Page 43 of A Rogue in Moonlight
A woman walked toward them along the road, leading a dog on a rope. The dark plaid draped over her head covered most of her, but for her skirt hiked high over bare feet. The dog trotted obediently beside her as she neared the men clustered on the road. She kept her head down.
Though she looked like a Highland housewife, Dougal knew Fiona immediately, and Maggie too. The lass had not gone home as he hadadvised. He took a step forward, but Fergus put up a hand to stop him.
Instead, Patrick MacCarran walked toward the woman, speaking quietly to her. She answered softly, then passed by him, approaching Dougal. The dog came with her.
“Ah, Kinloch, is it you?” she asked in a clear voice, in good Gaelic.
“You know damn well it is,” he growled in that language, satisfied that MacIntyre, at least, could not understand the words. Maggie bounded around his legs, pleading for the petting he refused her, focusing on the lass. He did not know whether to feel furious, or relieved, or both. “What are you doing?”
“Speak English? I try,” she said. “Is it you bringing the barley for the soup?”
“I am,” he replied, scowling.
“Tapadh leat,”she said, “thank you. My grandmother is pleased, aye? We have so little. The laird is a blessing in this glen. I am bringing my wee dog with me to her house.Oidhche mhath,good night.” She walked on, the dog pulling on the leash, wanting to stay with her favorite laird.
Watching, Dougal felt his heart leap into his throat when MacIntyre looked down at Fiona MacCarran.
“Miss,” the officer said in a snide growl. “What is your name?”
“I am Fionnuala. Good evening, sir,” she said in English. “A thousand wishes for your health and happiness.”
Dougal lifted a brow to hear the girl murmur the traditional greeting so sweetly to such a scoundrel. As she smiled at MacIntyre, Dougal scowled again. He so wanted that smile for himself, luminous as the sun and the moon. Feeling increasing unease as she lingered, he moved toward her. She did not seem to need his protection, but he would be ready all the same.
“Mr. MacCarran,” Fiona said, looking at her brother, “is that your name? Good night and a thousand wishes to you as well.” Head high, she walked past them all, tugging the dog firmly along with her.
MacIntyre tightened the reins and turned his horse. He snapped something to MacCarran, who walked back toward Dougal.
“Tam says he has no more time for nonsense with you lot,” MacCarran said.
“Good. What did your sister tell you?” he asked low.
“She wants to be sure you are safe tonight. She also said she will not leave the glen, if the laird should ask.” Patrick looked hard at him. “Kinloch, keep care for my sister. And watch your back too.”
Dougal nodded. “I will. She is safe with me. Do not doubt it.”
“Take the barley to the young miss and her grandmother, and the others who need it,” MacCarran said loudly then. “See to it done and return to your homes. From now on, move your goods in daylight. Do you hear?”
“Ah, but young sir,” Fergus said, “we are that busy in the day with our flocks and herds. We do not have time then to carry the goods we promise to those in the glen.”
“See that you make the time.” MacCarran returned to his horse and mounted.
“You took too damn long with that,” Tam snapped. He pointed at Dougal. “You, Kinloch! You will not come out in these hills by moonlight or darkness again, is it clear? Next time I will have more men. Mark that well.”
“I do as I please in my glen,” Dougal answered. “Mark that. Good night.”
Tam muttered, but turned his horse, riding off with MacCarran following. Dougal let out a long breath, feeling spent for a moment.
Fergus came toward him. “I like your wee teacher. I think she should stay for the whole of her agreement with the reverend. The rest of the year, perhaps.”
“I may throttle her before long,” Dougal growled, as he watched Fiona and the wee dog walk over a rise and out of sight.
Chapter Nine
Rain drummed onthe windows of the schoolhouse, the soft squeak and scratch of the chalk in Fiona’s hand adding layers of sound as she wrote on a large slate bolted to the wall. She glanced at the students. They sat quietly on benches, striving to copy her chalked words onto the small slates each of them held.
They were nicely focused now. All morning they had listened well and seemed happy to be in school. They had chatted and laughed, passing around slates and chalks and reminding each other to hush when she spoke.
Fiona added a few more words to the list she was making, and drew simple images to go with the words—cat, chair, cradle, and so on. The chalk squeaked and the children whispered, and she heard their chalks scraping on slate as well.
