Page 70 of Laird of Secrets
Yet the blood in her veins pulsed, and the urge in her body was subtle, then stronger. She caught her breath against it, summoned resistance. But it would not come. He inclined toward her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, his breath soft upon her lips. When his nose nudged at hers, she tilted her head back, desire swirling deep in her body. She forgot the sting of the cut finger, her aching head, forgot embarrassment and uncertainty. She forgot who she was, why she was here, lost awareness of her scant garments, or that she was inviting this man in a tender way, her hand lingering along his jaw, her gaze locked in his.
But he drew a breath and pulled back. “Your finger must need tending.”
Gathering her wits, she nodded, glancing down at her clenched fist to see her wounded finger still bleeding a little. “I suppose it does,” she admitted.
Dougal went to a narrow cupboard that was held a few small bottles of whisky and some glasses, and opened a drawer to remove a folded napkin from a stack of linens. He tore a strip of fabric. “Give me your hand, lass.”
She might have given him anything just then, he need only ask. Sighing, she opened her hand in his offered palm and he wrapped her finger gently with the cloth. Simple enough and soon done, but even that touch sent shivers through her.
“I am sorry about the glass,” she said. “I should not have had it in here.”
“It is nothing to fret over. Dishes break often enough in this household, and can always be replaced. We are not fussy here—a houseful of rogues, remember.” He gave her a smiling glance as he bent over her finger. “We eat where we like, and take a dram or a meat pie in the parlor or the library or bedroom as much as the dining room or kitchen. My uncles and I have all broken more glasses and dishes than we can count.”
She laughed. “What does Lucy think of her rogue uncles?”
“Och, she tells us to behave,” he drawled. “And sounds like a wee Jeanie MacGregor when she does it, too. But we are a passel o’ rogues and bachelors with no woman to guide us in better ways. Maisie comes in once or twice a week to cook and clean, but Jeanie was a true godsend when she lived here. Lucy needed a woman about. But she left us. Hamish, rather. Perhaps she was done with all of us,” he said, shaking his head.
“As you say, she will return. Lucy does need a woman in her life, and so do her uncles. As her teacher, I think the lass would benefit,” she added hastily.
“Aye.” He wrapped his hand around her finger, pressing it, and looked at her, his eyes twinkling in the golden candlelight. “Your recovery is certain, I think. What was in your wee glass?”
“Whisky and honey for my cough.”
“Maisie’s favorite remedy. Did it help?”
“Help?” Were his eyes truly that green, or was it a trick of the candlelight? His thick black lashes encircling moss-green eyes were simply beautiful.
“Your cough, did the whisky help?”
“A little. I drank some but spilled the rest.”
“You should take another wee dram. The smoke of that fire was very thick. A number of us were overcome and coughing. I should not have let you come with us as soon as I heard there was fire.”
“I came of my own accord. I wanted to be there.”
He nodded. “And I do thank you for it. Another dram, then? I do not know Maisie’s recipe, but a bit of the whisky should do on its own. What is that commotion?” He turned as the dogs began barking downstairs. “I will go see what is bothering them. Pour yourself a dram, and one for me, if you will. That is Kinloch whisky, just there.” He pointed toward the bottles on the low cupboard, and left the room.
Fiona went to the cupboard, not quite sure which bottle he meant. There were several, some of them with handwritten labels, paper strips glued to the glass. Brandy, said one; MacDonald’s Whisky, another; A Good Port; A Claret; A Shiraz, read the other labels. One brown bottle said Glen Kinloch. Three small silver flasks and two green bottles were all labeleduisge-beatha an ceann loch.Kinloch whisky, in Gaelic. She thought that was what Maisie had given her, mixed with honey and hot water. Or was it Glen Kinloch? They were the same, surely, likely different batches. Lifting one of the silver flasks, she took a small glass from a cluster arranged with the bottles. Pouring out a little liquid, she sipped.
The whisky, by itself without honey or hot water, was wonderful. Strong and yet delicate, slightly sweet, it had a seductive simplicity unlike any whisky she had tasted before. Its natural heat spread quickly through her, the first small sip sinking gently, a stream of mellow fire building inside. Her tickly throat cleared almost immediately, and her chest felt better. Already she breathed more deeply. She sipped again, and a wonderful warmth filled her.
On the third sip, she sought its elusive sweetness and some undefinable spicy flavor. Sipping again, she chased after its delicate flavor, trying to define it. Kinloch’s whisky was alluring, with both wildness and charm in the smallest sip. She carried the glass to the wing chair and sank into it, enjoying the mellow warmth that radiated inside of her. The little annoying cough had all but vanished. The stinging pain in her finger was gone as well.
Waiting for Dougal MacGregor to return, she picked up her grandmother’s book and skimmed the pages, wondering at the strange assignment Lady Struan had given her. So far, Glen Kinloch had no real fairies, and few local stories.
Hearing noises below, and then hurried steps on the stone stairs, she glanced up as the dogs bounded into the room and Dougal followed.
“Have your uncles returned? I should go,” she said, sitting straighter.
“The noise just now was only the wind. My uncles are still out in the glen. It is a busy night and they may not be back before dawn.”
“The fire, aye.” She tipped her head. “Or is it busy because of the gaugers?”
“We have been busy trying to avoid them, aye.”
She appreciated his frankness and the trust he showed in telling her. “They will find nothing. You are always careful, I think.”
“Of course.” He went to the cupboard, picked up a fat brown bottle, and poured a little whisky into a small glass.
