Page 12 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Mr. MacGregor,” Miss MacCarran said crisply in Gaelic, “put that pistol away.” She reminded Dougal of a teacher he once had: a handsome woman, strict but kind, whom he had unabashedly adored as a lad.
His big, beefy, fearless uncle hesitated. “Begging pardon, Miss, but you must do as the laird says, or we will all have trouble.”
“I need not hide. Those officers are colleagues of my brother. And now I know you are all scoundrels,” she snapped.
Dougal heard the indignation in her voice. Impressed with her ire as well as her deft command of Gaelic, he was not about to debate gaugers versus smugglers just now. Clearly she was disposed to favor one over the other. And his idiot uncle waving a pistol about did not help.
“Ranald, set that thing away,” he snarled.
As he spoke, Miss MacCarran got hold of her knapsack and swung it hard enough to knock the weapon out of Ranald’s hand. Snatching the bag, Dougal fell across her and held her down, losing the plaid in the process. Ranald was swearing a fair storm, shaking his hand. The horses sidestepped, and Andrew mastered the reins.
“Och, what an excellent lass!” Ranald crowed as he stretched back, grabbed the pistol, and stashed it under his jacket.
“You are mad, the both of you!” Dougal growled at his uncle and the girl both. He threw a leg over hers while she writhed beside him. Somehow he pulled the plaid high again, then flipped down an edge to glare at Ranald. “Uncle, what in hell was that?”
“Sorry, Kinloch. I thought to keep her quiet so she couldna make trouble.”
“Yet she is. Stop it, you lass!” Dougal added as the girl pushed hard against him. “That pistol could have gone off and killed someone.”
“Then he should not have pointed it at anyone. Get—off!” She shoved hard.
He shifted his weight a bit but kept his leg over hers, additionally pinning her down with an arm over her chest. Her breath heaved under his entrapment. He regretted using his strength and ought to apologize, but it could not be helped in the moment. He closed his eyes—she was soft, curvy, and fit. Damned distracting.
“Why would smugglers care if someone is killed?” she asked. “Kidnapping, murder, smuggling, breaking the king’s law—it is nothing to such as you.”
“Ruthless, we are,” Dougal drawled. “Blackguards, we three.”
“Wretches,” she agreed. “Scoundrels.”
“Och, we are not so bad as gaugers,” Ranald said, leaning back to talk to her.
“I believe it is just the opposite,” she rasped.
“Whisky smugglers are not all bad sorts,” Dougal murmured. “Often they are decent men who simply correct bad governmental regulations.”
“You mean blatantly ignore the law.”
“Highland whisky makers have a right to do what they want with barley they grow on their land.”
“The new regulations—”
“The Crown has no right to tax anything a Scotsman makes from his barley.”
“You cannot argue with that, lassie,” Ranald said as the cart rolled slowly on.
“Revenue men earn an honest living upholding the law,” she answered.
“Hah!” Ranald grunted. “She seems a good Scottish lass, speaking the tongue of the Gaels, but she defends English law over Highlanders.”
“I respect and appreciate Highlanders. I do,” she added.
“If you do,” Dougal said, “then know you are safe with Highland men of good character, and unsafe with gaugers who would kill a manjust to snatch a keg of whisky.”
“So you are smugglers,” she said.
“I never said either way. But we are no friends of customs men, those paid by the government to enforce limits on Highland whisky making and take the excess.”
“My brother is a fine officer who is only interested in bringing criminals to justice.”
