Page 31 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“He is the one to tell you,” the reverend said. “I am inspired to read Sir Walter’s magnificent epic, ‘Lady of the Lake,’ again, since it is about Loch Katrine, so near to us. We could discuss it, you and I.” Heswept an arm wide. “‘On this bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady’s bower—’”
“Do not recite another blasted poem. The students are waiting,” Kinloch said irritably.
Fiona glanced at him. “Do you dislike Sir Walter’s poetry, sir?”
“I have read some of it. It did not enthrall me. I lacked patience for the length. Some verses did remind me of Glen Kinloch though.” He tilted his head. “‘But hosts may in these wilds abound, such as are better missed than found; to meet with Highland plunderers here—were worse than loss of steed or deer,’” he concluded, “or something to that effect.”
MacIan smiled flatly. “We have no time for poetry, you said. Scholars are waiting.”
“That was very nice, sir.” Fiona loved the deep timbre of his voice, though he had mocked her, in the moment with his clear implication about smugglers in the hills.
As they reached the flat of the hill where the schoolhouse perched, Kinloch set a hand to her elbow to guide her up. His touch felt like gentle lightning. Even his polite, casual touch affected her. She had to avoid this man. Flustered, she held her chin high.
Near the school, the tower house loomed. She glanced up at its turrets and thick walls, and saw a shabbiness she had not noticed at a distance. Stone blocks crumbled in places, corners were coated in rusty ivy, stone trim was cracked, a window was broken, and the roof needed repair. She said nothing, turning her attention to the school.
“The schoolhouse was once a weaver’s cottage,” Hugh MacIan said. “So it is not large.”
“It is old,” Kinloch said. “We have kept it up best we can.”
“It will do nicely,” Fiona said. In the morning light, the whitewashed building and greening hills were picturesque, but now she saw that the schoolhouse, too, needed repair, with peeling plaster, old thatch, a sagging door, a chipped stone step. A goat and three sheepwandered through the yard. The folks gathered by the door moved aside when a large ram appeared and settled heavily near the entrance.
“It will do,” she repeated rather too brightly.
“The roof leaks,” MacGregor said.
“We will fetch buckets if it rains,” she said.
“The walls are crumbling. Do not lean against the back wall during a heavy rainstorm.”
“I never lean, nor would I allow my students to do so.”
“There may be mice underfoot.”
“I will get a cat,” she said.
“I will find one for you,” he answered. “You are determined, I see.”
“I am.” She smiled. He returned a heartwarming grin suddenly, and her heart gave a little fillip. Quickly she looked away. “The students are waiting.”
“And some of their parents. Ah, there is Mrs. Beaton,” the reverend said. “I must speak to her about her daughter’s wedding service. Please excuse me.” He smiled at Fiona. “Since the laird owns the school, he should introduce you.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” She smiled as he left. “Now that I know the way here, tomorrow I will arrive earlier. I did not know they would all be here before me.”
“You would have to rise very early to be here first,” Kinloch said, “since most of your students will be up before dawn to do the milking and chores before they head to school. Come meet them.”
He touched her elbow, and again she felt that keen inner tug. She sensed the strength and calm in the man, though he was a smuggler and a scoundrel. She felt determined, as he had said—determined to let nothing, including this laird, distract her from her work.
Chapter Seven
Dougal nodded, satisfiedand oddly proud as he watched Fiona MacCarran greet each person in the schoolyard. She repeated their names as he introduced her and spoke to them in deft, good Gaelic, winning over even those suspicious of outsiders and Lowlanders. Everyone seemed more at ease after speaking with her.
“This is Pol MacDonald,” Dougal continued as they made their way through the group, “and my young cousin Jamie MacGregor. And here is another MacGregor—Andrew, Ranald’s son.” He indicated the lads, tall and small, standing together. Knowing Miss MacCarran would recognize Andrew from their first encounter, he prayed she would not let on.
She smiled as if she had never seen Andrew before, while the boy blushed furiously. Jamie, just seven, his thatch of red-gold hair bright as a setting sun, straightened his narrow shoulders and shook his teacher’s hand. And Pol MacDonald, with a trace of new blond whiskers along his jaw, was so nervous that his voice cracked as he spoke to the new teacher.
Dougal was pleased to see how Miss MacCarran took time for each person, pausing to chat with Pol’s father, a farmer with a rough manner and a kind nature; and Ranald’s sturdy wife, Effie; then Fergus’s daughter Muriel, her hair as fiery as her son Jamie’s. Shy Helen MacDonald, Pol’s cousin, welcomed the new dominie quietly, pushing her twelve-year-old daughter, Annabel, forward, who was astimid as her mother, both of them delicate, blond, and fairy-like in appearance.
Then Pol’s sister Mairi MacDonald and her friend Lilias Beaton came forward smiling. Both girls were among the older students in the class, and Dougal knew that Lilias was engaged to a young man in the next glen. Hugh MacIan had been discussing the upcoming wedding with the girl and her mother.
