charming disregard for her pretty skirts, the young woman sank to her knees and reached into her knapsack, taking out a small hammer. She struck hard at a rock, breaking off pieces efficiently. Chink, chink, thunk.
Dougal winced in silent amusement. He enjoyed the sight of a pretty lass wielding a hammer so smartly. But he reminded himself that she had no business here, especially if she knew a customs man.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no tourist here to enjoy the scenery; she had a purpose, something to do with rocks. Now she examined the ground. Next she took a notebook from the knapsack and wrote or sketched. A map?
If she and the gauger were spies, that was of utmost concern to him. With a map, excise officers could locate caves and niches where goods were hidden.
Gaugers—and willful young ladies—must be prevented from sketching and exploring here. Dougal would have to dissuade her—and fast.
But when had she come to Glen Kinloch? He had not heard a report of recently arrived strangers—Ah,he thought then. Could she be the teacher his cousin, Reverend MacIan, had hired for the glen school? No, they were expecting an older woman. For years, the dominies sent to teach in Glen Kinloch were either male or middle-aged females. None of them had stayed long, and for good reason.
A tourist, then? She was walking upward again, lifting skirt hems over sturdy boots—she was dressed pragmatically for hillwalking, he would give her that. But every step brought her closer to where he stood in the recess of the cave. He stepped into shadow, watching.
In her fog-colored dress and bonnet, with her nimble grace, she seemed part of the mist and the rock. And his dreams. For a moment, he thought of the sylph-like fairy folk, the Daoine Sìth said to inhabit the hills and hidden places in Scotland. Had he still possessed the romantic nature of his boyhood, he could believe she was part of the magic of these hills. A sprite. A pixie. The very queen of fairies.
Years ago, he had imagined that he had glimpsed the ones who inhabited the hills, and she was none of those. Earthly, she was, and beautiful. She removed her bonnet then and looked up at the mountain.
Dougal sucked in his breath. That bit of haberdashery was unworthy of her. Oval face as serene as a Renaissance Madonna, features delicate; soft, large eyes under dark brows; the dark gleam of smooth hair coiled in braids. He wanted to loosen that thick silk in his hands, cradle that exquisite face in his hands.
The sooner she left the better for all. Easing away from the cave entrance, Dougal set out down the hill.
* * *
Absorbed in her work, Fiona knelt, heedless of mud on her skirts, ignoring the breeze that played her dark hair into loops upon her shoulders. She focused on what lay impressed in the rock. Sweeping her fingers gently over stone, she saw excellent preservations of the exoskeletons of tiny trilobites, little sea creatures whose preserved tracks were clear evidence that the area had been covered in water a long time ago.
“James will be so pleased,” she murmured, tapping the hammer around its edges. Limestone was grainy and soft, as rock went, and the piece broke away easily. She tugged it free.
“Miss.”
The male voice, deep and rich, startled her so that she gasped, looking up.
A man stood on the rise above her, one booted foot propped on a rock, a kilt draping over the powerful thigh. Leaping to her feet, nearly tripping, she grabbed the edge of an upright boulder to keep from falling.
“Who—who are you?” she asked breathlessly.
He stepped down through thick fog to extend a hand toward her. “Come up to me,” he said, fingers beckoning.
Fiona stared. Standing above her on the rocky slope, he seemed fierce, powerful, and wholly not of this earth. Tall and dark-haired, in a kilt of muted dark tones with a brown wool jacket, he looked like a Highlander from decades ago, as if he had stepped out of time. His legs were strong and muscled, swathed in thick stockings to flat knees. Chestnut brown hair sifted in waves to his shoulders, and the shadow of a dark beard dusted his jaw. His eyes, narrowed beneath a smudge of straight black brows, had a hazel green hue. He glared at her.
“Who are you?” she managed again, heart pounding. She had heard stories of the Sidhe, an ancient fairy race of tall, magnificent beings. They sometimes appeared to humans, even stole them away. James’s wife Elspeth claimed her own grandfather and father had been taken by fairies. Elspeth was a charming storyteller, and no one believed it was true.
But this handsome stranger, appearing out of the mist, made it seem possible.
“Are you one of the Fey?” she asked in a hushed voice.
