Page 41 of A Rogue in Moonlight
Dougal crossed hisarms and surveyed the mounted gaugers. “Smuggling? You are mistaken,” he said calmly.
“What else would bring you lot out here tonight, with packhorses?”
“MacIntyre, what are you doing here in Glen Kinloch, on my land? It is outside your jurisdiction,” Dougal countered.
“The stink of peat-reek whisky from Highland stills, carried in the panniers of those horses, brought us here,” Tam said. “Your glen has no customs and excise man, so we must extend ourselves though we are overworked. But we have MacCarran now to help us. The one who held this post died a while back. Curious, that.”
Now Fiona saw Fergus, his silhouette distinct and recognizable, leave the group to come toward them. “That one died in his bed months back, and you know it. He was not fit for chasing about thesehills. Bred in the south, and too old.”
“Even so,” Tam said, “here we are. I would wager those baskets and kegs hold a cartload of illicit peat reek.”
“Call it the best Highland brew, as it deserves,” Dougal said. “You cannot prove it illegal, though. We pay taxes, we can transport a certain amount, and well you know it. Good night and be on your way.”
He turned to return to the group, his heart pounding at the chance he had taken. Each basket carried by these dozen horses held whisky in bottles and kegs, from his stills and others. Yet no gauger could easily distinguish the product of different stills, not as well he could, and they would have a devil of a time knowing which kegs were carried legitimately and which were not. Their assumption—rightly so, he had to credit—was smuggling activities. But they had to be dissuaded.
Fergus leaned toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a righteous path,” Dougal murmured. “I learned it from the reverend.”
“Ah. So we are insulted and carrying a legal amount, is that it?”
Dougal nodded subtly, glancing back toward the gaugers sitting their horses in the middle of the road. “Where did they learn about this run?”
Fergus shrugged. “Not from us.”
“Kinloch!” Tam called. The sound of a cocking pistol broke the silence.
Dougal touched the gun hidden beneath the swath of plaid draped shoulder to waist. “Mr. MacIntyre, you are disturbing the peace of my glen.”
“Bold lad,” Tam growled. He and his deputy—MacCarran, Dougal realized—urged their horses forward. “So you are moving the peat reek to a ship on the loch,” Tam said. “We spied a boat out there earlier.”
“Did you now? I know nothing of a ship. When we move whisky,it is from one household to another in lawful amounts. Gifts, see. We share it regularly hereabouts.”
“Am I to believe this is all innocent?”
“Believe the truth. We have a few bottles of the legal stuff here, and sacks of barley kept over the winter. We are taking it to those who need extra stores.”
“Lawful amounts of whisky and barley to feed the poor?” Tam spat. “Saint Kinloch! MacCarran, I told you to check those panniers. Do it!”
The younger man dismounted, looking reluctant, and came toward Dougal. “Mr. MacGregor,” he murmured.
“Mr. MacCarran.” Fiona’s brother, he noticed, was a tall, fine-looking young man with dark hair and features that, while longer and more angular, looked familiar.
“If I may, sir. Excuse me.” MacCarran walked toward the group of men, and Dougal went with him. Fiona’s brother reached toward the nearest horse, its back strapped with pannier baskets, and peered into the baskets.
Dougal waited as the young man shifted aside small sacks of barley placed to serve as packing to stifle the clink of stout glass bottles.
Dougal smiled. “Patrick MacCarran, good to meet you, sir.”
Patrick looked around. “Have we met?”
“Your sister is the dominie in our glen school. Teaches the bairns.”
MacCarran frowned. “We need not discuss my sister, sir.”
“Of course not. I only want to say she is well thought of here.”
The new gauger’s hand stilled on the barley sacks, inches from detecting far too many bottles to pass as local supply. “Do you have more to say, sir?” he murmured.
