Page 75 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“I did, and also to—oh, she is gone.” The beautiful woman in gold and gossamer had vanished. Fiona sighed. “It was not my imagination. I did see her just there. But I suppose you will say me wrong.”
He was staring at the spot where the woman had stood. “No one is there.”
“I saw her, I swear. A ghost or a fairy woman. I hoped—” She stopped, bit her lip.
He narrowed his eyes. “Was there another reason you came to Glen Kinloch, other than to teach?”
“I must find fairies, in order to get the inheritance,” she blurted. She did not feel herself at all. She felt expansive, excited, feeling an urge to be honest, to be bold. “And I came to the Highlands to find—well, perhaps to find you. But you are not what my grandmother wanted. Or Sir Walter Scott either. My brothers will like you, though. That is, if you will have me.”
“Inheritance? What about Sir Walter Scott? And your brothers? What are you going on about?” His eyes blazed green fire as he frowned at her.
She was blathering on, she realized, and ought to stop. The whisky had loosened her tongue, made her thoughts and her words race too quickly away from her. No dram or drink had ever affected her like this. She put a hand to her head. “I had little more than a glass of whisky. What was in that silver flask?”
“A particular brew that I should have locked away. Fiona, tell me what you are talking about. Why did you come to the glen? What inheritance?”
She looked up into his green and scowling gaze. “Do you know, sir, you are a beautiful man, and I think I want to kiss you.”
“What—” He caught her by the arms as she lifted on her toes and leaned forward, stumbling against him. She kissed him, a smack as he leaned hard away when her mouth pressed against his. He resisted for an instant—then gave a soft growl under his breath, and took command of the kiss. Now it turned sure and fierce, lips seeking, finding hers, tender and delving.
Sighing, she felt her knees melt, felt as if she tumbled from a height, as if her heart bloomed like a flower. And she knew then, fou or sober, bold or shy, capable or wild, that she was falling in love, tumbling so hard with it that she sighed against his lips.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed close, stunned by her feelings. Safe, welcomed, partnered.Loved.Though she could not know for sure, it felt so.
Then he was kissing her again, gently now, soothing his mouth over hers, kissing her into breathlessness. His lips caressed, his hands cradled her head in a warm, luscious chain of kisses that made her knees tremble, her body ripple with desire. Joy sparked inside her like a candle. Love took flame, filled her. She slipped her fingers through his hair, the dark silk of it, as he traced his lips along her jaw and throat. She moaned softly, wanting more desperately, her heart pounding.
“Dougal,” she whispered, savoring his name as he gathered her closer. She faltered a little, her legs unsteady. She felt overtaken by the whisky and overwhelmed by the emotions emerging within.
He pulled away, brows drawn tight. “Lass,” he murmured. “I did not mean to—”
“But I am glad you did.” She closed her eyes, tipped her head against his shoulder. “Oh. I feel so dizzy.”
“We had best get you upstairs. First, tell me what you saw in this room.” He kept a hand on her arm, and she was grateful for the steadying.
“Moments ago? A lovely creature, like a sparkling mist. At first Ithought she was a ghost, but I think now she was a fairy, so beautiful and delicate.”
“I see. And how much did you pour from the silver flask?”
“Not that much,” she defended. “The flask saidUisge-beatha an ceann loch—Kinloch whisky. You said I should try it. Did I take the wrong bottle? I am sorry if so.”
“My fault. I did not make the difference clear. Glen Kinloch whisky is in a brown bottle. The silver flask holds more properly what we callUisge-beatha síthiche ceann loch—Kinloch fairy whisky. I must change that label,” he muttered to himself.
“Fairy whisky?” She blinked up at him, startled. “But you said there is no such thing, that the fairy brew is just a legend.”
“We make different whiskies here. One is made from a very old family recipe that traditionally we call fairy whisky. The MacGregors of Kinloch have distilled it for generations. We do not make much, just enough to share with kin and friends.”
She was delighted. “I drank fairy whisky, truly? How marvelous!”
“Not always. It can be potent stuff, far more than the other.”
“My brother once tasted fairy brew. It is rare stuff, he told me. His wife is Elspeth MacArthur—her cousin makes it and brings it to her and her grandfather. Are you the one who makes the fairy brew?”
He sighed. “That would be me, aye. I give some to Donal MacArthur every year. They are among the few of my kin who can feel the special power of the brew. Not everyone does. There is a magical spell about it, they say, and some have the ability to sense it. We treat it with care because of the legend.”
“Legend?”
“The origin of the stuff. That is all,” he said simply.
“But I felt something too. How odd.” She shook her head a little, trying to clear the fog away. Had the whisky given her the ability to see the dazzling woman in the library? “I did see her, the fairy woman. I am sure of it. She stood just there. She reached out to touch you, butyou did not notice.”
