Page 56 of Keeping Kate
“A fine pickle indeed, with both of us in it. What if I ask about you to help you, rather than intending harm to your kinsmen?”
“How could that be?”
“Clearly, you are fiercely devoted to your Jacobite kin, although they sent you into the lion’s mouth to fetch information they needed.”
“They are utterly loyal to their clan and to their rightful king. And to me.”
“A fine bunch of rebels in your clan? That could be MacDonald, or even better, MacDougall. That lot are loyal to a fault when it comes to the king over the water and the crown of Scotland.”
“I am no MacDougall, though I might agree with their views. If you are a Keppoch MacDonald through your mother, as you say, why do you wear the coat of a red soldier?”
“We are discussing your kin and loyalties, not mine. Hmm, you could be a MacGregor,” he mused, “since you refuse to give your name. The Gregorach were proscribed for a very long while, and our Miss Kate prefers to remain nameless.”
“Wrong again. Though I am proud to have MacGregor kin.”
“A fine game, but I am losing patience. I should call you Rumpelstiltskin. Kate Rumpelstiltskin. How would that look on your papers in Edinburgh?”
She laughed then, an enchanting chime. “I have read that tale in the German, sir, but I am no Hanoverian. In Scotland you may call me Miss Whuppity-Stourie.”
“Another tale of guessing names with magical result. I see. But you are no troll, I vow. Hmm,” he went on. “You were heading northwest back there. If you kept going in that direction, you would find MacPhersons—and those devils the MacCarrans of Duncrieff, a small but troublesome nest of Jacobites. Fiercely loyal. Clever, too.”
“I am liking Kate Whuppity-Stourie. What do you think?”
“Ah, is it MacCarran? And they have a legend about fairy blood, or so I have heard. I should have thought of that sooner.” He crowed. “Kate MacCarran!”
“Now what?” she asked bitterly. “Shall I turn around three times and disappear?”
He grinned. “First spin me a barn full of gold, Miss Fairy MacCarran.”
“I would rather turn you into a frog,” she grumbled.
“Marie Katherine MacCarran. So here you are at last.” He gave a low hoot of victory and drew her closer, helping her along a steep passage studded with rocks and bracken. Seeing her glum expression, he grew sober. “The MacCarrans are a fine lot, I admit, though some have gone to rascals. I heard the clan chief was imprisoned a while back, later released. His father before him was exiled, I believe. The chief is a young man. Robert MacCarran? Aye, that was it. Let me guess again. You are a well-educated young lady for all your faulty judgment in other matters. Might you be a sister to this Jacobite clan chief?”
“Oh, hush up,” she muttered.
“Sister to a chief!”
“You are quite pleased with yourself.”
“And here I thought you the queen of the fairies.”
“The better guess, in my opinion.”
They reached the foot of the hill. Alec led her toward the waiting horse. “I wish I had learned your name that day in London. Our guessing game would not have been necessary. Though I did enjoy it.”
“Too much,” she said. “I learned your name that day. I learned about the Fraser chocolate, too. But not the Whiggishness.”
He chose to ignore that. “What did your kinsmen talk you into doing for them?”
She tried to pull away, but he held tight. “I do what I please. No one orders me.”
“I do not doubt it. But you are helping your kinsmen for some reason.”
“My clan have always been loyal to the Stuarts, which you, red-breasted Lovat puppet, may find difficult to comprehend.”
“The fairy queen has a mouth on her,” he muttered. “Why would rogue MacCarrans send a lass to do their work?”
“They would look odd carting laundry about.”
