Page 83 of Laird of Secrets
And his heart needed to cool from its ember stage before he could be certain what he felt for her. The passion that had blazed between them was the sort that would burn steadily for a very long time. But he had to know for sure.
Lifting the chanter again, taking a breath that filled the rounded bag under his arm, he set his mouth to the reed and exhaled, long and steady. The sound grew, rising and lingering, echoing outward.
He played the tune, marshaling his breath, listening as it flowed across hills and glen, he realized that he wanted freedom—the sort of freedom that only love could bring to one’s life. A solid foundation of partnership and support that grew from a love that would last forever. He could find that with Fiona MacCarran.
Lovesick or not, he was a cautious man. He would wait, not yet ready to rush headlong. He could more easily take risks with smuggling than in this matter of love and marriage, which needed to be just right for him, for her, and for the people of the glen as well.
But his heart was sure and decided. The fairies had shown the way from the first. He realized that now. Fiona could see them—they had chosen her.
That was the best proof any laird of Kinloch could have.
Chapter 16
“When we play the ba’,” Dougal told Ranald and Fergus later that evening, while Hamish stood by the cave entrance, listening while he watched the hills, “we must work all the details carefully. We all know our parts.”
“Aye, we each join the game, play a bit, then get out and set off to the caves,” Fergus said. “With so many playing and all the rest watching, no one will notice who is in and who is out. But what of the gaugers?”
Hamish huffed, arms folded. “They have been in the glen too often lately, with the gauger’s sister being here, and after the fire as well. I wonder if they have heard some rumor about our plans. Do you suppose the lass might have told her brother what she has seen here?”
“She would not do that,” Dougal said.
“We cannot be sure,” Hamish said. “You must admit there are more gaugers about now than before.”
“True, but there are other reasons for that. They say that the government has hired more gaugers than ever these days, sending them to every region where there has been smuggling. And those in the Loch Katrine area know we have been active in these hills,” Dougal said.
He refrained from saying that he trusted Fiona. His uncles knew that he rarely felt secure of anyone’s loyalty beyond their own support. Ever since the day his father had been killed, quick and cruel and without justice, Dougal had not allowed himself to believe that life could turn out for the better.
Now he wanted very much to trust Fiona. He loved her and yearned for dreams he had never dared to claim—a wife, a family of his own. He was ready, yet he hesitated.
As if he stood on a precipice, he knew life could be joyful on the other side of the gap, and realized that the jump was not so far after all. But he still felt unsure of the leap, and made no move.
Clearly, he was obligated to the girl now and should marry her. Clearly he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her. Yet he waited. He had devoted his life to the glen and its people, and to the production and the trading of whisky in order to protect the glen. He was just a Highland laird, a farmer, a smuggler, a distiller. He had little to offer a Lowland lady of fine family—a bit of a university education, but no fortune, no high title or accomplishments. Only the glen, a simple life, an earnest enterprise, and his heart. Those were his to give, and he would freely offer them to her.
But he did not know if she would accept him. Perhaps she would prefer to return to her fine life in the city. Perhaps all of this had happened too quickly for both of them. He had been so determined to send her away from the glen, but then he had succumbed to some indefinable magic that had spun him about, heart and soul. Now he could not imagine life in Glen Kinloch without her.
But unanswered questions remained, unsettling him. What had Fiona meant by her remarks about fairy drawings, money, even Sir Walter Scott? Had she simply babbled nonsense due to the whisky, or was it more substantial than that? Lord Eldin said that his cousin had come to the glen for a purpose other than teaching, and she had hinted at something too. Did it have to do with her brother the customs officer, or her brother the viscount, or Eldin himself?
Right now, Dougal dared not risk the imminent transport of a very valuable cache of whisky. But that would be resolved soon, once the ba’ game was in progress and the expected cutter sailed up the loch to fetch the cargo and depart.
“Hugh is down the glen,” Hamish announced from the cave entrance, looking back at Dougal. “And he is not alone.”
“Who is with him?” Dougal joined Hamish to stand looking out.
“Eldin.”
The high vantage point provided a clear view down the slopes toward the road and the loch beyond. Along the road, two men walked toward the glen meadow. Dougal huffed, shook his head.
“Why is Hugh with Eldin?” Fergus asked.
“Hunting,” Ranald said. “Eldin is carrying a gun. And look, a young lad is following them, see, leading a horse. There is a brace of game on it, looks like.”
“So he’s come up the glen for a wee bit of sport,” Dougal growled. He left the cave entrance to make his way down the slope, soon striding toward the road to hail the men with a raised arm.
Eldin and Hugh saw him, waving, stopping to wait while the lad with the horse caught up to them. Slung together, while a lad followed, leading a horse. Slung over the saddle was a brace of hares and another of birds. Two hounds trotted along beside the horse. Dougal walked briskly toward them.
“Kinloch! Nearly shot you, man.” Eldin propped the butt of his long gun against the ground. He was dressed as a Lowlander might for hillwalking and hunting, in a brown coat, trousers and waistcoat of fine wool, neat neckcloth, high black boots. Even Lowland men who came into the Highlands for hunting most often wore the kilted plaid—yet Scottish as Eldin was, he did not. Hat in hand, gun in the other, Eldin waited.
“Greetings,” Dougal said, shoving back his long windblown hair, his plaid rippling about his knees, his sturdy tweed coat practical yet rumpled. If Eldin was the sort Fiona MacCarran was accustomed to knowing, he was no match for that. Enough, he told himself. “What is your business in my glen today, Lord Eldin?”
