Page 27 of A Rogue in Moonlight
Even from a distance, he easily recognized the people approaching. He knew each one, each family. For generations, their kin had rented holdings from the lairds of Kinloch—and would always have that right if he had any say in it, no matter the clearings that were happening in other glens and regions.
Mothers carried small ones and guided older ones along, some of the girls and boys running ahead. Fathers came too, leaving their work for a bit, as it was an important day for the families. The children leaped rocks and watery runnels while their parents called, laughing or warning. Some walked through clusters of sheep grazing on the slopes with flanks marked with colored dye. Goats, too, scrabbled alongsteeper climes, while the children were reminded not to bother them.
The wind was cool, and bright sun crested the hill as Dougal lifted a hand to his brow. In late April, the slopes were greening up. Heather would not flower until late summer, its evergreen shrubs barely green at the tips; gorse bushes showed yellow buds; bluebells and buttery primroses spread blurs of soft color over the glen slopes, beside burns, and among trees.
The wild beauty of Glen Kinloch was more dear to him than he could ever express. He would do what he must to keep it safe and untouched.
“Kinloch!”
Turning, he saw Uncle Fergus coming near. The man hunched forward, walking in that rushing way he had, arms and fists swinging. His powerful torso and legs, and his thick black hair and beard reminded Dougal of a black bull, an image enhanced by the leather apron he often wore. Dougal waved and waited, gazing past his uncle toward the house.
Long ago, the structure had been a small, sturdy castle, an old tower house built generations earlier by a MacGregor whose cattle-reiving activities had warranted the protection of stout stone walls. After the strife and grief of Culloden had torn Scotland asunder seventy years earlier, when the Kinloch MacGregors and many thousands of others lost men and fortunes, the house had fallen into ill repair.
Resources were scant for keeping the old mortared stones together, but Glen Kinloch was populated with people of strong Highland stock who could live anywhere, under any conditions. Eventually, they recovered from those devastating days, and his kinsmen had done everything they could to support the glen folk, keep the old tower house upright and dry in the rain, and keep livestock grazing in the hills. Dougal was determined that his people and his kin would always flourish under his watchful eye, no matter what he must do, what riskshe must take.
The greatest threat to the Highlands these days was no longer English troops, but the steady infiltration of Lowlanders and Englishmen buying up huge tracts of Scottish land for sheep runs, hunting lodges, and holidaying sites.
Dougal would never let that affect his glen. He would protect it always. But he would not sell the fairy brew to do it, even if it could bring in enough to save them all. He kept a sizable cache of excellent Glen Kinloch whisky to sell instead. Aged to a rare degree, what sat in storage now would fetch a good price.
At that moment, he saw Fiona MacCarran crossing the glen. His heart leaped as if he were a hopeful boy rather than a man. He instantly remembered kissing her, but shook his head to clear the thought. There was no place for a woman in his life now, especially the sister of a gauger who could ruin all his plans.
She carried a packet, he saw, clutched against her, probably books or papers. Sunlight gleamed over her dark hair as the wind pushed back her straw bonnet. Her gown of deep blue accentuated her slim curves, and she wore a plaid shawl over her shoulders that whipped about in the breeze. Oddly, he thought of how the blue gown would match her eyes.Stop,he admonished himself again.
Whatever impulse had made him kiss her, he had apologized for it, and so it was over. Forgotten. The night and the mist, and the girl in his arms in a close, warm space—all of it had taken him over like a fool. The romance of it had taken her, too. But it was done.
Hugh MacIan, the kirk minister, hurried behind her and caught up to walk with her. She looked trim and small beside the reverend; he had the muscular build of a Highland warrior, though dressed in a somber black suit like a city man, and devoted, most of the time, to his Bible.
Even so, Reverend MacIan was a clever smuggler and a good help in that regard. Dougal smiled, wondering what the bonny Lowlandteacher would think if she knew it.
Seeing her flashing smile as she walked and talked with Hugh, Dougal frowned. He knew that bright smile and the feel of that trim waist under his hands; knew the scent of her, lavender and fog, and the sweet warmth of her lips. He should keep aloof, he thought; let her decide that a handsome, educated kirk minister was more interesting than a Highland laird who had left university to distill and smuggle whisky.
No matter. Soon she would be gone. Just then, Hugh took her elbow as they walked, and Dougal felt a frisson of jealousy slip through him.
“Kinloch!” Fergus called as he came close. “The lass is ready.”
“Lass?” Distracted, Dougal thought he meant the teacher.
“Lucy! She’s ready and none too glad about it.”
Glancing toward the house, Dougal saw a boy and a girl standing on the step. His heart tugged to see the small girl, his dark-haired niece Lucy. She was in a stormy humor, he saw, her hands fisted at her sides, her little brow glowering.
“She does not want to go to school. Jamie does,” Fergus said of his grandson, the son of his daughter and her shepherd husband. The boy was tall for his age with blazing red hair, albeit contrasted by a sweet, peaceful nature. Young Jamie patted Lucy’s shoulder. She shrugged it off.
“Lucy says smugglers do not go to school,” Fergus said.
Dougal sighed. “I may have been wrong to raise my sister’s daughter among kin who dabble in free trade. Kinloch is not the best place for a wee lass to grow up.”
“It is! She is happy and cherished, though we be thieves and rogues. But good men for all that,” Fergus said. “She is indulged, to be sure, and we could be more stern with her. But she is blessed with charm, and the wee lass knows it. You and Ellen were reared at Kinloch among whisky makers and traders, and you both did wellenough,” he pointed out. “Though Jeanie was a help, and Lucy needs to be raised by a woman. Good, until she left us,” he muttered. “It is not so easy to raise a girl-child.”
“Jeanie has left Hamish before,” Dougal said. “She will be back, with luck.” He saw Lucy push Jamie off the step. The boy climbed up again, smiling. Lucy glowered at him.
“That wee lad has a saint’s patience,” Fergus said. “She’s a fiery sprite, a beauty like her mother, but a determined thing. When she is grown, there will be lads at your door and hell to pay.”
Jamie tried to take Lucy’s hand, but she picked up her slate and book and walked away. “We will be lucky if anyone knocks at the door to court her,” Dougal drawled.
“School is about to start. Lucy! Jamie! Go on!” Fergus called.
The schoolyard was filling with a small crowd, Dougal noticed. The school, situated not far from the tower house, was a rectangular whitewashed building surrounded by an earthen yard, occupying a flat section of the hill where sheep and goats chewed the grass down neatly and regularly. Students and families were already gathering in the yard. Others without children had arrived too, curious to meet the new dominie.
