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

by Susan King

  “Fascinating! I did not know flowers were involved in illicit whisky distilling.”

  “Legal whisky, Miss, I vow. Am I always a criminal in your regard?” He set a hand to his heart in mock wounding, and she laughed lightly. “All manner of things are taken into account when distilling pot-whisky.”

  “Why spring flowers?”

  “They flavor the water. Whatever grows by the burn will make the water taste sweeter, lighter, give the water and so the whisky a hint of fragrance. Some plants along the water can lend a tart or a bitter taste. Grass, wild onion, garlic, even some of your precious rocks, where the water flows over them, can affect the whisky as well. So I come out now and then to check the burns and streams. Then I know what will go into each batch of brew. The barley, the peat, the water,” he said, “all help determine the flavor and character of the whisky. We keep a close eye on all three.”

  “It sounds like an art.”

  “More art than crime,” he replied, glancing at her.

  “Ah,” she murmured, returning his gaze steadily. His devotion to every detail of the whisky was a fascinating revelation. The making of whisky was clearly a passion, not just a business.

  “If you do not mind, Miss MacCarran, though I would be honored to escort you today, my own search takes me in another direction. And I see my kinsmen are waiting.” He gestured with a thumb.

  Glancing there, Fiona saw two men waiting on another slope, one a young man she did not recognize, the other an older man who resembled Kinloch’s uncles. “Please do not let me delay you. I am content to wander. It was very nice to chat with you.”

  “And with you. Fiona MacCarran,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “Do not wander too far. Stay near the road and the loch.”

  “I will.”

  “Safe home before dark. Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Her heartbeat quickened.

  “Just so.” He handed her the knapsack, fingers grazing hers in the transfer. Even through her glove she felt that casual contact, kept its memory in her hand.

  As he walked away, long strides taking him over the slopes, kilt swinging, she watched him for a moment—then sighed and turned to examine some nearby rocks.

  Safe home, he had said. Suddenly she felt as if her life was too safe, dull and intellectual rather than exciting and filled with passion. She had taken a risk in coming to the Highlands, yet clung to the safety of her scholarly pursuits.

  Some impulse made her want to run after MacGregor of Kinloch, walk with him beside the burn, search for wildflowers to please a belching old copper still. She wanted to taste with him the wild whisky, laugh about fish in the mountains and fairy tracks in the hills.

  Already he was in the distance, walking with his kinsmen into the hills where he belonged. And she was a visitor, a Lowlander, an outsider.

  Chapter 8

  The scratch of nib over paper seemed loud in the quiet front room of Mary MacIan’s home at such a late hour. By the light of a flickering lantern, Fiona dipped pen to ink and continued to write, while the peat fire crackled and Mary snored softly in the back bedroom. Done with writing out the week’s lessons, verses in Gaelic translated to English to share with her students, Fiona now replied to a letter from James that had arrived by the mail coach just that day.

  Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes and pushed at the old door, but the house was peaceful. Since Mrs. MacIan had a habit of retiring early, Fiona used the quiet evening hours to prepare lessons, compose letters, and work on her drawings.

  She still owed a letter to her great-aunt, Lady Rankin, but would leave that for later. Though she loved her aunt, who had raised the twins after their parents had been lost in a shipwreck, she knew the viscountess dismissed Fiona’s charitable work, thinking most Highlanders little more than quaint savages. Lady Rankin would rather see her great-niece make a good marriage and stop pining, as she put it, for Archie MacCarran.

  Fiona would far rather write to her twin brother, enjoying their exchange. She knew he wanted to hear about her work in Glen Kinloch, and she looked forward to having his thoughts in return.

  I am delighted that dear Elspeth is feeling so well, she wrote to her brother, having already reported on the glen, the school, and her students. I look forward to becoming an aunt, though my anticipation cannot match the joy of the babe’s dear parents! How wonderful that Elspeth is weaving a new tartan blanket for the little one. The green plaid she made for me is very pretty and keeps me warm.

  She went on, telling him of the mail coach driven by Hamish, uncle to the Laird of Kinloch, and mentioned the distant kinship between Elspeth and her grandfather and Kinloch himself.

  Next she told him that she had not yet made drawings for their grandmother’s fairy book, being at a loss as to what to illustrate. But Lady Struan had requested the drawings from her, to be judged as worthy or not by Sir Walter Scott. Fiona did not want to disappoint—and wanted to honor Grandmother’s belief in fairies, though she herself was very uncertain of such things.

  I wish all of us could succeed in our tasks regarding the will as beautifully as you have done, finding your Elspeth with her family lore of fairy ancestors. I do not hold out hope for such luck myself!

  As she began to write about the excellent specimens of trilobites that she had found in limestone, along with evidence of a thick quartzite layer beneath Old Red Sandstone, she stopped, glancing up as the door banged again in the wind.

  Startled, she inadvertently smeared ink on the page. She sanded and blew, then rose to secure the door, fearful its old latches might give way in a strong wind. Outside, she could hear Mary’s dog barking. The sound was agitated and incessant. Mary had asked Fiona to let the dog in last thing at night, but hearing the frenetic barks now, she wanted to call her back.

  Grabbing her shawl from a hook by the door and taking the dog’s rope lead, she pulled open the door and stepped out into a whipping wind.

  “Maggie!” Looking around, she did not see the black and white spaniel anywhere, although the dog was usually happy to stay in the yard nosing about and guarding. “Maggie, come!”

  She walked across the earthen yard, clutching the shawl against the chilly wind, which held a hint of rain. Wind tugged at the fat, unkempt knot of her hair, spilling it over her shoulders. She pulled the plaid over her head and walked on, calling repeatedly for the dog.

  Clouds drifted across a nearly full moon. Across the meadow in the cove, the loch reflected the moonlight. Fiona stopped, turning to look for the dog, and took in the beauty of the dark, sparkling night: black mountains against an indigo sky, the pale wafer of the moon behind swift clouds. Someday if she found time to paint, she would want to capture the mysterious beauty of a night like this one. Lifting her face to the wind, she heard the sound of gusts layered with the lapping of water against the pebbled shore.

  The dog barked again, and frantically; the sound seemed close to the cove, and Fiona went in that direction. Overhead, the moon peeked bright between the clouds, revealing the loch’s rippled surface—and a boat far out on the water, its elegant black silhouette just visible in the darkness.

  She paused. Wanting to fetch the dog inside, she did not want to be seen by anyone aboard a smuggling vessel. Surely it was one of those; there was no other good reason for a ship to sail along the shoreline that touched this remote glen, especially at night.

  Half running, searching in earnest for the spaniel, she reached the path that led from the cove to the main road. She called out softly, not eager to be heard. Whatever went on in Glen Kinloch at night, it was safer not to know.

  A flash of black and white ran over the meadow toward the main road. Fiona turned and hurried after it. Maggie barked again, a warning, protective sound.

  Glancing warily around in the darkness, Fiona sensed a chill run down her spine. “Maggie,” she called. “Maggie, come here, girl!”

  When she came to the main road, the clouds parted overhead, bathing all in silvery moonlight for
a few moments. Another bark, and this time she glimpsed a patchy white coat heading up a hillside. Fiona left the road to pursue her quarry.

  Some urgency in the air made her want to hurry. She glanced around at the shimmering loch, the empty road, the dark, massive slopes rising up from the roadside. Higher on the nearest hill, Maggie barked again, and Fiona felt a sense of relief, seeing her within reach. She climbed upward in the unreliable moonlight, shawl clutched in one hand, dog’s lead dangling in the other.

  “Maggie! Come here!”

  The wind snapped at her plaid and blew her hair free. The clouds extinguished the moonlight like a candle flame, the darkness so complete that Fiona nearly stumbled on the slope. Here, the ground was thick with heather, juniper, and grass, and scattered with rocks. She dared not run too quickly for fear of falling.

  Seeing a flash, she moved toward it—yet it was not the black-and-white dog. Starlight sparkled like bright bits of fire, as if the stars hung very close to the top of the hill. Fiona watched them sink and swirl—and then coalesce into something ghostly. She gasped, stepped back. The lights spun, whirled, vanished.

  Ahead, she saw a cluster of standing stones cresting a low hillock, where the moving starlight seemed to have disappeared. Intrigued, she went slowly toward it. Somewhere higher on the slope, the dog barked crazily, excited.

  As she went, she heard other sounds—thumps, footfalls, hooves, then the jingle of metal and harness. Her blood ran chill in her veins, and she stood motionless. The dog continued to bark, but Fiona dared not call out now.

  Men and horses were approaching from somewhere. She could hear the breath and bluster of horses, the low murmurs of deep voices.

  In a new burst of moonlight, she saw them.

  They were not the Fey riding in a cavalcade, as legends claimed in the Highland hills, nor were they the ghosts of men lost in battle. These men were real, grim, determined, some mounted, others leading ponies.

  Smugglers. And she was standing in the open, easily seen, clearly in danger.

  Clouds shifted again, casting a shadow over her. Taking a chance, she ran swiftly toward the standing stones to hide, slipping behind the tallest menhir. Standing stones were not uncommon on hillsides and in fields, abandoned ages ago, their meaning and purpose lost. Grateful for their shelter, she drew her dark plaid around her, hoping to blend with the shadows until the men went past.

  Lanterns swung like golden drops of fire as they came closer. Fiona stood still, leaning against stone, her legs trembling. She peered out, fear and curiosity mingling. They neared the place where she had just been standing.

  Not far away, Maggie continued to bark incessantly, untroubled, bold. Fiona cringed for the dog’s sake. The smugglers could decide to silence the little dog to protect their secret. Suddenly Fiona caught her breath, seeing a black and white blur chase down the slope toward the passing group.

  Men and horses were visible now, glowing lanterns scattered among them. Cold fear slid through Fiona as she pressed against the tall stone. She could hear the thunk of hobnail boots over the rocky terrain, the clop of horses’ hooves, even the slosh of liquid in the kegs strapped to the ponies’ backs. She heard rumbling male voices: a question, a reply, a curt laugh. And the relentless barking.

  Maggie bolted down the hill and came straight for her, circling the stone circle. Fiona hissed at her to stop, and Maggie, excited, wheeled and ran toward the men again. Clinging to the stone and the shadows, Fiona waited, heart pounding.

  Beware the hills when the Laird is walking...we always keep clear...Fiona would not have gone out at night, but for the little dog. And now she was helpless to save Maggie from the passing smugglers.

  Some of the men, Fiona noticed, were looking toward the standing stones, but thankfully they moved on. A minute more and they would pass by; another few minutes and they would be gone entirely.

  Her heart slammed, but some hint of courage and determination emerged, calming her, slowing her breath. She peered out just far enough to watch the men pass, hearing the rhythmic chink of harness fittings and steady footfalls.

  One of the men walking along stepped away from the rest. Fiona pressed flat and taut to cool rock, peering around the side of the stone to see where the man had gone. From behind, a hand snatched her arm, and another hand covered her mouth as he turned her around quickly.

  His eyes gleamed in the darkness—the eyes, the height of him, the width of his shoulders, the swing of his dark hair were familiar. She breathed out, felt a trembling relief as he bent closer.

  “Fiona MacCarran,” he whispered, “go home and lock the door.” His breath caressed her cheek, melting her, buckling her knees. She reached out and gripped his jacket, and his hand came away from her mouth, thumb tracing her cheek.

  “Dougal,” she whispered.

  “Hush, you.” His fingers took her chin, tilted it. He hesitated, and then his lips touched hers lightly. She slid an arm around his neck, and let herself return the kiss—and suddenly he was kissing her full, deep, holding her close to him as they stood behind the stone, his body pressed hard against hers. A sudden, hot thrill sank through her, body and soul, fueled by the kiss, the darkness, the danger.

  “A Dhia,” he murmured against her lips. “What is it you do to me? You do not need this in your life, and I do not—”

  “What if I do?” She splayed her hands on his chest, surprised by the power of the craving she felt. “They will be here in a moment. Take me with—”

  “No. Go now.” He stepped back, turned away.

  Her heart tumbled as she watched him return to the group, his rhythmic stride so familiar it was suddenly dear to her. He rejoined the others without a word, and Maggie gamboled after him. He stooped, petted her, shooed her away. Someone murmured to him, and he laughed low and pointed ahead. The group moved onward, the sound of their passing eerie. At the road, they merged into shadow.

  Now Maggie ran toward her, and Fiona reached for the dog’s collar, lashing the rope to it. “Now I have you. Come here. Good girl.”

  The dog pulled, trying to follow the smugglers and her beloved laird. Fiona realized then that Maggie was not defending territory, but greeting friends, men she knew, perhaps saw often out on the hills and moors at night. Fiona began to yank her back, murmuring encouragements.

  As the lanterns flashed and vanished like yellow stars, Fiona paused. She should cross the road quickly and return to the house. But like Maggie, she only wanted to turn the other way and follow the laird of Kinloch. The power of the urge took her breath away, muting the voice of common sense.

  Her life felt dull and limited, but for her travels and work in the Highlands. She longed for a bold spark of adventure and passion. Longed for love again, for something wild, fierce. What she had felt in Dougal MacGregor’s kisses hinted passion and discovery far beyond what the safe circles of her life could offer.

  But smuggling was criminal, and her new dream was simply a fantasy. Even Kinloch had urged her to go home, lock the door, keep safe, leave the glen. Yet his kisses said something different, tempting, hopeful.

  Adventure was one thing—folly was another. She should not entertain such a foolish dream as this.

  The clouds dispersed again, and in the pale moonlit glow, she saw lanterns flare, saw two men on horseback along the road. Their hoofbeats were rapid, and she could hear shouts in the distance. She watched, skirts whipping in the wind as she held tight to the leash while Maggie barked, strained for release.

  “Customs and excise!” one of the riders bellowed. “You there! Stop!”

  She recognized the voice of Tam MacIntyre, the officer who had stopped Ranald MacGregor’s cart the first night she had come to the glen. Maggie pulled at the leash, growling low.

  Fiona patted her. “Stay. Good girl,” she murmured. She held the dog in place in the darkness near the standing stones. The dog continued to growl. “Hush, stay,” Fiona said.

  “Dougal MacGregor!” Tam called. The sound carried as the
horsemen pulled up their reins. The group of men ahead stopped, and one man walked back toward the excise officers. “Kinloch. Why am I not surprised to find you out here tonight?”

  “Ah, Tam!” Dougal said. “Who else is with you?”

  “What is in those baskets, Kinloch? MacCarran, go look in those panniers. I wager this lot is smuggling something.”

  MacCarran. Oh God—her brother! Fiona gripped the dog’s leash tightly and crouched now beside Maggie, holding the dog’s trembling body, her own now shaking in fear.

  Dougal crossed his arms and surveyed the mounted gaugers. “Smuggling? You are mistaken,” he said calmly.

  “What else would bring you lot out here tonight, with packhorses?”

  “MacIntyre, what are you doing here in Glen Kinloch, on my land? It is outside your jurisdiction,” Dougal countered.

  “The stink of peat reek whisky from Highland stills, carried in the panniers of those horses, brought us here,” Tam said. “And your glen has no customs and excise man, so we must extend ourselves, and we are overworked and none too happy about it. The one who held this post died a while back. Curious, that.”

  Now Fiona saw Fergus, his silhouette distinct and recognizable, leave the group to come toward them. “That one? He died in his bed months back, and you know it. He was not fit for chasing about these hills. Bred in the south, and too old.”

  “Even so,” Tam said, “here we all are. I would vow those baskets and kegs hold a cartload of illicit peat reek.”

  “Call it the best Highland brew, as it deserves,” Dougal said. “I doubt you could prove it illegal, though. Goodnight to you. Be on your way.” He turned and began to walk back to the group, his heart pounding at the chance he took. Each basket carried by these dozen horses held whisky in bottles and kegs, from his own stills and others. Yet no gauger could easily distinguish the product of different stills, not as well he could, and they would have a devil of a time knowing which kegs were carried legitimately and which were not. Their assumption—rightly so, he had to credit—was smuggling activities. But they had to be dissuaded of that.