Laird of Secrets (The Whisky Lairds, Book 2): Historical Scottish Romance (The Whisky Lairds Series)
Page 28
“You could stay,” Mary MacIan said.
“Aye, you could,” Dougal said mildly. Fiona flicked a glance toward him.
“Stay and teach?” she asked. Now her gaze was fastened to his.
He tipped his head. “Is that what you want?”
She nodded, afraid to speak.
Mary MacIan looked up at Dougal. Fiona noticed others turning to look at him too. “What else do you want, Miss MacCarran?” he asked.
“I want to stay in Glen Kinloch—and teach,” she said, speaking to him alone, despite the crowd.
“You could do that,” Dougal said. “You could teach what some of us most need to learn.”
“What would that be, Kinloch?” she asked.
He smiled, shrugged. “I can think of a few lessons.”
“Will you be joining the class, too, Kinloch?” one of the men asked.
“Perhaps. I may need to read a warrant one of these days,” he drawled, amid a burst of laughter among the crowd.
“Och, the lad can read well enough!” Fergus boomed. “He could write warrants if he wanted, with the university schooling he has had, and a library to rival any city man’s book collection.” Fergus looked at Fiona. “Miss MacCarran, we will repair the schoolhouse roof, if that would keep you here.”
“That would be nice, aye.” Suddenly she could not speak for the tightening in her throat.
“One thing more might keep you here,” Dougal said. “You could marry the laird, and stay forever.”
Her heart soared, her breath caught. She heard gasps all around, saw beaming smiles. She heard her students, behind her, clapping and laughing. But she could not take her gaze from the man moving toward her, then pausing again.
“I could,” she said. “I could marry the laird, if he will have me.”
Dougal chuckled, deep and mellow, and then strode toward her, setting his hands to her waist, lifting her up a little, turning her around and setting her down again. He took her in his arms and kissed her, gentle and slow. She could hear laughter and applause all around, but the greater sound was his steady heartbeat, and the pulse of her own, gone to wildness within her.
“Good, then,” he murmured in her ear. “For it is nearly time to go up into the hills to the place where the bluebells grow. I want to take you there, and tell you a story, the whole of the legend of Glen Kinloch.”
She drew back to look up at him. “I promise to keep that secret all my life.”
“I know you will, my love,” he whispered. “We will keep the fairies’ promise together.”
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LAIRD OF ROGUES
Laird of Rogues
The Whisky Lairds Series, Book 3
Scotland, 1822
Along the corridor, Ronan heard the faint rattle of china. He looked at his friends, two comrades in this miserable Edinburgh dungeon. “Tea and cakes today, lads. Someone important must be visiting.”
“That may not be lucky for us,” Iain MacInnes grumbled.
Ronan huffed. Tea was served to the three celebrated prisoners only if the crowd coming to gawk at the Whisky Lairds was large and the newspapers could report on the rogues’ decent treatment, or if someone in authority arrived. He wondered which it was.
“Behave, you scalawags,” Arthur, Lord Linhope, drawled as he lifted his fiddle and began a slow tune. Ronan closed his eyes and leaned back to ignore the viewers about to arrive. He would not be charming just to earn public sympathy. Interested only in extricating himself and his friends from this situation, he wracked his lawyer’s brain for some way to accomplish that.
“For a good cup of tea, I will play the role of Highland savage,” Iain was saying, “may it please the journalists and tourists who come round that corner.”
“Try not to look too much the guilty party,” Ronan grunted. “We need to defeat a charge of smuggling, not confirm it.”
“Hey, smile now and then and be polite,” Iain said. “Help our cause.”
Voices sounded in the corridor as Ronan folded his arms. He was heartily sick of this place, and the ruse they had been forced to uphold as Highland scoundrels.
“Tea,” the guard announced, unlocking the grate to bring in the tray. He left as soft footsteps approached. Ronan sighed, not keen on tepid tea or tittering guests.
“Hey, what’s this,” Iain murmured. “The angel is back again. The one from yesterday’s crowd.”
Ronan opened his eyes. She was here indeed, setting gentle foot on stone, crossing the dank straw as if floating, a golden vision in a pale summer gown and frothy white shawl. Her gentleman companion of yesterday was back too, hovering in the shadowed corridor with the guards. What was this? Ronan sat up, staring.
Iain sat up too. Linhope straightened and lowered his fiddle. The girl crossed the cell, smiling, all lavender-scented and delicate as fine china, all sunlight and spring flowers.
“Greetings, gentleman,” she said in Gaelic. Her accent was good, but not native. Ronan watched her in silence. Iain stood. Linhope stepped forward courteously.
“Failte,” he said. “Welcome. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
At least the good doctor stopped short of kissing her hand, Ronan noted sourly. The fellow, scrupulous as he was, had not had a bath for far too long.
“I am pleased to meet you. I am Miss Ellison Graham.” She smiled, by parts angelic, impish, and devastating—Ronan could hardly take his gaze from her. She was perfection, lush curves and serene grace—the combined effect took him down swiftly. He stood, silent and wary.
“Miss Graham.” Linhope indicated a bale of straw. “Would you care to sit?”
She tipped her bonneted head, golden curls slipping free. Rarely had Ronan seen such a natural beauty—or a person so unsuited to this ungodly place. What did she want?
She went to the tea tray that sat on a bale of straw. “Am bu toigh leat ti?” she asked. “Would you like tea?”
“Cha toigh leam ti,” Ronan said, folding his arms against the effect she was having on him. Petulant. I don’t like tea.
Linhope shot him a dark glance. Behave, it said.
She poured the tea as if they were in a palace. Filling each cracked cup and passing it with a smile, she then handed round a pewter plate of rather stale cakes.
Ronan accepted a cup and declined a cake in silence. Instinct told him not to give away his upbringing, not to speak English or show more than basic manners. It was wiser to play the role of the rough savage here. He sent glances toward his companions to remind them, but they were too besotted to notice. While Linhope sipped and Iain slurped, Ronan held the cup in his hand and scowled.
“Now,” Miss Graham said, teacup balanced prettily, “which of you is the laird of Glenbrae?”
Ronan said nothing. Iain leaned forward eagerly. “Glenbrae? That’s him.”
“I am from Glenbrae,” Ronan emphasized in Gaelic, shooting a sight-dagger toward Iain for good measure. The fellow missed it, smiling like a happy pup.
“Very good, sir. I would have a word with you, if I may.” She smiled again.
“Me?” His dumbfounded retort was out too soon.
“Yes, if you please,” she said with all her angel brightness. She approached. She barely came up to his shoulder. He stood looking down at her. Too close. Stepped back.
“What is it you want of m
e, Miss Graham?”
She sighed, narrow shoulders lifting. “I come here with good intentions, and with your welfare in mind. I was sent by my father.”
Ah. There it was. “I do not need to be saved by heaven’s grace. Goodbye.”
“Oh! Not that. My father is the Deputy Provost Mayor of Edinburgh. He has a message for you.”
He frowned. “What man would send his daughter down into a dungeon to bring a message to a prisoner?”
“I am perfectly safe here, I trust.”
“You are safe, my girl,” he said in soft, low Gaelic, bending toward her, “so long as you do not try to change me with your charitable intentions or churchy mission, or convince me of your father’s demands if the man will not come here himself.”
“Change you and convince you?” Her blue eyes were wide, her lips a full oval. Ronan’s heart succumbed in that very moment to the soft, darling, lush sight of her and the sweet, warm scent of her. But he stepped back almost hastily. “Oh, Mr. MacGregor. That is precisely what I mean to do.”
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Also by Susan King
The Whisky Lairds Series
Laird of Twilight
Laird of Secrets
Laird of Rogues
The Border Rogues Series
The Raven's Wish
The Raven's Moon
The Heather Moon
The Celtic Nights Series
The Stone Maiden
The Swan Maiden
The Sword Maiden
Laird of the Wind
The Scottish Lairds Series
Taming the Heiress
Waking the Princess
Kissing the Countess
The Celtic Lairds Series
The Angel Knight
Lady Miracle
About the Author
Susan King is the bestselling, award-winning author of over two dozen historical novels and novellas praised for historical accuracy, master storytelling and lyricism. As Susan King and Sarah Gabriel, she has written several historical romances for Penguin and HarperCollins; as Susan Fraser King, she writes historical fiction, including Lady Macbeth: A Novel, and Queen Hereafter: A Novel of Margaret of Scotland, from Random House. A former college lecturer and a current and founding member of the popular Word Wenches blog, Susan holds a graduate degree in art history and lives in Maryland with her family.
susankingbooks.com
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