Page 81 of Laird of Secrets
“Ah, but love makes its own magic.” He kissed her brow and murmured something under his breath that made her heart soar.
* * *
“Are you going past the laird’s tower this early morning? I will walk with you,” Mary MacIan said. “Perhaps we will see the Laird of Kinloch when we go by.” The old woman smiled mischievously.
Blushing, turning away, Fiona picked up her books and papers, ready to walk to the glen school for morning lessons. Two days had passed since she had lain in Dougal’s arms, but her cheeks went hot and pink at the slightest mention of him. “I am in a hurry to get to school this morning.”
“Ah,” Mary said knowingly.
Glancing away, Fiona felt sure Mary had guessed something had happened between the teacher and the laird. She had acted cool and detached, and had deliberately avoided seeing Dougal MacGregor, afraid that her feelings might shine in her eyes, and some might realize that she loved the glen’s laird.
But because of her grandmother’s will, there could be no future with him. He was not the wealthy Highlander she had been directed to find in order to receive the inheritance. She had yet to explain that to Dougal, but for now, his mention of marriage and obligation was hopefully forgotten.
For now, she wanted to treasure what was in her heart. Too soon she would lose him to circumstances. She had lost her first love and never wanted to endure that again. But their sweet affection had not been like this passionate, soul-deep feeling overtaking her. And she did not know what to do.
“I will come with you. I must pay my rent to the laird,” Mary was saying. “It is odd that he has not come to collect it and give me a bottle of his finest stuff, which is his habit each month. I have earned nicely this month from selling my cheeses and beer to the innkeeper, and I think I will bring my fee to the laird. It is a good day for a walk. Maggie, come!” Mary called to the dog trotting behind them. “She needs a good walk, too, on such a fine morning.”
“She gets plenty of exercise at night, roaming about,” Fiona said. “Which sort of whisky does the Laird give you?”
“His very best, the Glen Kinloch brew,” Mary said. “And he gives me an even better brew once a year, at Yuletide.”
“Is that what they call the fairy whisky?” Fiona asked.
“Och,no! That stuff is not so good. I have tried it and do not see the fuss. Too sweet, and flat. No strength to it, despite its reputation in the glen.” She wrinkled her nose. “I like the Glen Kinloch sort, and the older the brew, the better. The Laird is saving the oldest stuff for—” She stopped.
“Saving it?”
“Aye. They all keep some back, of course. How did you hear about the fairy brew?”
“Kinloch told me about it,” Fiona said.
“Did he! Interesting. Did you taste it when you stayed the night at Kinloch House? Perhaps Maisie gave you some. She might mix them up, silly lass that she is. I suppose the Laird was not there, with the fire that night.”
“I tasted it,” Fiona said vaguely, deciding to let Mary believe that Dougal had been away from the house with his kinsmen that night. “It was quite nice.”
“If you enjoyed it, then the fairies favored you. I hear that some see the fairies when they drink it, a sign that the fairies give their blessing to that person. Did you see them? They never blessed me, I can tell you.”
“See them?” Fiona laughed.
“Then you saw what I saw when I drink the fairy brew. Nothing much.”
Fiona smiled. She looked across the meadow that filled the bowl of the glen, scattered with wildflowers in the morning sunlight. On the other side of the valley, a league’s walk across the meadow, a hill rose toward the larger mountains behind it. There, the tower of Kinloch House stood tall, its stone walls catching golden light.
She wondered if Dougal was there, or already out at this hour. Two days ago she had been alone with him there, gloriously and privately, and nothing she would ever talk about. She had returned to Mary’s house the next morning as if nothing had gone on at the laird’s tower. But the night, the whisky, and the man had taken her over, heart and soul.
She had seen him at the kirk session that day when she had attended with Mary to hear Hugh MacIan’s sermon on responsibility toward one’s neighbors. Restless, she had looked around and had seen Dougal, had caught his gaze. Her heart had near leaped into her throat. She had looked away calmly, but that spark between them, gazes touching across the church, had been filled with yearning.
Outside in the kirkyard, although she did not see Dougal, she felt truly welcomed by the locals. Perhaps it was the reverend’s sermon about helpful neighbors; perhaps her presence at the fire at the laird’s side had assured the glen residents that the teacher could be trusted.
Grateful for that, wanting the acceptance of their laird too, she knew she had to keep her distance now. Both of them needed time to think. She had much to explain to him about her grandmother’s will, her need to comply to allow her brothers to inherit—and the requirement that she marry a Highlander of means. That alone would give him pause.
She must wait and keep her silence. His status as a laird, poor or not, did not matter to her, but if he regretted what they had one, if he was uninterested in marriage, the dilemma would be solved. She wanted to be with him, and that would not change now. Her thoughts tumbled with possibilities, her heart with feelings.
Maggie barked and launched past them, racing toward the glen slopes. “She has found something to chase,” Mary remarked.
Fiona nodded, then noticed people moving over the slope higher up, running quickly. She heard distant shouts and laughter. “What are they doing there?”
Mary shielded her brow and watched for a moment. “Playing at the ba’.”
