Laird of Secrets (The Whisky Lairds, Book 2): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)

by Susan King

  “Or smugglers,” Patrick muttered. “Had I known we would climb so far into these hills in search of wee rocks, I would have brought a firearm.”

  “Smugglers only come out at night.”

  “They’re men, not bats,” her brother drawled. He moved ahead, looking around as if he suspected criminals to leap out from behind the boulders and tall trees along the hillside.

  Fiona smiled to herself, aware that Patrick only meant to protect her. Turning, she looked down, where the long slope swept toward Loch Katrine and Glen Kinloch. The hill might have more fossils hidden along its rocky incline—the area had already yielded nice examples, and she would have plenty of time to search, as she had agreed to stay in the glen until summer to teach in the glen school. Lifting a hand to her gray bonnet, she drew in a breath, admiring the vast Highland beauty spreading out below.

  Though the hills were misty and the sky was gray, from her high vantage point she could see the loch below, where fog drifted over the water and nudged along rugged foothills.

  “This place has a wild beauty even in poor conditions,” she said. “It would be spectacular in better weather.”

  Patrick looked about, nodding. Although Fiona wanted to explore more, her brother seemed impatient to return to the hotel at Auchnashee, where he was staying. He seemed uneasy, she thought, frowning a little.

  For several months, her youngest brother had been serving as an excise officer at the southern end of Loch Katrine, and so seemed constantly on the alert for trouble wherever he went. The work had made him more somber, but she hoped he would soon regain his inherently cheerful nature.

  “Did you hear that?” Patrick called again, walking toward her.

  “Just the wind.” She had heard something odd, but it did not worry her.

  “Wind—or free traders on their way through the hills. Are you ready to go back now?” He stooped to pick up her canvas knapsack.

  “Not quite. I found some excellent trilobites here today, and I am hoping there are more on this slope. And I want to make some sketches and notes before I go.” A cool updraft lifted the ribbons of her bonnet and danced the skirt of her gray woolen gown over the tops of her sturdy leather boots. She brushed her gloved hands together, powdered with dirt and rock dust. The hillside was mostly rocks, earth, and scrub here, with a little spring green emerging among scraggly heather and gorse. But a wintry nip in the next gust made her shiver slightly. “This place is desolate, I know, but it is a perfect environment for finding trilobites and such.”

  “It is fairly remote, which makes it appealing to smugglers moving kegs through these hills to the loch and then down the river. Fiona, I know have said it before, but I do wish you were not staying alone in this glen. We have had too many reports of rogues in this area lately.”

  “I agreed to teach here until summer—and I intend to do my best to meet the conditions in Grandmother’s will while I am here. Well, some of them. I hope you can do that too, and William as well.”

  “Grandmother Struan’s will is a bane for all of us, though it proved a boon for James, who did find his fairy bride—or close enough to satisfy the conditions of the will,” Patrick said. “I hope you can find a way to do that too. As for me and William, too, I cannot imagine finding any sort of fairy. But be that as it may, do consider returning to Edinburgh. You know Lord Eldin would lend his barouche anytime you decide to leave. He is fond of you, though he dislikes most everyone else.”

  “I do not want his charity or his barouche. I have promised to stay until summer with Mrs. MacIan, and I will keep my word.”

  “From what I could tell, Mary MacIan can barely hear, talks endlessly, and drinks whisky like a man. Months of that could drive you mad, sweet and amiable though you may be.”

  “I have not been sweet and amiable since I was three, but thank you. Mrs. MacIan is delightful and could use the company. Her grandson is the Reverend, and he looks after her, but I am sure she will enjoy having someone in the house. And you know it is perfectly acceptable for Highland women to take a dram with the men or even on their own. I may even try it myself.”

  He laughed outright. “Beware of picking up her odd spinsterish habits! Truly, she is not a fit companion for walking about the hills, and I know you are stubborn enough to do that on your own. And stubborn enough to stay, I see.”

  “I did give my word.”

  “Your devotion to your word is admirable. Just promise that you will not go wandering the hills alone. There are too many rascals in this godforsaken place.”

  “An officer of the government suspects a smuggler around every corner.”

  “Not without reason. I am only concerned for your welfare,” he added.

  “As I am for yours. The work you do is far more dangerous than a little hillwalking. I know you were bored as a Signet clerk in the city and wanted this challenge. But pursuing smugglers is stressful work, and very risky. I worry dreadfully about your welfare.”

  “I like the adventure of it, I admit, and I am careful. This region is rife with smugglers, though. Keep that in mind and be cautious.” He frowned. “The loch is ten miles or so from its southern tip to this little glen, and there are more families running private stills along its shores than we can possibly count.”

  “Anyone can produce whisky, up to five hundred gallons or so, you said so yourself.”

  “A small family distillery is fine. It is what they do with the excess that is a problem.”

  “Remember when we were small in Perthshire, and the home farm supplied the estate with whisky? Father very much liked their particular brew.”

  She glanced away, reminded too keenly of their father, who had died along with their mother when the four children had all been young. Twins Fiona and James, and siblings William and Patrick had been left to the care of their grandparents, Viscount and Lady Struan. Fiona and James had then gone into the well-meaning but overbearing guardianship of Lady Rankin, their great-aunt, while the younger boys stayed with their grandparents. Fiona still resided on Lady Rankin’s estate just outside of Edinburgh, though James had become Viscount Struan and had recently married.

  Much as she loved Aunt Rankin, temporary teaching positions in the Highlands—like the school in Glen Kinloch—had become a welcome escape.

  “Home distilleries are not the issue,” Patrick was saying. “But most owners of Highland stills manufacture far more whisky than their allotted amount, and never report the quantity to the excise men. Thousands of gallons a year are smuggled for export, thus avoiding taxes posed by the Crown. So the government sends out excise officers to track the free traders. It is an unpleasant business, Fiona, both the smuggling and the search for smugglers. I do not say so lightly.”

  “I know. But free traders would hardly be interested in a glen teacher.”

  “If she wanders the hills and happens to witness their actions, they will be very interested. I will watch over you as much as I can, but I cannot be here all the time. You must be prudent in your wanderings.”

  “I will spend most of my days teaching in the glen, and I promise to be cautious whenever I go hillwalking. I will carry an umbrella as a weapon. How is that?” She drew herself to her full height, taller than most women, though not nearly as tall as her brother. “Truly, do not fret. I will be fine.”

  Patrick twisted his mouth awry. “Very well. But I want to hear from you often. The mail runs out of the glen village once a week, so a letter can reach me at the southern end by next day, with luck. One cannot always count on the mail couriers out here.”

  “Reverend MacIan assures me the glen is quiet and safe, and most of the tenants are hardworking shepherds and drovers, the rest farming families. He says that smuggling occurs in other glens, but not in this one.”

  “Does he indeed?” Patrick huffed skeptically. “Farmers raise barley crops and make whisky from that. Did he mention that hardworking Highland farmers and shepherds by day are free traders by night, loading their pack ponies and carry
ing loaded pistols through these pretty and peaceable hills?”

  “He did not.” She walked up the slope scanning the ground for interesting rock samples that might contain fossil imprints.

  “Mrs. MacIan told me just today that they have a saying in this glen—“When the laird is on the mountainside, it is wise to step aside.”

  “Perhaps the laird of Glen Kinloch is a disagreeable sort.”

  “There is a notorious smuggler in these parts called The Laird,” Patrick went on, walking beside her.

  “I thought the Laird was apprehended a few months ago. In Perthshire, I believe.”

  “Ah, you must mean the Whisky Lairds, dubbed so by Sir Walter Scott, the ones brought down to Edinburgh after their arrest. They turned out to be very much more than mere whisky smugglers. Lords and such, I believe.”

  “Oh yes! I recall hearing something about it. One of them was presented to the king when he visited Scotland last summer.”

  “An interesting fellow,” Patrick said. “I had the privilege of meeting him myself—the smuggler, not the king,” he added. “But he is not the peat-reek laird who runs up and down Loch Katrine and makes excise officers miserable. That one is another rogue entirely, a very elusive scoundrel.”

  “Do you mean the laird of Kinloch?”

  “No, the laird of this glen is just a farmer, or a shepherd, or both, and lives in a ruined tower. This is a poor glen, with a laird called MacGregor. He raises cattle and sheep and makes only the legal allotment of whisky. At least, that is what he reports to the government. None of these Highlanders can be trusted where whisky is concerned. I expect you will meet the farmer laird since you will be teaching in the glen school. Fiona, you might help me out a bit while you are here,” he said, stopping.

  “How so?” She bent to scratch the dirt from the surface of a flat rock.

  “Listen for any mention of this laird of peat reek, the smuggler. We want to find that sly lad.”

  “Peat reek? Isn’t that the poisonous variety? The whisky we tasted at Mrs. MacIan’s was rather nice, I thought. Strong, but mellow.”

  “Excellent brew, and nae sort o’ poison. The peaty flavor is most favorable in a good Highland whisky, so no, peat reek does not indicate poison. But do keep your ears open, and let me know if you hear anything I should know.”

  “I doubt I shall encounter any peat reek lairds, but if I do, you shall be the first to know. Oh, look!” She knelt, dusting a bit of rock clean with a cloth pulled from a pocket in her skirt. “An ammonite fossil.” She pointed to a curled shape impressed on the rock surface.

  “A what?”

  “Ammonite—an extinct marine mollusk, rather like a cephalopod. I believe there may be a massive limestone bed beneath this hill, with deposits of greywacke along with the Old Red Sandstone layer, and liberal evidence of a great ancient flood. I cannot wait to tell James about this.” She rubbed at the rock with a gloved finger.

  “Your geological babble is lost on me, dear lass, but James will love it. Fiona, please come along now. I must get back soon. I have a dinner engagement at Auchnashee. You definitely must explore this hill with James, once he returns to the Highlands.”

  “James and Elspeth will be in Edinburgh for another month or so.” Her twin, James MacCarran, Viscount Struan, was an accomplished geologist and professor of natural sciences, while Fiona considered herself an amateur with a keen interest in fossils. “He must finish his lecture series for the university before he and Elspeth return to Struan House.”

  “Ah, true, Elspeth was insistent that their expected little one be born in the Highlands. Well, Struan House is just a few hours from here, so you will see them now and then once they are back—if you are still in the glen.”

  “I plan to be. And you, I imagine, will be too busy to visit any of us. Thank you for coming with me today, though, I enjoy your company. But please do not feel obligated to keep watch over me.”

  “I will anyway. I have a good deal of work now, with the new tax laws in effect. Smuggling continues full pace along this loch, despite the new regulations—and despite the denial of the locals. And I always have time for you, lass.”

  “I thought the recent laws would make your work easier.” She stood, brushing her skirts.

  “Not as much as I hoped,” Patrick said. “Taxes were lowered to make it less tempting to smuggle whisky out of the Highlands. The government also recruited hundreds more revenue officers to catch offenders, and penalties are much stiffer. If a still is discovered and dismantled but no one claims it, the laird of that land is responsible no matter what. But they continue, regardless.”

  “I suspect Highlanders enjoy the adventure of free trading too much to stop. Highlanders have a tendency to ignore authority.” She smiled, for she had always enjoyed the vein of rebellion that ran through Highland history and Highland character. “At any rate, you will be busy, and must not worry about me. I may visit you down the loch, though, since you are staying at Eldin’s new hotel.”

  “He offered me a free room at Auchnashee, and invited me to dine with him and some Edinburgh businessmen tonight. Oh, did I mention Eldin has decided to become a revenue officer?”

  “What!” Fiona stared, astonished. “Nicholas MacCarran, Earl of Eldin, stooping to regular work? I cannot imagine it. He is too concerned with his own comfort, and too arrogant to care.”

  “I was surprised, I admit. He was not always that way, but after his family perished, he was never again the Cousin Nick we knew as children. But a law officer? That I did find hard to believe.” He shrugged. “But it is a formal title only. He paid a fat sum for it, and will probably never ride out. He wants some authority here, and the Crown needs money, so he applied for the rank and paid the fee.”

  “It is another reminder not to trust the Earl of Eldin.” Fiona sighed.

  “I liked him well when we were children,” Patrick said. “But if we cannot meet the conditions in Grandmother’s will, then Eldin inherits the bulk of the estate, and we will four will have next to nothing.”

  “We will find a way. Patrick, do go on ahead. I want to gather a few more fossils along the hill before I go back to Mrs. MacIan’s house.”

  “Mr. MacDuff arranged to take me down the loch by boat. I must meet him soon.” Patrick frowned. “A gentleman who escorts a lady on a nature walk should not abandon her on a hillside.”

  “But a little brother can leave his big sister if she insists he go.” Smiling, she waved him onward, then knelt again on the damp turf to brush away the dirt on a rock that looked promising.

  “I doubt you can discover what you truly need here, Fiona.”

  “Fairies to satisfy the will? They are not thick upon the ground, are they.” She laughed ruefully. “I sometimes wonder how I can ever fulfill Grandmother’s requirement to sketch fairies from life—of all things—for the book James is piecing together from her notes. She approved of my charitable teaching work, and I will continue that. But fairies—and her odd requirement that I marry a wealthy Highland husband—it seems almost mad.” She sighed.

  “I have been thinking,” Patrick said. “We can contest the will—a mad old woman, however well-meaning, left a will in her dotage that is not based in reality. I will speak with Grandmother’s solicitor about it.”

  “But if we do not meet the clauses, everything goes to Eldin. It is an extraordinary situation.” Fiona stood.

  “We can manage without a fortune if we must,” her brother said. “Easier than finding spouses with fairy blood, or finding sprites to sketch, and so on. Just invent fairy portraits and have done with it,” he urged. “No one would know otherwise.”

  “When I make a promise, I keep it. So I have to try. You’ve said little about what the will asked of you, and William has not said much either.”

  “I do not want to marry a forest sprite, or whatever impossible creature my demented grandmother thought a good match for me,” Patrick replied. “Do not frown at me. I honor her memory, but not her las
t will and testament. And William is a physician—he could be labeled a quack if he goes about collecting spells of fairy medicine, or whatever Lady Struan assigned him.”

  “Yet James accomplished her request to find a fairy bride. Was it coincidence that he fell in love with a darling lass who has a legend of fairy blood in her ancestry? They say we MacCarrans have fairy blood too.”

  “Then why should we look for more? James believes Grandmother wanted us to refresh the fairy bloodline or some madness. I plan to oppose the will to solve it for all of us. First I must determine that we have a case, and everyone must agree to it. Then you need not search under rocks for fairies.”

  “Just ammonites and trilobites. Extinct marine arthropods,” she explained. “Regardless, I will stay in the glen to teach. The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society is relying on me. No one else could take this assignment.”

  “No one else wanted to come up here,” he pointed out.

  “But it is a lovely place,” she murmured, glancing around. “I do not want to end up another spinster in Edinburgh, attending charity meetings and social gatherings, and finding dull ways to fill time. I do find the charitable work interesting, as long as I can travel a bit and do something useful.”

  “You will never end a spinster, I guarantee it,” her brother said. “What does your group call itself—ah, the Edinburgh Ladies’ Society for the Betterment of the Gaels. Haughty as it sounds, you do good work.”

  “The ladies are genuinely dedicated to helping Highlanders.”

  “And delighted to find a lady fluent in Gaelic who is willing to go up into the remote hills, thus allowing the rest of the ladies to stay home.”

  “Some do what I do. The Deputy Lord Provost’s daughter, for one. Miss Graham—well, not unattached now, since she found her Highlander. That same notorious smuggler that you mentioned earlier.” She smiled, thinking of her friend Ellison Graham, who had indeed made a good match to a fascinating, and quite devastatingly handsome, Highland man. “If not for the distraction of the charity work, I might have given in to grief…after Archie’s death.”