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

by Susan King

  She laughed. “What does Lucy think of her rogue uncles?”

  “Och, she tells us to behave,” he drawled. “And sounds like a wee Jeanie MacGregor when she does it, too. But we are a passel o’ rogues and bachelors with no woman to guide us in better ways. Maisie comes in once or twice a week to cook and clean, but Jeanie was a true godsend when she lived here. Lucy needed a woman about. But she left us. Hamish, rather. Perhaps she was done with all of us,” he said, shaking his head.

  “As you say, she will return. Lucy does need a woman in her life, and so do her uncles. As her teacher, I think the lass would benefit,” she added hastily.

  “Aye.” He wrapped his hand around her finger, pressing it, and looked at her, his eyes twinkling in the golden candlelight. “Your recovery is certain, I think. What was in your wee glass?”

  “Whisky and honey for my cough.”

  “Maisie’s favorite remedy. Did it help?”

  “Help?” Were his eyes truly that green, or was it a trick of the candlelight? His thick black lashes encircling moss-green eyes were simply beautiful.

  “Your cough, did the whisky help?”

  “A little. I drank some but spilled the rest.”

  “You should take another wee dram. The smoke of that fire was very thick. A number of us were overcome and coughing. I should not have let you come with us as soon as I heard there was fire.”

  “I came of my own accord. I wanted to be there.”

  He nodded. “And I do thank you for it. Another dram, then? I do not know Maisie’s recipe, but a bit of the whisky should do on its own. What is that commotion?” He turned as the dogs began barking downstairs. “I will go see what is bothering them. Pour yourself a dram, and one for me, if you will. That is Kinloch whisky, just there.” He pointed toward the bottles on the low cupboard, and left the room.

  Fiona went to the cupboard, not quite sure which bottle he meant. There were several, some of them with handwritten labels, paper strips glued to the glass. Brandy, said one; MacDonald’s Whisky, another; A Good Port; A Claret; A Shiraz, read the other labels. One brown bottle said Glen Kinloch. Three small silver flasks and two green bottles were all labeled uisge-beatha an ceann loch. Kinloch whisky, in Gaelic. She thought that was what Maisie had given her, mixed with honey and hot water. Or was it Glen Kinloch? They were the same, surely, likely different batches. Lifting one of the silver flasks, she took a small glass from a cluster arranged with the bottles. Pouring out a little liquid, she sipped.

  The whisky, by itself without honey or hot water, was wonderful. Strong and yet delicate, slightly sweet, it had a seductive simplicity unlike any whisky she had tasted before. Its natural heat spread quickly through her, the first small sip sinking gently, a stream of mellow fire building inside. Her tickly throat cleared almost immediately, and her chest felt better. Already she breathed more deeply. She sipped again, and a wonderful warmth filled her.

  On the third sip, she sought its elusive sweetness and some undefinable spicy flavor. Sipping again, she chased after its delicate flavor, trying to define it. Kinloch’s whisky was alluring, with both wildness and charm in the smallest sip. She carried the glass to the wing chair and sank into it, enjoying the mellow warmth that radiated inside of her. The little annoying cough had all but vanished. The stinging pain in her finger was gone as well.

  Waiting for Dougal MacGregor to return, she picked up her grandmother’s book and skimmed the pages, wondering at the strange assignment Lady Struan had given her. So far, Glen Kinloch had no real fairies, and few local stories.

  Hearing noises below, and then hurried steps on the stone stairs, she glanced up as the dogs bounded into the room and Dougal followed.

  “Have your uncles returned? I should go,” she said, sitting straighter.

  “The noise just now was only the wind. My uncles are still out in the glen. It is a busy night and they may not be back before dawn.”

  “The fire, aye.” She tipped her head. “Or is it busy because of the gaugers?”

  “We have been busy trying to avoid them, aye.”

  She appreciated his frankness and the trust he showed in telling her. “They will find nothing. You are always careful, I think.”

  “Of course.” He went to the cupboard, picked up a fat brown bottle, and poured a little whisky into a small glass.

  “I do apologize, I meant to pour you a dram as well.” When he shrugged and sipped, showing it was no matter, she settled back. “You came home sooner than I expected. I though you would be out the whole of the night.”

  “Maisie’s brother told me she had gone to help their father. With the gaugers about, I was concerned that you were here alone.”

  “No need for concern. I have been safe here, and quite cozy.”

  “So I see.” He lifted his glass in a lighthearted salute and sipped. “I know you are a stubborn lass, and I thought you might head back to Mary MacIan’s.”

  “I heeded your advice to stay. I did not expect anyone back so soon, or I would have dressed.” She pulled the robe around her and tucked her legs up under her in the chair to hide her bare feet, draping the dressing gown best she could. “This is so improper. I have never been in such a situation before. I am sorry.”

  “No need. In the city, I am sure you rarely meet smugglers at midnight, and in your dressing gown.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  “I believe it is your robe, actually.” She smoothed and tucked the fabric draped over her legs. “I admit, life in the city is dull by comparison to your glen.”

  He huffed a laugh. “So you live with your great-aunt there?”

  “Lady Rankin, aye. She is a dear, though can be stiff in her attitudes. She prefers that I behave primly and properly, but sometimes—” She stopped.

  “You want a little more freedom?” he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “I suppose that is why I accept teaching assignments in the Highlands, to get away from city life, and away from my aunt’s very proper social circles.” Fiona lifted her head. “My lady aunt is not happy about what I do, but it is charity work, after all, so she can say little against it. And I rather like the adventure of it. I am not quite as dull as people think,” she added defensively.

  “I do not think you are dull at all. Serene, I would say. Calm and capable. But never dull, Miss MacCarran.” He regarded her with a relaxed, amused expression.

  “I very much fear that everyone thinks me the capable one.” She frowned.

  “And that is not what you prefer?”

  Impulsively, she flung a hand outward. “I prefer a wee bit of wildness.”

  He laughed outright. “You have found a wee bit here.”

  “Aye. But I do not have a truly wild nature,” she said. Her cheeks were heating up, her breath expanding. She felt open and expressive, and a little tipsy. “Oh, look, there’s dear Fiona MacCarran, so capable, so calm, always does what she should and what she must. Though dear Fiona longs to be more adventurous. To be a more interesting person. Well,” she said, “here she sits in a man’s dressing gown, alone with the man who owns it. I suppose that is adventurous.”

  He quirked a smile. “Dear Fiona. I would not change a thing about her.”

  She felt her heart thumping hard. She sipped whisky, licked her lips, sipped again. “This is sweet,” she said. “Light. It’s very good.”

  “I am glad you like our Glen Kinloch brew.” He came closer, leaned against the library table, crossing his feet as he rested there. The kilt he wore was in the MacGregor pattern, and he had added a dark jacket over it when he had returned. But the shirt beneath it was open at the throat, without the fussiness of a knotted neckcloth. Fiona admired the strong column of his throat, and liked, too, the breadth of his shoulders in jacket and shirt, and the sight of his long muscled legs, strong, flat knees, taut calves covered by the woven patterned socks. She liked every aspect of his earthy strength. It was reassuring. Warm. Protective.

  “I have always thought that the Highland c
ostume gives a man an air of masculinity that is very solid. Very attractive,” she said, speaking aloud before she could stop herself, and the words still tumbled forth. “The muscular limbs and the hard beauty of the male form is so enjoyable. The kilt shows the confidence and ease of its wearer. The natural attractive character of a strong male—is quite—oh, do forgive me!” She felt sudden embarrassment, and yet she felt a little wanton at the same time. She was talking too much. And oh, how her head spun.

  “Forgiven,” he acknowledged. “And thank you, Miss MacCarran.”

  “Fiona,” she corrected. “Feeeeeona.”

  “Fionnghal,” he said softly in Gaelic. “Fair one.” A shiver went through her at his low, breathy words. He inclined his head. “And no more of this Kinloch and Mr. MacGregor. I am Dougal.”

  “Dubhgall,” she whispered the Gaelic. “Dark stranger.”

  “Strangers no more,” he murmured, lifting his glass slightly. “May I say you look fetching tonight. That rich wine color suits your dark hair and the blush in your fair cheek. Very bonny.”

  “Thank you,” she said, tilting her head. Were her cheeks so hot, or was it the whisky? “So you prefer the plaid? My brothers wear it sometimes, particularly when in the Highlands and going hunting and hiking. Though Patrick prefers the more modern Southern fashion and always wears trousers and coat.”

  “The plaid is a point of pride for many, especially in these times. And it is an easy thing to wear, well suited to Highland life.” He took another swallow from the glass and set it down. Then he looked at her for a moment, tilting his head, folding his hands. “I think you have had enough, my lass,” he commented.

  Fiona sipped once more. Just once more. “I suppose I have. It is a lovely whisky. Uisge-beatha an ceann loch,” she murmured in Gaelic. “Oh dear,” she said then, setting a hand to her head. She felt dizzy and flushed, her face burning with a blush that spread to her throat and chest. “It is strong. But I like it.”

  “A wee bit is more than enough,” he said. “This batch is nicely mellow, with a bit of spice from the flowers that grew by the burn that year.” He looked at her and frowned. “How much have you had?”

  “I had some earlier with honey and hot water. And about half this glass now. My cough seems to be gone now. But I feel, uh, lightheaded.” She blinked.

  “Aye, enough, lass. An Edinburgh lady will not have the head for Highland drink. I apologize. I should not have suggested another dram for you after Maisie’s dose. May I?” He stretched his hand out for her glass.

  “I am fine,” she insisted, and set the glass on the small table. A strange sense of well-being, even joyfulness, filled her in tandem with the heated flush in her face and chest. She smiled, feeling content. Then she stood, wobbling a little, grabbing the chair for support. Looking up, she saw tiny lights flitting high up in the room. Reflections of the lamplight, she thought. Her head felt very spinny now.

  “How do you feel?” Dougal asked. He was standing beside her chair. When had he stepped so close?

  She smiled up at him. “Marvelously well.”

  “Indeed,” he drawled. “So along with us being improperly alone here, and you in a state of undress, I am now responsible for your becoming fou.”

  “I am not fou,” she said. “And if I am, I did that myself. And willingly.”

  “`We are nae fou, well, nae that fou,`” he quoted softly.

  “Just so,” she said, laughing, glad to hear a man quote Burns so readily His intellect, she realized, was equally as attractive as his kindness, his strength of will, his handsomeness.“You do make a lovely whisky, sir, if I may say. And if I am in a state of undress, well, that is my own doing.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “I think you should go upstairs now, lass.”

  “Not just yet. I like your company.” She really did, she thought, and stood, tipping her head. But the movement made her dizzy again.

  “I like your company too. But your brothers would surely come after me if they knew we were together here, with you dressed like that.”

  “Only if I tell them. It also depends on what you decide to do this night.” She reached for the glass again, but Dougal took it neatly away and set it aside.

  “Decide to do about what?” he asked quietly.

  She felt wicked. “About your black lovesickness.”

  “Best we leave that be for now.”

  “Perhaps we could cure it.”

  Dougal was silent for a moment, standing so close that Fiona tilted her head to look up at him. He lifted a hand, brushed her hair from her brow, while she closed her eyes, waiting, hoping. Dizzy. But he did not kiss her.

  “What cure do you suggest?” he murmured.

  “Mmm,” she said. “Maisie’s potion cures all, so she said.”

  “You have had enough of that, I think. Any other remedies are best not pursued at the moment.”

  “For a rascally smuggler, you are a true gentleman.” She smiled.

  “Just so.” He took her arm to steady her as she wobbled against him. Glad for the support, she set a hand to his shoulder. Thought of dancing. Hummed a little.

  Dougal stepped back, his hand encircling her wrist. “Here we go, my girl, off to bed with you.” He began to turn her toward the door.

  “I am not your girl,” she said. “Am I?”

  “Not so far, unless you want to be.”

  She looked up, slightly dizzy, yet finding steadiness in his quiet gaze. “I think I have a touch of the black lovesickness myself.”

  “Do you? I am glad I am not alone in that.”

  “We are in this together, sir.” She leaned toward him, and he caught her by the shoulders quickly so that she would not tilt and fall.

  “Oh aye, upstairs for you, my dear.”

  “With you?”

  “Good Lord,” he murmured. “Can you make it up the stairs to your room?”

  “Aye—oh! I was reading a book. Let me fetch it.” She turned impulsively, dragging him with her toward the table where the book lay upturned and open.

  Dougal picked it up and looked at the cover. “‘Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland.’ I have read this. An excellent collection by—Lady Struan,” he read on the spine. “Would she be related to your family? You are interested in fairy legends, and would this very interesting.”

  “I read it years ago, and I want to read it again. Yes, a relation. My grandmother was the author.”

  “Truly,” he said, his tone suddenly flat. “How interesting.”

  “Oh aye. She wrote several books about fairies and fairy lore.”

  “A talented lady. So you became interested in such things because of her?”

  “Quite.” She glanced away. Spying the whisky glass on the table, she picked it up again and sipped the last bit quickly. The heat sank through her, soothing her nervousness. He stood so close—and she wanted him too much just them.

  “Lass, that whisky has done its work on you. Up the steps, and goodnight, sweet Fiona.”

  “What a stern fellow you are,” she admonished. Her head spun. She did not feel quite herself. She felt strangely free, keen to say whatever came to her. Felt happy in his company, too, and knew clearly that was not due to whisky.

  “Upstairs? But I want to stay here longer. I have been admiring your library. It is a handsome collection. You said you had only a few books.”

  “A few certainly, compared to other collections I have seen,” he replied. “I enjoy books, but I am not a scholar. When I was younger, I disliked studying. I wanted to—well,” he said, “no matter. Later I realized the value of education and how much I enjoyed it. So I read and learned what I could on my own. I was unable to complete my years at university, but I have benefitted from this fine library, reading whatever and whenever I can.” He spread a hand wide to encompass the shelves.

  “You have read all these books?”

  “Many of them. I have acquired hundreds of volumes, but the library was begun by my grandfather. And my fa
ther felt so strongly about my education that he insisted that I complete a university degree and become a lawyer. But then he was gone, and I was forced to make other decisions. Education was simply beyond my reach, and it was no longer what I wanted.”

  “What did you want, Dougal MacGregor?” She leaned toward him as if he were a lodestone.

  “I wanted to be a smuggler.”

  “Ah. You got your wish.”

  He watched her in silence. She realized he had never outright admitted to her that he was a smuggler, though the implication was there Perhaps foolishly, part of her had hoped there was little truth in it.But his silence spoke clearly.

  Something caught her eye and she looked up, seeing the tiny lights again, swirling and floating in the dimness near the ceiling rafters. Some came down to encircle Dougal’s head, even touch his shoulders. “Oh my!” She giggled, put a hand to her head. “That is a very fine whisky. I am seeing the lights again. Wee dancing lights all about.”

  Dougal frowned, taking her glass to sniff it. “Fiona,” he murmured, “which bottle did you use for your dram?”

  “That one.” She pointed. The room spun. “The silver flask.”

  “Silver flask.” His voice went low, with a touch of thunder in it.

  “Aye. Look at the wee lights—there, do you see? What are those?” She blinked as dazzling rainbow glimmers spun faster and faster. They came together, taking on shape, sparkling like colored stars, forming a column of light. The contours coalesced into a head, shoulders, body—

  “Oh, look!” she breathed.

  The lights began to form the shape of a woman who came into clearer detail, as if a ghost. She was exquisitely beautiful. Fiona moved close to Dougal, grasped his arm. “Ghost!” she whispered, and felt as if she were trembling all over.

  “What?” He glanced that way.

  The woman made of light smiled kindly at Fiona. Her hair was a golden spill of light, her eyes glittered like diamonds, her gown was a starlight mist. She reached out a hand, fingers sparkling with rings. She nearly touched Dougal’s arm. Then she looked at Fiona, smiled again, and floated away, dissolving in the shadows of the room. Dougal had turned his head and seemed to watch her too.