by Susan King
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—and he was reassured that she had not reported untoward activities in the glen. 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.
Nodding, Fiona read on as her brother explained that he and Mr. MacIntyre would patrol the north end of the loch, including Glen Kinloch, regularly. Tell the laird that the only evening star he should view is his own hearth.
A clear warning. Frowning, she read the rest quickly. Patrick explained that he had no success so far in contesting Lady Struan’s will, which meant that they would all need to meet her conditions, no matter how odd or impossible. As for the husband you are tasked to find, Kinloch is a poor glen, and so your chances are better elsewhere. I am sure our brothers will agree that you should come home soon.
Fiona set the letter down, shaking her head gently. “Not just 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 had 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 not the reason to stay, she reminded herself, if it is not returned.
“I owe you something,” he said.
“No explanation is necessary,” she said stiffly.
Sighing, he indicated again that she should sit. When she did, he placed a chair beside her, and leaned forward in silence, taking her hand in his. For a moment he stroked her hand with his thumb. Fiona could not seem to look at him.
“I owe you something. Marriage,” he said simply. “I have disgraced you.”
Surprised, she stared at him. “You did not disgrace me. I wanted what happened. I thought you did too. Marriage is not owed me,” she said. “I suppose I should leave the glen soon. But I would like to finish teaching first.”
“Fiona—”
“I will always remember that evening with great—fondness and thankfulness. It is true,” she said, as he began to protest. “I do not need a marriage proposal.”
He kept her hand in his and did not look at her. “When I was a lad,” he said, while he seemed to study their joined hands, “my father taught me the way of making the fairy brew, which is somewhat different than the usual. He said that the lairds of Kinloch must keep the process secret, sharing it only with close kin.”
Fiona listened, waited, not sure of the track of his thoughts. Dougal entwined his fingers in hers, sending delicious shivers through her. She closed her eyes against the longing, aware she might never feel such tenderness again. She did not want an obligation of marriage. She wanted love. She did not want a wealthy Highland nobleman, as her grandmother dictated. She wanted Kinloch—and could not explain adequately to him why she must refuse.
“My father never told his brothers, my uncles, the recipe of the fairy whisky. I have shared a little of the process over the years. Not all,” he said, “but I wanted them to know, as it was better to work together. Now I find it burning in me to tell you the recipe. The truth. Not this moment,” he said, “but someday I want you to know. And I want—” He stopped, turned her hand in his.
She leaned closer. “What?”
“You asked me once what I truly wanted. I know exactly what I want, now.” He glanced at her, eyes green and sincere. “You.”
“Me,” she repeated, heart pounding faster.
“One day, I hope we will bring our children to the place in the glen where my father brought me when he showed me the secret of the fairy whisky of Kinloch.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh!” She had no words for the moment. This was not what she had expected to hear. Yet it was what she yearned to hear from him, that he wanted a future with her, wanted her to stay in the glen. Her heart filled with love just then, soft and expansive and hopeful, love for him and all that he had to share—the glen, its secrets and fairy legends, kinship with those he loved, all that was deeply important to him. But she could not find the words to accept. First, she owed him honesty.
He studied their entwined fingers. “It is not obligation that brings me here,” he murmured, “but love. And so I will leave the decision to you.” He let go of her hand and stood.
Fiona caught her breath, wanting desperately to jump up, loop her arms around his neck, return the joy he offered her. Yet she sat still, fisting the hand that felt lonely now that his fingers had withdrawn. “There is something I must tell you.” It had to be said. She could hardly meet his eyes.
“I know you have secrets, Fiona. I know some reason beyond teaching brought you here. But if it does not concern me or my glen, you need not tell me.”
She reached for the notebook and opened it, revealing the drawings of the fairy. “I have been trying to get this just so. It is drawn from memory.”
“She is beautiful,” Dougal said.
“But it is not quite right. I have not truly captured her,” she said. “Dougal, I do have obligations of my own. Promises I am expected to keep.”
“What promises?”
“My grandmother’s will contains specific conditions that my brothers and I must meet if we are to inherit. I am bound by those conditions unless I break my word and my bond with my brothers.”
“That is not an easy thing to do, then.” He watched her, waited.
“Yet I may do it.” Quickly, quietly, she told him about Lady Struan’s will, how it made unique requests of Fiona and her brothers regarding fairies and other conditions in order to release the inherited funds. “I am to make drawings of fairies for the book my brother is finishing, which our grandmother began. I came to the glen for that.”
“Drawings? That is not so bad. Why this glen in particular?”
She shook her head. “No reason. The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society sent me here to Glen Kinloch, so I thought being here might help me meet—some of the obligations.”
“I see. There are other conditions?” His voice was graveled, wary.
“My drawings are to be judged for their genuineness by Sir Walter Scott.”
“Your drawings would please anyone, including such a fine gentleman as that.” There was a new wariness in him as he watched her.
“There is another condition.” She looked away. “I am instructed, and expected, to f
ind a Highland husband.”
“We could solve that,” he murmured.
She twisted her hands together. “The clause stipulates that I am to marry a wealthy, titled Highlander.”
“Ah.” He stepped back.
Her heart sank at his caution and coolness. “Wealth takes all forms,” she said.
“The will refers to only one form, I think.” He took another step back.
“You offer so much—this beautiful glen, the loyalty of kin and friends, even the rare secret of fairy whisky. What you offer is a different kind of wealth. The best sort, and it has far more meaning than material wealth.” She glanced up then, hopeful. But his eyes were dark green. Stormy.
“Regardless, whatever I offer will not win you your inheritance.”
She sighed. “I cannot meet all of the conditions. It is impossible.”
“You can if you marry someone else,” he said. Fiona lowered her head, but felt his gaze upon her. “And make a few drawings.”
He leaned over the table and picked up the Conte pencil. A stroke here, there, and as Fiona watched the drawing sparked to life under his deft hand. Whatever was missing, he provided before her eyes. “There,” he said softly. “Now she looks a little like you. Beautiful. That was what you needed to add. The resemblance. Your own magic.” He set the pencil down. Stepped back again.
“Dougal—” Fiona stretched out her hand.
He went to the door, turned back. “Only you can decide what is best for you and your family. I cannot tell you what to do. I only know what I want. The rest you must sort for yourself.”
“Please,” she said, standing, hands trembling.
“As for me,” he said, gripping the latch, “whatever happens, my life will not change. Life in the glen goes on every day. Hearts endure somehow. I learned that well, years ago.” He opened the door, stepped out, shut it behind him.
She ran to the door, opened it, but he was gone, vanished in shadows. Closing it, she leaned her head against the wood. Hearts endure somehow. She knew he had learned that lesson after his father’s death, when he had never thought to be happy again in his life. She had learned the same after Archie’s death. For eight years, her heart had simply endured.
But she wanted to be happy now, and desperately wanted Dougal to be happy too. Yet if she chose to stay, chose a simple, loving, adventurous life in the glen, her choice could set her brothers up for ruin.
Since she had come to Glen Kinloch, the impossible had happened. She had seen a fairy, and had found love with a Highland laird whose wealth was his offer of love and a good life—if he would have her now. And while falling in love with a poor laird was all she desired, it would not satisfy the will.
And the inheritance would go to Nicholas MacCarran, Lord Eldin.
Hearing a whimper, Fiona looked down to see Maggie beside the door, pawing at it. Fiona opened it. “Go on, go after him, he will allow that from you,” she murmured as the dog dashed off. Fiona longed to run through the darkness to find the laird, too. Instead she shut the door and went to the table.
Her drawing was beautiful now, after the delicate touches Dougal had made. But as she sat and looked at it, a tear dropped on the paper, smudging the pencil lead.
She knew her only choice. Her siblings depended on her to fulfill her part of the agreement. And Kinloch himself had made it clear that he could, and he would, exist without her. She had to leave Glen Kinloch.
Chapter 17
“The game is going well,” Fergus said, even as someone shoved hard against him. He shoved back, his face reddening. “Very well!”
“Aye,” Dougal grunted, pushing a shoulder into the huddle, watching his feet as the players kicked and shuffled. Like the rest, Dougal was looking for the elusive feather-stuffed leather ball that darted and rolled amid a forest of legs—like any of them, if he found it, he would kick it away and try to take possession.
He and Fergus hovered on the outer part of the great press of men and boys. Dozens crammed together in a great, wicked beast of a crowd, grunting, shoving, and sweating as they vied to find, snatch, and direct the ball between one goal and the next. North and South were huge teams both, the north glen claiming an old, crumbling stone wall on the hill below Kinloch House for a goal, while the south glen claimed the standing stones near the lochside road. No quarter was given. Each time the ball was sighted, every man went after it.
All were here, Dougal thought, glancing around. By now they were gathered in the middle of the glen floor toward the end of a very long day. The huge group of players had gone up the glenside and down the lochside, taking the slopes, moving in great herds through villages, splashing through burns and leaping over and around rocks, even darting in and out of houses and byres. Now they were back in the broad meadow near a long stretch of muddy bog.
To a man, they were exhausted after hours of shoving, pushing, running the ball in packs from one point to the next. They had endured pummelings and hardships for the sake of the ball, and were bruised, aching, and thirsty. But each player called up the energy to carry on, following up and down the glen. The ball, muddy and torn, had been stolen countless times from gripping hands, hidden under shirts, crammed under wads of turf, or sunk in a stream while others searched for it. Countless times it had been found, claimed, kicked, caught, and zigzagged around the glen with players in endless pursuit.
The day had begun in a civilized way, the two teams assembling at the midpoint of the glen. Dougal had opened the game by playing a tune on his bagpipes, and rousing cheers rose from the crowd assembled ready to watch and follow the players. Rob MacIan had brought carts loaded with ale and cheese and other food from his inn, and claimed the privilege of tossing the leather ball high up to begin the game.
No particular rules existed beyond a tacit agreement to do no deliberate harm. The only certainty was the presence of the two goals at opposite ends of the glen, and the willingness of every man there to do his damnedest to make a goal. The winning team would be decided either by nightfall or exhaustion, or both.
Scores of men—near a hundred this year, Dougal guessed—now clustered around the ball, chasing it along, not always certain where it was, simply going along in the wake of the shouts and scrambles. They pursued it through houses and byres, some even rushing through the schoolhouse after the renegade ball. They went shouting and shoving past and through houses and illicit stills too, pausing for a quick sip of peat reek or ale from casks opened for the purpose. By tradition, everything but direct harm was considered fair play, so whatever stood in the ball’s path was at the mercy of the game.
Stepping back from the press of players, Dougal watched as the ball popped free of the crowd. One fellow went fast after it and another hopped on his back, spinning together while yet another man snatched the ball away, only to be chased by a hooting pack of players.
Already that afternoon they had crossed the glen floor and reached the lochside road following the ball’s wayward path. Men had even thundered through Mary MacIan’s little house after the ball, tumbling over furniture and knocking her clock from the mantel. While Maggie barked wildly, Dougal had prevented both dog and mistress from being trampled, even as the players pounded onward.
Several men fell into one or another of the flowing burns that crisscrossed the glen. All knew that if the ball reached the cove it could be lost in the loch, while men might go splashing and swimming and nearly drown to find the thing. To avoid calamity, they drove their leathery prize inland again toward the central moor and played on.
Despite exhaustion, near-calamities and even danger, Dougal knew that all were enjoying the day. For a moment, he grinned at Fergus, then shouldered his way back into the shoving, shouting band of men. Lunatic and joyful, they were all brothers in the game of the ba’ when they played across the glen and back.
Soon enough, he would have to ease out of the crush and slip away with his uncles. Ducking to avoid a thrusting elbow, he saw the ball slip unnoticed between the feet
of the men in front of him.
Bending, scooping it up, he crammed it under the muddy hem of his shirt and was away. The others turned in swift pursuit, but for a moment, with that bit of leather clutched cold against his skin, he felt the elation of possessing the prize. But logic prevailed—he needed to be elsewhere.
He approached the outskirts of the fray with men pulling at him, and tossed the ball high overhead to surrender it. Arms reached, shouts burst out, men leaped like salmon. The prize disappeared into the cluster, the players rounding after it.
Breath heaving, Dougal stood there for a moment, wiping his face. Then he turned to see Ranald and Hamish. “Let’s away,” he rasped.
Certain they would not be noticed, they slipped away from the ragged edge of the frenzied crowd. Glancing back, Dougal saw Fergus still in the thick of the play, swearing like a savage, not ready to give up the game no matter the plan.
“Have you seen the gaugers?” Dougal asked Hamish, who had stayed out of the playing to keep watch.
“Aye, they came here just as we thought. Some are watching. A few are in the game now.” He tilted his head toward the throng. “Patrick MacCarran is in there, and Tam’s son too. Tam and a couple of others are following the scramble with the crowd. They will not be thinking about what free traders might be doing tonight.”
“And they think we are in the thick of it with the rest,” Ranald said.
“Just so. Come ahead.” Dougal pointed away from the crowd.
The hour was later than he had thought, with twilight thickening to purple as Dougal and his uncles went down to the lochside road. With so many players and spectators scattered about the moor and hills, they did not look out of place. They might be catching their breath, or going down to the loch for some cool water.
The air felt fresh and cool beyond the close, sweaty throng. Dougal breathed deep, felt the relief of clean fluttering his tattered, dirty shirt and kilt and damp hair. He paused to tuck his shirt in best he could, straightening the swath of the plaid around him and over his shoulder.