Page 87 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“We could solve that,” he murmured.
She twisted her hands together. “The clause stipulates that I am to marry a wealthy, titled Highlander.”
“Ah.” He stepped back.
Her heart sank at his caution and coolness. “Wealth takes all forms,” she said.
“The will refers to only one form, I think.” He took another step back.
“You offer so much—this beautiful glen, the loyalty of kin and friends, even the rare secret of fairy whisky. What you offer is a different kind of wealth. The best sort, and it has far more meaning than material wealth.” She glanced up then, hopeful. But his eyes were dark green. Stormy.
“Regardless, whatever I offer will not win you your inheritance.”
She sighed. “I cannot meet all of the conditions. It is impossible.”
“You can if you marry someone else,” he said. Fiona lowered her head, but felt his gaze upon her. “Marry another, and make a few wee drawings.”
He leaned over the table and picked up the pencil. A stroke here, there, and as Fiona watched the drawing sparked to life under his defthand. Whatever was missing, he provided before her eyes. “There,” he said softly. “Now she looks a little like you. Beautiful. That was what you needed to add. The resemblance. Your own magic.” He set the pencil down. Stepped back again.
“Dougal, wait.” Fiona stood, stretched out her hand, met air.
He went to the door, turned back. “Decide what you want for yourself and your family. I will not tell you what to do. I know what I want, lass. You must sort this out for yourself.”
“Please, Dougal,” she said, hands trembling.
“Lass,” he said, gripping the door handle, “whatever happens, my life will not change. Life in the glen goes on as it always has. Hearts endure somehow. I learned that years ago.” He opened the door, stepped out, shut it.
She ran to the door and opened it, but he had vanished in the shadows. She leaned her head against the oak planking.Hearts endure somehow.He must have discovered that years ago. She had felt the same after Archie’s death, when she had learned to endure and move on somehow.
But she wanted to be happy now, wanted it desperately with Dougal; she wanted him to feel that happiness too. Yet if she chose to live in the glen to claim what could be a peaceful, fulfilling life, her choice could set her brothers up for ruin.
In Glen Kinloch, the impossible had happened for her, and she could not overlook that. She had fallen in love with a Highland laird whose wealth lay in his offer of love and a good life. But he might not want her now that he had learned the truth of why she was here. Falling in love with him was all she wanted, but it would not satisfy the will.
And so the inheritance would go to Nicholas MacCarran, Lord Eldin.
Hearing a whimper, Fiona looked down to see Maggie beside the door, pawing to go outside. Fiona opened it again. “Go on, go afterhim, he will speak to you!”
She watched the dog dash through the shadows. Fiona longed to follow and find the laird, too. Instead, she shut the door and went to the table, sitting, chin in hand.
Her drawing was beautiful, improved by the delicate touches Dougal had made. But as she sat and looked at it, a tear dropped on the paper, smudging the pencil lead.
Her choice was clear, though she did not want it. Her siblings depended on her to fulfill her part of the agreement. And now the Laird of Kinloch had let her know that he could, and would, be fine without her.
She would not be so fine—but she knew she must leave Glen Kinloch.
Chapter Seventeen
“The game isgoing well,” Fergus said, even as someone shoved hard against him. He shoved back, his face reddening. “Very well!”
“Aye,” Dougal grunted, pushing a shoulder into the huddle, watching his feet as the players kicked and shuffled. Like the rest, Dougal was looking for the elusive feather-stuffed leather ball that darted and rolled amid a forest of legs—like any of them, if he found it, he would kick it away and try to take possession.
He and Fergus hovered at the outer edge of the great press of men and boys. Dozens crammed together in a great, wicked beast of a crowd, grunting, shoving, and sweating as they vied to find, snatch, and direct the ball between one goal and the next. North and South were huge teams both, the north glen claiming an old, crumbling stone wall on the hill below Kinloch House for a goal, while the south glen claimed the standing stones near the lochside road. No quarter was given. Each time the ball was sighted, every man went after it.
All were here, Dougal thought, glancing around. By now they were gathered in the middle of the glen floor toward the end of a very long day. The huge group of players had gone up the glenside and down the lochside, taking the slopes, moving in great herds through villages, splashing through burns and leaping over and around rocks, even darting in and out of houses and byres. Now they were back in the broad meadow near a long stretch of muddy bog.
To a man, they were exhausted after hours of shoving, pushing, running the ball in packs from one point to the next. They had endured pummelings and hardships for the sake of the ball, and were bruised, aching, and thirsty. But each player called up the energy to carry on, following up and down the glen. The ball, muddy and torn, had been stolen countless times from gripping hands, hidden under shirts, crammed under wads of turf, or sunk in a stream while others searched for it. Countless times it had been found, claimed, kicked, caught, and zigzagged around the glen with players in endless pursuit.
The day had begun in a civilized way, the two teams assembling at the midpoint of the glen. Dougal had opened the game by playing a tune on his bagpipes, and rousing cheers rose from the crowd assembled ready to watch and follow the players. Rob MacIan had brought carts loaded with ale and cheese and other food from his inn, and claimed the privilege of tossing the leather ball high up to begin the game.
