Page 38 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Flowers, Miss MacCarran.” He lifted her knapsack to his shoulder and began to walk beside her. “You roam the hills searching for rocks, and I look for wildflowers.”
“For your lady love?” she asked. “You have not collected a bouquet.”
“My lady love wants a different sort of bouquet. She is a great belching thing, pretty and shiny, but she is fussy and demanding when the steam begins to roll off her. But oh, she gives great comfort when she is ready.”
She blinked. “A copper still?”
“Ah, she guessed the riddle and her rival.” His hazel eyes twinkled. A tiny thrill ran through her at his gentle teasing.
“Why does she need flowers, then?”
“Spring flowers will grow along the course of the burn near here, and I need to know what is there. The water feeds the stills down the slope.”
“I did not know flowers were part of illicit whisky distilling.”
“Legal whisky, Miss. Am I always a criminal in your regard?” He set a hand to his heart in mock wounding, and she laughed. “All manner of things are taken into account when distilling pot-whisky.”
“Why the flowers?”
“They flavor the water. Whatever grows by the burn makes the water taste sweeter, lighter, and gives the water, and so the whisky, a hint of fragrance. Some plants lend a tart or a bitter taste. Grass, wild onion, garlic, even your precious rocks, when the water flows over them, can affect the whisky. I come out now and then to check the burns and streams, so I know what goes into the batches. The quality of the barley, the peat, and the water,” he went on, “help to determine the flavor and character of the whisky. We keep watch over all three.”
“It sounds like an art.”
“More art than crime.” He glanced down at her.
“Ah,” she murmured. His devotion to every detail of the whisky was a fascinating revelation. The making of whisky was a passion, not just a business.
“Alas, though I would be honored to escort you today, my search takes me in another direction. And I see my kinsmen waiting.” He gestured with a thumb.
Fiona saw two men waiting on another slope, a young man she did not recognize and an older man who resembled Kinloch’s uncles. “Please do not let me delay you. I am content to wander. It was very nice to chat with you.”
“And with you, Fiona MacCarran.” He leaned toward her. “Do not wander too far, lass. Stay near the road and the loch.”
“I will.”
“And safe home before dark. Promise me.”
“I promise.” Her heartbeat quickened.
“Just so.” He handed her the knapsack, fingers grazing hers in the transfer. Even through her glove, she felt that casual contact, kept its memory in her hand.
As he walked away, long strides taking him over the slopes, kilt swinging, she watched him for a moment—then sighed and turned to examine some nearby rocks.
Safe home, he had said. Suddenly, she felt as if her life was too safe, dull and intellectual rather than exciting and filled with passion. She had taken a risk in coming to the Highlands, yet clung to the safety of her scholarly pursuits.
Some impulse made her want to run after Kinloch, walk with him beside the burn, searching for wildflowers to please his love, a belching old copper still. She wanted to taste the wild whisky and laugh about fish in the mountains and fairy tracks in the hills.
But he was already in the distance, walking with his kinsmen into the hills where he belonged. And she was a visitor, a Lowlander…an outsider.
Chapter Eight
The scratch ofnib over paper seemed loud in the quiet front room of Mary MacIan’s home at such a late hour. By the light of a flickering lantern, Fiona dipped pen to ink and continued to write, while the peat fire crackled and Mary snored softly in the back bedroom. Done with writing out the week’s lessons, verses in Gaelic translated to English to share with her students, Fiona now replied to a letter from James that had arrived by the mail coach just that day.
Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes and pushed at the old door, but the house was peaceful. Since Mrs. MacIan had a habit of retiring early, Fiona used the quiet evening hours to prepare lessons, compose letters, and work on her drawings.
She still owed a letter to her great-aunt, Lady Rankin, but would leave that for later. Though she loved her aunt, who had raised the twins after their parents had been lost in a shipwreck, she knew the viscountess dismissed Fiona’s charitable work, thinking most Highlanders little more than quaint savages. Lady Rankin would rather see her great-niece make a good marriage and stop pining for her lost love.
Fiona would far rather write to her twin brother, enjoying their exchange. She knew he wanted to hear about her work in Glen Kinloch, and she looked forward to having his thoughts in return.
