Page 22 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Is that my lad Hugh, come to take you round the glen?” Mary asked. Fiona went to the door while Maggie launched past her, barking. Fiona stepped outside and gasped.
A black carriage drawn by two bay horses had pulled into the yard from the dusty lochside road. Wheels creaking, heaving like a beast, it lumbered forward.
“A coach!” Mary hurried toward the door. “That is not my Hugh. It’s the old coach from Kinloch House.”
“Is it indeed.” Fiona folded her arms, scowling as she recalled Kinloch’s promise.
“That’s Hamish MacGregor driving it. He is one of the laird’s uncles. What does he want here? At least Kinloch is getting some use out of that old thing. His grandfather won it after a night of playing cards. But fine coaches are not meant for Highland roads,” Mary added. “Perhaps they are carrying a load o’ whisky. We could all make a profit. Oh!” She glanced at Fiona as if she had said too much.
“I believe Kinloch sent his coach for me,” Fiona said. “He wants me to leave the glen. He says the school does not need a teacher at this time.”
“Hah! He knows how much we do need a teacher,” Mary muttered, and went into the yard. The coach shuddered to a stop, two stocky horses blowing and shaking their thick manes. The old vehicle swayed, creaked, quieted.
“Hamish MacGregor, you get down from there!” Mary called.
“Greetings, Mary MacIan. I prefer not to get down. I am in a hurry.”
“Then I will pull your ears off when I see you next in kirk, for ruining my yard!”
The coachman sighed and climbed down. Maggie barked, running in circles as Fiona walked outside and lifted a hand against the morning sun.
“Good morning, Miss MacCarran.” He was a solidly built man of middle age with a round, mild face and a wild mane of iron-gray hair. He wore the shabby, comfortable outfit common to many Highland men—old jacket and trousers, plaidie swathed across his chest, flat bonnet tilted on his head. “I am Hamish MacGregor, uncle to the Laird o’ Kinloch. He sent me here for you.” He doffed his cap briefly.
“How nice to meet you,” she said. She wondered how many uncles the laird had.
“Why did Kinloch send you?” Mary asked.
“He said the lady wants to leave the glen. Pity, with her just arriving, and we needing a teacher, but if she wants to leave us, she shall go.”
“I am staying,” Fiona said.
“The laird said I should take you to Auchnashee. I will wait.”
“Thank you, but you may go, Mr. MacGregor. Tell Kinloch I am content to stay.”
“And tell him his coach is better used to carry whisky, not teachers,” Mary said.
Hamish looked at Fiona. “Miss, are you certain?”
“I am.”
“These are Kinloch’s best packhorses,” Mary said, walking over to pat their noses, two big handsome bays with long pale manes and creamy feathering around their ankles. “Groomed very fine, I see, all combed out.”
“Andrew did that, and greased the carriage wheels so the lady would ride in comfort. I suspect this is far better than a plain cart and an old blanket.”
Fiona hid a smile. So Hamish had heard about that.
“Well, take it back to Kinloch,” Mary said. “And let those horses out to graze. They are not used to harnessing. Just carrying pannier baskets full of barley bree,” she added wickedly.
Hamish chuckled. “Och, aye then. But the laird will not like it.”
“It is no fault of yours, Mr. MacGregor,” Fiona said.
“Tell Kinloch he will see Miss MacCarran on the first day of school,” Mary said. “My lad is out reminding glen folk to send their young ones to the school to meet the new dominie. Who will tell my lad his visits were in vain?”
“So be it. Miss MacCarran, I am sorry,” Hamish said.
“Not at all. Will you have tea and sausages with us?”
