Page 40 of A Rogue in Moonlight
Beware the hills when the Laird is walking…we always keep clear…
Fiona would not have gone out at night but for the little dog. But now she was helpless to save Maggie from the passing smugglers.
Some of the men looked toward the standing stones, but moved on. A minute more and they would pass by; another few minutes and they would be gone entirely.
Her heart slammed, but some hint of courage and determination emerged, calming her, slowing her breath. She peered out just far enough to watch the men pass, hearing the rhythmicchinkof harnessfittings and steady footfalls.
One of the men walking along stepped away from the rest. Fiona pressed flat to the cool rock, peering around the side of the stone to see where the man had gone. From behind, a hand snatched her arm, and another hand covered her mouth as he turned her around quickly.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness—the eyes, the height of him, the width of his shoulders, the swing of his dark hair were familiar. She breathed out, felt a trembling relief as he bent closer.
“Fiona MacCarran,” he whispered, “go home and lock the door.” His breath caressed her cheek, melting her, buckling her knees. She reached out and gripped his jacket, and his hand came away from her mouth, thumb tracing her cheek.
“Dougal,” she whispered.
“Hush, you. All is well here, but you need to go.” His fingers took her chin, tilted it.
She leaned up, not moving, waiting. He hesitated.
Then his lips touched hers lightly. Drawing in a breath, she slid an arm around his neck and returned the kiss—and then he was kissing her full, deep, holding her close as they stood behind the stone, his body pressed hard against hers. A sudden, hot thrill sank through her, body and soul, fueled by the kiss, the darkness, the danger, and him.
“A Dhia,”he murmured, lips finding hers, separating. “What is it you do to me? You do not need this in your life—”
“What if I do?” She splayed her hands on his chest, surprised by a powerful craving. “Take me with you.”
“No. Go now.” He stepped back, turned away.
Her heart tumbled as she watched him return to the group, his strong rhythmic stride familiar now, almost dear to her. He rejoined the others without a word, and Maggie gamboled after him. He stooped, petted her, shooed her away. Someone murmured, and Dougal laughed low and pointed ahead, away from the stone where Fiona stood. The group moved onward, the sound of their passingeerie. Reaching the road, they merged into shadow.
Now Maggie ran toward her, and Fiona reached for the dog’s collar, looping the rope to it. “Now I have you! Come here, my good lassie.”
The dog pulled, trying to follow the smugglers and her beloved laird. Fiona realized that Maggie was not defending territory but greeting friends, men she knew and saw often out on the hills and moors at night. Fiona pulled, murmuring encouragement.
As the lanterns flashed and vanished like yellow stars, Fiona paused. She should cross the road quickly and return to the house. But like Maggie, she only wanted to turn the other way and follow the laird of Kinloch. The power of the urge took her breath away, muting the voice of common sense.
Her life felt dull and limited, but for her travels and work in the Highlands. She longed for a bold spark of adventure and passion. Longed for love again, for something wild, fierce. What she had felt in Dougal MacGregor’s kisses hinted at passion and discovery far beyond what the safe circles of her life could offer.
But smuggling was criminal, and her new dream was simply a fantasy. Even Kinloch had urged her to go home, lock the door, keep safe, leave the glen. Yet his kisses said something different, tempting, hopeful.
Adventure was one thing—folly was another. She should not entertain such a foolish dream as this.
The clouds dispersed again, and in the pale moonlit glow, she saw lanterns flare, saw two men on horseback along the road. Their hoofbeats were rapid, and she could hear shouts in the distance. She watched, skirts whipping in the wind as she held tight to the leash while Maggie barked, strained for release.
“Customs and excise!” one of the riders bellowed. “You there! Stop!”
She recognized the voice of Tam MacIntyre, the officer who hadstopped Ranald MacGregor’s cart the first night she had come to the glen. Maggie pulled at the leash, growling low.
Fiona patted her. “Stay. Good girl,” she murmured. She held the dog in place in the darkness near the standing stones. The dog continued to growl. “Hush, stay,” Fiona said.
“Dougal MacGregor!” Tam called. The sound carried as the horsemen pulled up their reins. The group of men ahead stopped, and one man walked back toward the excise officers. “Kinloch. Why am I not surprised to find you out here tonight?”
“Ah, Tam!” Dougal said. “Who else is with you?”
“What is in those baskets, Kinloch? MacCarran, go look in those panniers. I wager this lot is smuggling something.”
MacCarran! Patrick was here? Fiona gripped the dog’s leash tightly and crouched beside Maggie, holding the dog’s trembling body, her own limbs shaking in fear.
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