Page 85 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Tourists will not be about in this glen, day or night, if I have anything to say about it,” Dougal replied.
“Is it so? By the way, I applied for the full deed rights. Since there has been no offer made from any other quarter, they will certainly come to me. I assume you have not yet applied to buy back your own deed?”
“There is time yet,” Dougal growled. Truth was, he needed to wait for funds from a profitable source once the ship picked up threescore and ten kegs of whisky to be sold at a generous price.
“I offered to buy a portion of your excellent whisky for a good sum,” Eldin said, as if he had read Dougal’s thoughts. “Had you accepted, you might have bought the deed back already. So I can now lay claim to it. You were to send word about selling some valuable casks to me, but as I did not hear, I presumed your refusal.”
“You will hear my decision soon enough,” Dougal said, drawing a breath to cool his temper. “Here and now, this is still my land. And there will be no hunting today. Good day, gentleman.” He turned and walked away.
*
Mary’s house wasquiet at night, the little mantel clock ticking, fire crackling, soft rain falling outside. Fiona enjoyed the peacefulness as she sat at the table, leaning forward, pencil to paper. Her braid slid loose over her shoulder as she tapped the pencil thoughtfully against the table, studying her work. Rubbing at the drawing with a fingertip, smudging here, adding a light, airy line and then darker line, she made small changes.
The image looked nearly like the fairy she had seen in Kinloch House. Yet something was missing. She was drawing from memory, trying to capture in pencil tones that sparkling, delicate, translucent lady she had seen in Kinloch’s library.
She sighed, setting the page aside for a fresh sheet, sketching loosely, quickly, coaxing the image out with strokes of the pencil. Still, it was not quite right. Over a few days she had made several sketches, drawing the fairy lights as bright bits in pale watercolor and pencil, dabs of gentle color floating over flowers and streams. And she had attempted to create the beautiful, ethereal creature from the library.
Thoughtful, she set her pencil down and picked up the folded letter that lay on the table. Opening Patrick’s letter, she read it again.
Her brother was glad to know that life in Glen Kinloch agreed with her; she chuckled at that. He was reassured that she had not reported untoward activities in the glen, which told him she was safe there.The laird of the glen seems sincere in his desire to protect you, he wrote.He is a good fellow from what I hear, despite wandering the hills at night in ways that raise suspicion. Nor is he alone in that activity.
Fiona read on as her brother explained that he and Mr. MacIntyre would patrol the north end of the loch, including Glen Kinloch.Tell the laird the only evening star he should view is through a window.
A clear warning. Frowning, she read on as Patrick mentioned little success so far in contesting Lady Struan’s will. That meant they all must meet her odd conditions somehow.As for the husband you are tasked to find, Kinloch is a poor glen—your chances are better elsewhere. You should come home.
Fiona set the letter down, shaking her head. “Not yet, Patrick,” she murmured.
Maggie, sleeping by the fireside, lifted her head suddenly and woofed, then stood just as tapping sounded at the door. Startled, Fiona went to the door. So did Maggie, head and tail alert.
The knocking sounded again. Fiona leaned forward. “Who’s there?”
“Kinloch.” Hearing his quiet voice, her heart bounded. She released the latch to open the door.
Dougal stepped inside, rain blowing in with him. The dog leaped to greet him, and he rubbed her head, praising her, before looking at Fiona.
“Good evening,” he murmured. “I hope I am welcome.”
She folded her hands. “Of course. Mary is sleeping, if you wish to see her.”
“I came to see you.” He glanced past her at the table. “Schoolwork?”
“Just doing some drawing.” She hastened to the table to tuck the pages into a leather notebook. When she turned, Dougal was just there, pulling out a chair.
“Sit, please,” he said. “We must talk.”
“Would you like tea? Or ale, or whisky?”
“Nothing. Please sit, Fiona.” He touched her elbow. “I have something to say.”
“Say it, then,” she said, standing, ignoring the chair he pulled out for her.
Several days had gone by and she had heard no word from him, despite their night together. She had felt hurt at the silence. Now that he was here, the tension emanating from him made her nervous. She lifted her chin, mustered dignity, expecting to hear his regret, apology, and renewed suggestion to leave the glen.
Whatever he was about to say, she could endure it. Perhaps she did not belong here after all—but her yearning heart told her otherwise. Love is no reason to stay, she reminded herself, if it is not returned.
“I owe you something,” he said.
“No explanation is necessary,” she said stiffly.
