Page 18 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Eh, I am fine. This is a gift for Mrs. MacIan and her grandson, Reverend MacIan.” He caught up to her with long, sure strides.
“Was the cart full of illicit whisky, then?”
“I do not know. It was not my cart.”
She sent him a sour glance. “I suppose you bribe people with whisky so they will look away from what you and your kinsmen do in the glen.”
“Miss MacCarran, I am offended. It is tradition for the laird to give whisky to the manse. I share freely from the distillery on my estate.”
“Free traders or sharing freely? But I will not say a word. It is your business.”
“My business,” he said curtly, “is a licensed distillery with my kinsmen. This cask holds legal brew. I bring some to the MacIans with each new batch.”
“So the cart only held whisky that you share with others?”
“What else would it hold? Why would we smuggle it, with gaugers traipsing all about these hills?” He sounded amused.
She stopped. “Mr. MacGregor, let me suggest a bargain. I promise not to speak of what I have seen if you promise to never—”
“What? Never kiss you again?” He stopped too.
“That—should not happen again.” She could not let him see how much his kisses had flustered her, weakened her resolve. “I apologize. It is not in my character to behave so. I cannot think what happened.”
“Nor in my character. But I know what happened. The lovesickness.” He grinned.
She wished he were not so devilishly attractive—that smile was everything in the moment, charm and humor, temptation and risk. She felt heat in her cheeks. “Your uncle said the lovesickness has plagued you before.”
“Och, lassie, dinna believe Ranald MacGregor,” he said with an exaggerated lilt.
“It could be true, since you stole a kiss from a woman you hardly know.”
“I know her better than she thinks.” MacGregor leaned forward, so close she could feel his nearness rush through her. “I was not the only one stealing the kisses.”
She caught her breath. Something irresistible and magical had happened in that cart. Though she felt embarrassed now, part of her wanted to cherish it. MacGregor hovered near enough to kiss her again. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she stepped away.
“About this bargain, Miss MacCarran. If you will keep the adventure in the cart to yourself, I will consider never kissing you again. Is that agreeable?”
“Oh,” she said, flustered anew. That might be the poor end of the bargain, she thought; what if no one ever kissed her like that again? Blushing furiously, glad of the mist and lowering daylight, she turned toward the cottage. The door opened, golden light silhouetting awoman standing there. “Mrs. MacIan is waiting.”
“And gone again,” he said, as the door closed once more.
“No need to go farther, Mr. MacGregor. I can take the cask. It is not so big.”
“Not large, but heavy.”
“I am stronger than you think.”
“I see that, for you are carrying that great sack of rocks of yours. Mary MacIan would have my head if I sent you there loaded like a packhorse. And if she knew the rest that happened,” he added softly, “she would have my head for that, too. May it be a comfort to you.”
“It is.” She lifted her chin. “I will think about the agreement.”
“So will I,” he said, a little smile playing at his lips.
“Watch your step, the fog is that thick.” He held out a hand, which Fiona ignored as she walked past him.
Two strides and he was ahead of her. Seeing his wide shoulders and the rhythmic swing of his plaid kilt above strong calves, she remembered those wanton kisses and the fervor she had felt—and felt her face, her body, grow hot with embarrassment and more. She had allowed those kisses, encouraged and shared them, but she could not it happen again. But her heartbeat quickened at the very thought.
“Mr. MacGregor,” she called.
