Page 7 of A Rogue in Moonlight
Her voice echoed. Shivers ran down her back. Though she dismissed such things in conversation, secretly she believed in the possibility of haunts, bogles, fairies, and the like. She was not always the practical, calm, capable, dull girl most thought her to be. Though she had tucked dreams and hopes away, she had an active imagination.
Suddenly the deserted hillside seemed eerie. Fiona shivered, recalling Patrick’s stories of rascals in the hills. Seeing something glint among the rocks, she startled. But it was only a pretty white quartz crystal, common in limestone and sandstone deposits.
She had work to do. Lifting her knapsack, she walked up the slope.
Chapter Two
In the mist,the woman moved like a dream, a fairy queen in a fog-colored gown. Just a glance told him she was beautifully made, graceful, and had a mysterious allure. With a woman like that, his days, nights too, might be filled with elusive happiness.
Enough, he told himself. Whoever she was, it was imperative he convince her to leave these hills and the glen quick as she could.
Dougal MacGregor, laird of Kinloch, leaned a shoulder against the cave entrance and watched the young woman. She climbed the slope steadily, closer to the surge of the great, dark mountain behind him. Inside, the cave held a valuable cache. Within arm’s reach was a loaded pistol with which to protect it. He stood still, silent, wary.
The lass had come too far and too high into the foothills and was alone now. Odd that her companion had left her to go about on her own. What sort of fellow would leave a lady in the wild hills, where rogues even worse than the laird roamed day and night?
Perhaps she was a willful creature and had insisted. Dougal thought the young gentleman had asked her to go with him, but she had staunchly refused, and the lad had gone on his way. Strangely enough, the lady stayed to chip away at rocks. He did not know her, but the young man looked familiar.
“Damn. The new gauger,” he muttered.
Recently, a new excise officer had been installed at the southern end of Loch Katrine. Dougal had seen him once or twice; they had notmet yet, and he hoped that would never happen. But why would a government excise man escort a lady into these hills? Every customs officer in the region knew smuggling scoundrels lurked here. Was the lad so green that he was unaware of the danger and so took a lady on a jaunt?
As one of those scoundrels, Dougal frowned. Whatever brought the couple into these hills was not simple tourism.
With a charming disregard for her pretty skirts, the young woman sank to her knees, reached into her knapsack, and took out a small hammer. She struck hard at a rock, breaking off pieces efficiently. Chink, chink,thunk.
Dougal winced in silent amusement, seeing the pretty lass wield a hammer so smartly. Then he reminded himself she had no business here—especially if she knew a customs man.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no tourist admiring the scenery; she had a purpose and it had something to do with rocks. Now she examined the ground, then took a notebook from the knapsack and wrote or sketched. A map?
If she and the gauger were spies, that was concerning. With a decent map, excise officers could find caves and niches where goods were hidden.
Gaugers—and willful young ladies—must be prevented from sketching and exploring here. Dougal would have to dissuade her, and fast.
But when had she arrived in the glen?Ah,he thought. Could she be the teacher Reverend MacIan had hired for the glen school? But they were expecting an older woman. For years, the dominies who came to teach in Glen Kinloch were either male or middle-aged females. None of them had stayed long, and for good reason.
A tourist, then? She was climbing again, lifting skirt hems over sturdy boots. She had dressed pragmatically for hillwalking, he would give her that. But each step brought her closer to where he stood. Hestepped into the shadow of the cave entrance, watching.
In her gray dress and bonnet, with her nimble grace, she seemed part of the mist and the rock. And his dreams. For a moment, he thought of the sylph-like fairy folk, theDaoine Sìthsaid to inhabit the hills and hidden places in Scotland. If he still had a romantic nature, he might believe she was part of the magic of these hills. A sprite. A pixie. The very queen of fairies.
Years ago, he sometimes thought he glimpsed the ones who inhabited the hills; she was none of those. Earthly, she was, and beautiful. Then she removed her bonnet and looked up at the mountain.
Dougal sucked in his breath. That bit of haberdashery was unworthy of her. Oval face as serene as a Renaissance Madonna; delicate features; soft, large eyes under dark brows; the dark gleam of hair coiled in braids. He wanted to loosen that thick silk in his hands, cradle that exquisite face in his hands.
Time for her to go. Easing away from the cave, Dougal set out down the hill.
*
Fiona knelt onthe ground, absorbed in the work, heedless of mud and ignoring the breeze that played her dark hair into loops. With her fingers and a small brush, she gently swept a cluster of stones, recognizing the preserved exoskeletons of tiny trilobites, sea creatures whose tracks were clear to a practiced eye—and evidence that the area had been covered in water a long time ago.
“James will be so pleased,” she murmured, tapping the hammer around the edge of a bit of stone. Limestone was grainy and soft, as rock went, so the piece broke away easily and she tugged it free.
“Miss.”
The male voice, deep and rich, startled her. She gasped and looked up.
Wrapped in fog, a man stood on the rise above her, one booted foot propped on a rock, kilt draped over the powerful thigh. Leaping to her feet, nearly tripping, she gazed at him.
“Who—are you?” she asked breathlessly.
