Page 4 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Your devotion to your word is admirable. Just promise that you will not go wandering the hills alone. There are too many rascals in this godforsaken place.”
“An officer of the government suspects a smuggler around every corner.”
“Not without reason. I am only concerned for your welfare,” he added.
“As I am for yours. The work you do is far more dangerous than a little hillwalking. I know you were bored as a Signet clerk in the city and wanted this challenge. But pursuing smugglers is stressful work and risky. I worry about your welfare.”
“I like the adventure of it, I admit, and I am careful. This region is rife with smugglers, though. Keep that in mind and be cautious.” He frowned. “The loch is ten miles or so from its southern tip to this little glen, and more families are running private stills along its shores than we could count.”
“Anyone can produce whisky, up to five hundred gallons. You said so.”
“A small family distillery is fine. But what they do with the excess is a problem.”
“Remember when we were small in Perthshire, and the home farm supplied the estate with whisky? Father very much liked their particular brew.”
She glanced away, reminded too keenly of their father, who had died along with their mother when the four children had all been young. Twins Fiona and James, and siblings William and Patrick had been left to the care of their grandparents, Viscount and Lady Struan. Fiona and James had then gone into the well-meaning but overbearing guardianship of Lady Rankin, their great-aunt, while the younger boys stayed with their grandparents. Fiona still resided on Lady Rankin’s estate just outside of Edinburgh, though James had become Viscount Struan and had recently married.
Much as she loved Aunt Rankin, temporary teaching positions in the Highlands—like the school in Glen Kinloch—had become a welcome escape.
“Home distilleries are not the issue,” Patrick was saying. “But most owners of Highland stills manufacture far more whisky than theirallotted amount, and never report the quantity to the excise men. Thousands of gallons a year are smuggled for export, thus avoiding taxes imposed by the Crown. So the government sends out excise officers to track the free traders. It is an unpleasant business, Fiona, both the smuggling and the search for smugglers. I do not say so lightly.”
“I know. But free traders would hardly be interested in a glen teacher.”
“If she wanders the hills and happens to witness their actions, they will be very interested. I will watch over you as much as I can, but I cannot be here all the time. You must be prudent in your wanderings.”
“I will spend most of my days teaching in the glen, and I promise to be cautious whenever I go hillwalking. I will carry an umbrella as a weapon. How is that?” She drew herself to her full height, taller than most women, though not nearly as tall as her brother. “Truly, do not fret. I will be fine.”
Patrick twisted his mouth awry. “Very well. But I want to hear from you often. The mail runs out of the glen village once a week, so a letter can reach me at the southern end by the next day, with luck. One cannot always count on the mail couriers out here.”
“Reverend MacIan assures me the glen is quiet and safe, and most of the tenants are hardworking shepherds and drovers, the rest farming families. He says that smuggling occurs in other glens, but not in this one.”
“Does he indeed?” Patrick huffed skeptically. “Farmers raise barley crops and make whisky from that. Did he mention that hardworking Highland farmers and shepherds by day are free traders by night, loading their pack ponies and carrying loaded pistols through these pretty and peaceable hills?”
“He did not.” She walked up the slope, scanning the ground for interesting rock samples that might contain fossil imprints.
“Mrs. MacIan told me just today that they have a saying in thisglen—‘When the laird is on the mountainside, it is wise to step aside.’”
“Perhaps the laird of Glen Kinloch is a disagreeable sort.”
“There is a notorious smuggler in these parts called the Laird,” Patrick went on, walking beside her.
“I thought the Laird was apprehended a few months ago. In Perthshire, I believe.”
“Ah, you must mean the Whisky Lairds, dubbed so by Sir Walter Scott, the ones brought down to Edinburgh after their arrest. They turned out to be very much more than mere whisky smugglers. Lords and such, I believe.”
“Oh yes! I recall hearing something about it. One of them was presented to the king when he visited Scotland last summer.”
“An interesting fellow,” Patrick said. “I had the privilege of meeting him myself—the smuggler, not the king. But he is not the peat-reek laird who runs up and down Loch Katrine making excise officers miserable. That is another man. An elusive scoundrel.”
“Do you mean the laird of Kinloch?”
“The laird of Kinloch is just a farmer and a herder of livestock. He lives in a ruined tower. This is a poor glen. The laird is called MacGregor. He raises cattle and sheep and makes only the legal allotment of whisky. At least, that is what he reports to the government. None of these Highlanders can be trusted where whisky is concerned. I expect you will meet the farmer laird since you will be teaching in the glen school. Fiona, you might help me out a bit while you are here,” he said, stopping.
“How so?” She bent to scratch the dirt from the surface of a flat rock.
“Listen for any mention of this laird of peat reek, a rogue smuggler. We want to find that sly lad.”
“Peat reek? Is that a poorer variety? The whisky we tasted at Mrs. MacIan’s was very nice, I thought. Strong, but mellow.”
