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

by Susan King

  “They’re all thieves and liars,” one of the officers snarled. He thumped the bottom of the cart bed so hard that the impact bounced through both Dougal and the girl. He knew by the sound that the man used a gun butt or a cudgel.

  Dougal emitted an unearthly groan, even to his own ears. Both gaugers cried out and must have jumped back, swearing.

  “I would not be touching Old Hector if I were you,” Andrew answered.

  “What’s he got?” one officer asked.

  Ranald muttered again in Gaelic. “Fever, sir,” Andrew translated.

  “That’s nothing. Get him up. Let’s see him.”

  “Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Ranald said quickly.

  “Tinnie—tinneen gradoo? What the devil is that?” an officer demanded.

  “A terrible sickness, sir,” Andrew said. “He has had the tinneas-an-gradh dubh before, but not so bad as this. Please do not touch him, sir,” he added hastily as one of the men stepped closer. “You might catch it, and it is a horrible thing.”

  Dougal coughed again, loudly, clutching the girl to him. Her arms slid around him, probably to ease her position. She was shaking again, convulsing, and he rubbed her shoulder in reassurance. Then he realized that she was laughing.

  He chuckled softly in her ear, the merest whisper of laughter. She relaxed a bit, softening against him. Her bonnet tipped askew, and his lips met the soft shell of her ear. She sighed, shifting.

  Such a sultry movement, so close to him; a feeling rocketed through his body, eliciting a response that needed immediate suppression. He tilted away from her. She looked up at him in the darkness beneath the plaid. He caught that gaze and was lost.

  For an instant, he forgot where they were, what they were doing. There was magic in her gaze. But he could not be distracted. He turned his head and faked another agonizing cough. The girl patted his shoulder in mock sympathy.

  “Tinnie what? I’ve never heard of it,” one revenue man was saying to the other.

  “A bad fever, sir,” Andrew said. “We hope to get him some help in time.”

  “They’re lying, so they can get illegal whisky past us. Search the cart.”

  They had the authority to do whatever they wanted, he knew. Excise officers were deputies of the law, charged with apprehending smugglers, collecting illicit goods, and collecting additional fees to supplement their meager wages. Thus the incentive to find criminals in the Highland regions was strong, encouraged by the government. Dougal paused, waiting. Then he groaned.

  “It does seem bad. Best keep away, Mr. MacIntyre,” one man said to the other.

  Dougal frowned. Tam MacIntyre was a tough, cruel law enforcer, lately promoted to chief revenue officer along the loch.

  “Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Ranald repeated. “It is very bad.”

  “Bad, aye!” Andrew spoke hastily. “Mr. MacIntyre, sir, let us pass. Only the healing woman can help Hector in his suffering. We do not want to catch this.”

  “Go on, then,” MacIntyre growled. “But if you see that rascal Dougal MacGregor, you tell him I am looking for him.”

  “I have not seen him for a while,” Andrew said.

  “He’s likely crossing the hills with a load of peat reek,” MacIntyre said.

  “Kinloch has never been caught at such a thing,” Andrew defended. “He is a fine laird, looking after his glen and his tenants, his cattle and his fields.”

  “And his barley brew? Tell him we discovered another whisky still up the glen side. We dismantled it, but we do not know whose it is. Any illegal still found on a landowner’s property is the fault of the landowner. The punishment and the fine will be Kinloch’s to bear on this one.”

  Ranald murmured something and spat.

  “In English, you old goat, I know you speak it,” MacIntyre said.

  “The reverend hired a teacher to come to Glen Kinloch to teach us English,” Andrew said. “Perhaps my father can learn English from her.”

  “He needs no teaching. And you, lad, are a slick-tongued otter, and I do not trust a word you say.”

  Dougal coughed again, practically retching. Miss MacCarran patted his back.

  MacIntyre’s companion swore. “Let them pass, sir. If the old man dies—”

  “Go on,” MacIntyre said. “But tell your kinsmen and friends we are watching them. We have more men and new laws now. Tell all your free trading kin they will not get away with crimes so easily as before.”

  “Good evening sir,” Andrew said, and snapped the reins.

  As the horse stepped forward and the cart lurched, Dougal kept his arms around the girl. His cheek was against hers now, under cover of the musty old blanket. He felt her breath wisp over his ear. He heard Andrew and Ranald talking. Then Ranald laughed outright.

  “Kinloch, did you hear it?” Ranald called back.

  “I did,” Dougal said. “Be quiet, you, until we are far away.”

  “Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” Andrew repeated, hooting. “The black lovesickness!”

  “The black lovesickness is upon him,” Ranald crowed. “He’s got it bad!”

  “It will slay him for certain,” Andrew added with exaggerated seriousness.

  “Best see the lass home and save the laird from being so sick with love,” Ranald said.

  “Enough,” Dougal called gruffly.

  The girl was laughing again, softly. He realized he still covered her mouth with his hand. Releasing his fingers, he felt her tender lips under his palm. Sudden desire spiked hot through him. He wondered if it was safe to sit up yet, sit away, clear the air between them, for it was warm with heat and feelings he dared not explore.

  “So tinneas-an-gradh-dubh is a plague in this glen,” she said.

  “If a beautiful lass leaves the laird broken-hearted, it is the black lovesickness for him,” Ranald said jovially.

  “You are enjoying this far too much,” Dougal said.

  “Has the laird suffered this awful plague before?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

  “Not as often as my kinsmen want you to believe,” he drawled. She laughed, and he heard both delight and reluctance, as if she did not want to be at ease with them but could not help it. He smiled in the dark, feeling the same with her.

  “Clear, Uncle?” he called, flipping the plaid away to let in cool fresh air.

  “The road looks empty ahead, but best keep under that plaidie until we know for sure, Dougal,” Ranald said.

  Dougal ducked under the plaid again, pulling it high over the girl’s head too.

  “So your name is not Hector,” she teased.

  “Hector MacGregor is my great-great-uncle, a hearty lad who claims he is nearly a hundred.”

  “Hearty? How does he manage good health at his age?”

  He chuckled. “Old Hector says the fairy magic keeps him young.”

  “Fairy magic?” She tipped her head in interest.

  “They do say the MacGregors of Kinloch know a few fairy secrets.”

  “And do you?” she asked intently.

  He shrugged. “More than some, less than others.”

  “Fairy lore is very intriguing,” she murmured.

  He found her intriguing, he wanted to say. The feel of her in his arms, his body stretched over hers, the plaid cocooning them in strange intimacy, the tension of touch and politeness, of fear and amusement. His thoughts were definitely not on fairies. Every jolt and lurch of the rolling cart brought him into contact with her, so that he felt increasingly on fire.

  He was no boy to be aroused without control, nor one to take advantage of a woman for the mere pleasure of it. But by God, he found it difficult to endure her warm, firm body under his, her sweet breath upon his cheek, her heartbeat thrumming under his fingers. He wanted to pull her closer, taste her, caress her, please her.

  Stop it, he told himself. He forced himself to focus, her interest at the moment as odd as anything else that was happening. “What do you want to know about fairies?”

  “Oh, legends and...sightings. H
ave you ever seen a fairy?”

  Dougal raised his brows, surprised. “Seen them? I have heard that some kinsmen have seen them. My own father—” He stopped.

  “Your father has seen them?”

  “He is no longer with us,” he answered abruptly. “Strange questions. I would expect you to be complaining about smugglers, or even asking about the glen and the school, not about fairies.”

  “I would, but I am fascinated by fairy legends.”

  In the murky shadows beneath the plaid, her eyes glimmered like stars, her breath was soft as a breeze. “I am looking at a fairy creature just now,” he murmured, “and she is the lovely queen of them all.”

  “That is silliness. I am serious.”

  So was he. Just when he should have pulled away, he felt her breath caress his cheek, his ear. A devastating plummet of desire went through him. The cart lurched then, pressing her body instantly to his, her cheek soft on his, her lips perilously close. Before he could draw back, he had kissed her.

  Her lips softened, her mouth surrendered for a moment. Just for a moment. Then she pulled away. “Oh,” she breathed, “oh—”

  She touched her mouth to his again, of her own accord, surprising him wholly. He groaned low in his throat and gave in to that caress, her body warm and tight in his arms, pulsing, heating, while the cart rumbled onward. Only he and the girl knew what the blanket hid, or how that kiss tumbled full into another as if some magic spell had taken hold of both of them.

  He could not account for it, could barely think. He was not drunk. He was his usual sober and wary self, yet this happened. He was fully capable in mind and judgment, yet he was kissing this girl as if he had known her all his life, as if he had loved her forever, as if he was drunk indeed with the lovesickness.

  It was like tasting the fairy whisky, or seeing the first bright burst of dawn—unexpected, miraculous, to be savored, a thing that could change a man if he let it.

  The kiss renewed itself between them, and he touched his tongue to the soft, moist tip of hers, and pressed his body to hers, hard and ready. He felt her soft moan between his lips.

  Sliding his hand along the curve of her hip and waist, sensing the heat of her body, he shaped her luscious curves with his palm. And then halted, fingers taut.

  But her hands slid over his shoulders to his neck, her fingers threaded into the thickness of his hair. She wanted this. He did not know what to think, what to do. Slow, sweet, breaths warming, tender exploration—

  Then the rumbling cart slowed, and Dougal pulled away, breathing fast, hard. She turned away too, ducked her head, curling on her side and away from him.

  “Miss, I—” He was hardly sure what had happened. “I am sorry.”

  She did not answer. He pulled the blanket aside and peered out.

  And saw Ranald staring down at them over his shoulder. The air was fresh, foggy, dim. “Mrs. MacIan’s house is just there in the cove,” his uncle said calmly. “We cannot take the cart down there in such a mist. But you can walk.”

  “Aye,” Dougal said gruffly.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” The girl sat up. Hay bits were in her hair. Dougal sat up too, stretching out a hand to pluck the hay from her head. He straightened her bonnet, tilted along her cheek. She brushed at her skirts and did not look at him.

  Dougal sat up, then bounded over the side of the cart to the ground. He reached up to her, and she hesitated, then accepted his assistance. Under his hands, her slim curves fit so neatly, felt so good that he only wanted to pull her close again. But he let her slide to the ground. They stepped apart quickly, looking away.

  “My knapsack,” she said, flustered.

  Dougal grabbed the pack from the cart bed. Then he groped beneath the straw until he felt the hard shapes of the kegs hidden beneath thick straw. The revenue officers had nearly discovered those. He drew out one ceramic crock wrapped in straw and tied with string. Tucking it beneath his arm, slinging the knapsack over his shoulder, he turned.

  “Miss MacCarran, let me escort you to the house.” He gestured for her to precede him. The fog was thick here, so near the water, and the twilight turned it to a lavender mist. He could see the warm glow of brightly lit windows ahead.

  She tilted her head in silence. He could still taste her lips, still felt his heart pounding, and wondered what she thought. Then she yanked the knapsack from his shoulder, swung it to her shoulder, nearly knocking herself over.

  “No need to go with me,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor, and Andrew,” she told the two still gaping at them. “Farewell, Kinloch.” She turned to walk along the road.

  “Do not let her go, Kinloch,” Ranald said. “She’ll break an ankle in this murk and mist on the path down to the cove, and Mary MacIan will be after us all for it.”

  “I will bring Mrs. MacIan the whisky that I promised her weeks ago.” Dougal shouldered the keg and followed the girl. She was certainly not just another dull teacher from the city, afraid of everything. She was young and lovely. She was stubborn, independent, intelligent.

  And she kissed like a fallen angel, seductive yet innocent. But even if he craved more of that, and craved to know more about her, he could not trust her. She would have to leave the glen for her own safety and that of others. Nor could he allow a woman in his life. Not now. Not yet.

  Especially the sister of a gauger.

  Chapter 4

  Through the fog, Fiona saw the MacIan cottage tucked below the trees. In the distance, water lapped and shimmered and ghostly mist drifted across the loch. Hearing the Highlander’s footsteps behind her, Fiona glanced over her shoulder.

  “I do not need an escort, Mr. MacGregor.”

  “Rogues about,” he said, shifting the small keg on his shoulder. He spoke in English now, as she had done. “And the path to the cottage is uneven. You could slip and fall, carrying those rocks.”

  “And what are you carrying, or should I ask?”

  “A gift for Mrs. MacIan and her grandson, the Reverend MacIan.” He caught up to her with long, sure strides as they followed the path.

  “Was the cart full of illicit whisky, then?”

  “I do not know. It was not my cart.”

  She sent him a sour glance. “I suppose you bribe people with whisky so they will look away from what you and your kinsmen do in the glen.”

  “A bribe? Miss, I am offended. It is simply tradition for the laird to give whisky to the manse. I have a distillery on my estate and I share freely.”

  “And you and your kinsmen are free traders, I presume.” Though he had not admitted it, the fact seemed clear. “I will not say a word. It is your own business.”

  “My business,” he said pointedly, “is operating a licensed distillery. My kinsmen work with me. This keg holds legitimate brew, the same that I bring to the MacIans with each new batch.”

  “So the cart was carrying whisky to be shared with others?”

  “What else would we do with it, Miss MacCarran? Smuggle it, with the law traipsing all about these hills?” He sounded amused.

  “Mr. MacGregor, let me suggest a bargain,” she said impulsively. “I promise not to speak of what I have seen if you will promise to never—”

  “Never what? Kiss you again?” He stopped. So did she.

  “That—will not happen again.” She did not want to show how much his kisses had flustered her, weakened her very knees. “I apologize. Please understand it is not in my character to behave so. I cannot think why it happened.”

  “Nor is it in my character. But I can guess why it happened.”

  She blushed, glad of the growing dark. “And the lovesickness? Your uncle said it has plagued you before.”

  He chuckled. “You believed him?”

  “It could easily be true, since you freely stole a kiss from a woman you hardly know.”

  “I know her better than she thinks.” MacGregor leaned forward, so close she could feel his nearness like a rush all through her. “I was not the only one d
oing the stealing of kisses.”

  She caught her breath. Something irresistible, magical had happened in that cart. It had been unforgettable, and though she felt deeply embarrassed now, part of her wanted to cherish the memory of it. MacGregor hovered near enough to kiss her again. Feeling her cheeks heat even more, she stepped away.

  “About the bargain you propose, Miss MacCarran. We might arrange something. If you will keep the evening’s adventures to yourself, I will consider never kissing you again. Is that agreeable?”

  “Oh,” she said, flustered anew. She would get the poor end of that bargain; no one would ever kiss her like that again, but she could not let him know that. Furiously blushing, glad of the mist and low light, she turned toward the cottage. With relief, she saw the door was open, golden light silhouetting a woman standing there. “Mrs. MacIan is waiting.”

  “And gone again,” he said, as the door closed once more.

  “She may not have seen us. No need to go farther, Mr. MacGregor. I can take the keg. It is not so large.”

  “Not large, but heavy.”

  “I am stronger than you think.”

  “Are you, then?” He smiled. “You are already carrying that great sack of rocks. Allow me to play the gentleman. Mary MacIan would have my head if I sent you in there loaded like a packhorse. And if she knew the rest,” he added softly, leaning forward again, “she would have my head for that, too. May that be a comfort to you.”

  “It is, actually.” She tilted her head.

  “And the agreement?”

  “I will think about it.”

  “Watch your step, the fog is that thick.” He held out a hand, which Fiona ignored as she walked past him.

  Two strides and he was ahead of her. Seeing his wide shoulders and the rhythmic swing of his plaid kilt above strong calves, she remembered wanton kisses and the fervor she had felt—and once more felt cheeks, her throat, her upper chest grow hot with embarrassment, and something more. She had allowed it, even encouraged it, but it could not happen again. Yet her heartbeat quickened at the very thought.