Page 14 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“I do not know who you mean,” Andrew said. He translated that to Ranald. “My father does not speak English. We are just farmers.”
“We are looking for farmers, crofters, and smugglers. You are a slippery lot.”
“There are many MacGregors in this glen, all around the loch,” Andrew said.
“What are you doing out here?”
Ranald murmured to Andrew, who spoke again. “We are just bringing a kinsman to the healing woman in the hills above Drumcairn. Old Hector MacGregor from up the glen side is in the back. He is very ill, sir.”
Dougal knew then he had better be a convincing Hector, an elderly and hearty cousin who lived at the far end of the glen. He groaned and coughed.
“Don’t believe them,” one revenue officer said to the other. “Rascals, the lot of them. Search the cart. You two sit there and do not move.”
“I will have to explain this to my father,” Andrew said, and began to speak Gaelic in a loud, distracting voice. What he said was not flattering to the gaugers.
Hearing footfalls, Dougal knew the revenue men had moved to the cart bed now, no doubt staring at the blanketed form in the hay. The girl tensed beneath him, and he lay motionless, his breath brushing the soft curls along her brow.
“There’s a man there under the plaid,” one of them said. “See his boot.”
Dougal coughed, adding an ugly groan at the end.
“Sounds bad,” the second man said. Dougal heard the rustling of straw as the gaugers reached over the cart side to pull at the plaid. Moaning again, he made a retching sound. Beneath him, the girl shuddered—tears? Panic?
“Ill, or drunk on his own peat reek,” one of the men growled. “What else do you carry besides that old drunken rascal? Kegs of whisky to be confiscated?”
Ranald growled in Gaelic as Andrew translated. “My father says not everyone moves peat reek about, sir. He takes offense to be so accused.”
“Insulted until we find crocks and kegs under the straw, eh?”
“We’re carrying hay, and a very sick old man,” Andrew answered. “Hector is not drunk. He’s ill, and we need to get him to a healer who lives in these hills.”
“They’re all thieves and liars,” one of the officers snarled. He thumped the cart bed so hard that the impact bounced through Dougal and the girl both. That sound came from a gun butt or a cudgel.
Dougal emitted another unearthly groan. One gauger cried out and both swore.
“I would not be touching Old Hector if I were you,” Andrew answered.
“What’s he got?” one officer asked.
“Fever, sir,” Andrew translated.
“That’s nothing. Get him up. Let’s see him.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,”Ranald said quickly.
“Tinneen-groo-doo? What the devil is that?” an officer demanded.
“A terrible sickness,” Andrew said. “He has had it for a while, and this is a bad spell. Do not touch him, sir,” he added hastily. “You could catch it, and it is a horrible thing to bear.”
Dougal coughed again, loudly, clutching the girl to him. Her armsslid around him, probably to ease her position. She was shaking again, convulsing, and he rubbed her shoulder in reassurance. Then he realized that she was laughing.
He huffed in her ear, a whisper of laughter. She relaxed a bit, softening against him. Her bonnet tipped askew, and his lips met the soft shell of her ear. She sighed.
Such a sultry movement, so close to him; a feeling rocketed through his body, eliciting a response that needed immediate suppression. He tilted away from her. She looked up at him in the darkness beneath the plaid. He caught that gaze and was lost.
For an instant, he forgot where they were, what they were doing. There was magic between them—where had it come from, so sudden, so sweet and tempting?
But he could not be distracted. He turned his head to fake another retch and an agonizing cough. The girl patted his shoulder in mock sympathy.
