But he need not think about her now. Only the music of the pipes, its rich and layered tones ringing out in the air, should concern him now. As the last haunting note faded, he walked higher on the hillside, relaxed for a moment as the wind sifted through his hair. Then he drew breath, propelled air through the blowstick to inflate the woolen bag, inside which was a sheep’s stretchable bladder—the set of bag and four chanters was old, having belonged to his own grandfather—and then he tucked the full bag up under his arm and set his fingertips flying over the holes along the main chant pipe. The tune was older than the bagpipe he played, and had been played in these hills by so many pipers over so many generations that the echo had a familiar ring to it, as if the hills themselves knew the song as well.
Dougal had always been a solitary sort of piper, playing mostly for his own listening, and for whatever sheep, cattle, mountain goats, and wandering locals happened to hear. He did not play at weddings or funerals, or for the monthly ceilidhs held alternatively in the two villages in the glen—Garloch at the northern end and Drumcairn at its southernmost point, with the lands of Kinloch, his own estate, set nearly halfway between the two, in the east. The two villages had longtime rivalries enough between them, such as ceilidhs, kirks, ball games, free trading, and fine whisky brews. The lairds of Kinloch had done their best to remain noncommittal. He remembered that his father had played for the people of the glen on local occasions, but he had rarely done so himself, leaving that to his uncle Fergus MacGregor.
Keeping apart from what went on in the glen was not a lesson he had learned from his father before John MacGregor had passed too soon—it was something Dougal had learned on his own, as a boy growing up a laird, with the faith and responsibility of many families on his shoulders. He had learned from his father to be loyal to those folks, and that faith he always kept, though he was not about to play the pipes for them. Truth was, he did not think he was very good at it, though he enjoyed it for himself.
He had learned a good deal from his father, and after John was gone, from his father’s brothers, Ranald, Hamish, and Fergus, and from old Hector, too—together his kinsmen had taught Dougal nearly all he knew. He could credit the fine quality of Kinloch whisky to his father and old Hector; the playing of the pipes to the dark-haired blacksmith, Fergus; his knowledge of herding and husbandry to stodgy, calm Ranald; and an ability to fix almost anything that needed repair to Uncle Hamish.
Anything, that was, except that blasted coach, which had confounded both Dougal and Hamish’s efforts. As soon as the thing seemed fixed, it began to shimmy and creak once again.
What was broken stayed broken sometimes, he told himself, and he was learning to accept that. But he would rather fix troublesome coaches than his own heart. Once broken, it stayed that way—first with the early loss of his mother, then his father, and finally a girl he would have married, who would have kept a neat house and a kind bed for him. But she had asked him to give up smuggling, and he had refused; and so she had left the glen to marry a shepherd.
And may she be happy with her four small children and her placid husband, he thought. He had learned, in the years since then, that he was better off without a wife.
He glanced toward the loch that stretched for miles beside the glen, with the pale ribbon of the loch side road running alongside it, visible for a long way in either direction. Pausing in the tune he played—the last note rang out like a lamb’s bleat—he looked around.
The old coach was nowhere to be seen on the long stretch of the road.
Then he saw his uncle walking over a ridge toward him, with two dogs at his heels, the leggy gray beasts whose forebears had ambled the halls of Kinloch House for generations. Though they looked majestic and formidable, the reality of this lazy pair, Dougal knew, was nothing more ambitious than flopping in doorways. Yet Sorcha and Mhor were good guardians and amiable companions—and their presence now meant that Hamish had returned to Kinloch House.
“So you did not drive down to Auchnashee,” Dougal said as Hamish approached. “She refused the offer.”
“That she did.” Hamish paused beside Dougal on the hilltop, stooped, and picked up a nearby stick, tossing it and hooting to the dogs. They watched the stick fly, then gazed up at Hamish, and settled at his feet. “Useless beasts,” Hamish muttered.
“They know fetching only makes them look ridiculously obedient,” Dougal said.
“That lass o’ yours is not the least obedient,” Hamish said.
“My lass?” Dougal laughed. “I did not expect her to agree—she has a prickly side—but on the chance she saw the wisdom in leaving the glen, I sent you with the coach. I take it we did not succeed in sending the lady packing.” He glanced at Hamish.
His uncle shook his head. “She has a touch of the stubborn to her, like Mary MacIan herself. She could not have learned it in a day or two of visiting. It is natural to her. It is a waste of time and breath to tell her to leave when she intends to stay.”
“Her brother is a gauger,” Dougal pointed out. “He might bring his comrades into our hills. She has to go,” he added quietly, feeling another twist of regret with the words.
“How, Kinloch? She is planning to open the school, and the reverend is going about telling all the families so. Mary told me while I was eating sausages there.”
“Sausages?” Dougal raised his brows. “Mary MacIan gave you breakfast?”
Hamish took a parchment bundle from his pocket. “These are for you and Lucy, too.”
Setting the bagpipe on the ground, Dougal unwrapped the packet and found several sausages and a stack of oatcakes. He ate a sausage, and the hounds at his feet stood, suddenly interested; he tore a bit away for each dog. “Mary has always been a fine cook, and these are excellent.” He licked his fingers.
“The Lowland lady made those for you,” Hamish said. “Just before I left. She cooked more sausages after I ate some, and made fresh oatcakes and good strong tea, too. We three shared a fine breakfast. You should have been there,” he added.
Dougal ate another sausage; it was seared, savory, and perfect. Though he wanted more, he wrapped up the rest to take home, and wiped his fingers on his plaid. “So she cooks, eh? That might be enough reason to keep her here.”
Hamish chortled. “Wish we could, Kinloch, now that your aunt Jean has run back to her mother again, leaving the household to you and me once more.”
“Jean would come back if you both were less stubborn.”
“Bah. It’s peaceful without her. The Lowland lass can cook. That is enough for me.”
“Lucy is getting old enough to help.”
“The girl has no interest in domesticity. It comes of being raised by scoundrels.”
“We are not so bad,” Dougal said. “Aunt Jean taught her to make her bed and keep her clothes neat, to sweep the floors, sew a seam, and cook a little. She learned well.”
“She makes salty porridge and tea, and we cannot live on that. And she is too young to tend the fire in the hearth. She needs a mother. You might have married the shepherd’s wife,” Hamish added.
“She did not want me,” Dougal said.
Hamish grunted. “Then you ought to marry this Lowland lady, and we could have good sausages and more, and she would teach the school and keep quiet about her husband’s free trading. And we would all be content.”
“You have thought it out,” Dougal said. “Jean could not have done better.”
“For the sake of our stomachs, someone needs a wife in our house.”
“Jean will return,” Dougal said, knowing the pattern of Hamish and Jean’s stormy, passionate marriage. “Miss MacCarran would expect us to fend for ourselves. It would help none of us if I were to marry a gauger’s sister.”
“Blast all gaugers.” Hamish shrugged. “If she cannot stay, then she must leave. A pity the reverend invited her here now. Had he waited a few weeks, it would be different.”
“Perhaps.” Dougal bent to pick up his bagpipes. He and Hamish be
gan walking, the dogs following. Aware that he wanted her to stay, he drew in a breath at the strong feeling—a surge of craving, even true need. He barely knew the woman, but the kisses she had returned to him had stirred him so deeply that he had not been able to forget.
He was not desperate for female companionship, he told himself. He dallied now and then with one girl or another—making sure each was willing, and each living beyond the glen. Usually he encountered girls in the larger towns, often the willing sisters or widows of acquaintances when he went with his kinsmen on cattle drives. But in truth, a while had passed. And this Lowland girl was something different, he knew that very well.
Scowling, he looked about for a distraction. Picking up another stick, he threw it. The two deerhounds seemed nonplussed. “Lazy beasts,” he said.
“I know how to get the Lowland teacher to leave,” Hamish said. “Let the fairies do it.”
“What?” Like his other uncles, Hamish was tough as an old ram, and unlike them, was highly skeptical of local tales and fairies and such; his statement surprised Dougal. “I thought you did not believe in the legends of Glen Kinloch.”
“Bah, nor do I. But we have legends and haunts enough to frighten any Lowland girl. We’ll tell her all about Glen Kinloch’s fairies and haunts and the like. She’ll run back to Edinburgh, and we will carry on without a visit from the new gauger. But without a cook,” he added.
Dougal huffed a laugh. “If I try to convince her to leave again, it would seem suspicious. Her brother would be here the very next day to ask what we are up to in Glen Kinloch.”
“And we would have to deal with the ladies—what did Hugh call it? The Edinburgh Society for Ladies Who Fancy Themselves Better Than Highlanders, or suchlike.”
“The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society for the Education and Betterment of the Gaels.”
“Wha’s better than us?” Hamish said, and Dougal laughed. “What would scare that lass away from this glen, and none the wiser but us?”
“Very little,” Dougal said. “She breaks rocks for amusement.”
“Tcha,” Hamish said, shaking his head. “We will tell her about the sprites who haunt the caves, or the tall ancient race of fairies who live in the hills, or the ghosts—”
“None of it will work. When she first met me on the mountain, she thought I was one of the Sidhe or a ghost. I only startled her for a moment.”
“Bah,” Hamish said again. “Then we will warn her of women stolen away by the fairies.”
“Scaring her is not the way,” Dougal said. “So do not take your scheme to the other uncles.”
“We cannot risk the gaugers learning that we have a supply of whisky long aged, and more valuable than any cargo we have yet taken out of this glen. When we move that down to the loch, we do not need the sister of a gauger wandering the hills breaking rocks.”
“True. I hate to sell that cache of whisky, Hamish,” Dougal murmured.
“You have no choice. We have all agreed. The sale of that whisky can help you buy back the land that might be sold out from under us.” His uncle looked hard at him. “Unless you wish to give up the fairy brew and earn a fortune, as some of us think you should do.”
“Never,” Dougal said. “My father honored the old traditions, and I will do the same.”
“Fairies do not exist, Kinloch,” Hamish said. “Your father honored old legends, and that’s fine.
But he made a bad bargain that we knew nothing about until recently. Sharing the fairy brew for tradition’s sake will not benefit the glen. Selling it will.”
“I will not sell the fairy brew.” Exhaling, he walked beside Hamish. “We will find another way to stop the risk to the glen.”
“What if you told the teacher about the risk? She has a soft heart, that one. I could tell.”
“How do we know that she could be trusted with the truth about Glen Kinloch? We have far too many secrets here.”
“We do. But sometimes a man must give up one thing to gain something else of worth.”
“Tell that to Jean’s stubborn old husband,” Dougal drawled.
Hamish snorted, and strolled ahead with the deerhounds bounding after him.
Thoughtful, Dougal walked behind them toward Kinloch House. He could think of nothing worthwhile enough to give up the Kinloch secrets. Nothing at all.
“Good evening, Grandmother. Miss MacCarran, how nice to see you.” The young man entered the cottage even as he spoke, and removed his black-brimmed hat, bowing a little.
“My lad is here!” Mary MacIan smiled, looking up from setting plates on the table. “Hugh, you are just in time for supper.”
“So I hoped,” he said with a quick grin, and bent to kiss his grandmother’s cheek.
“Mr. MacIan, greetings,” Fiona said, crossing to take his black hat. “We have not seen you for a few days. Welcome.”
“Thank you. I have been especially busy, though anxious to visit my grandmother and her charming guest again.” Hugh MacIan grasped her hand for a moment, bowing, eyes sparkling. Dressed in the old-fashioned black frock coat and white neck cloth commonly worn by Free Church Highland ministers, he nevertheless was a handsome and robust young man; thick sandy hair sifted over his brow as he tilted his head, and his smile was wide and boyish. Yet the quick blush and fluster she felt at his smiling attention was nothing like the powerful reaction she had felt toward Dougal MacGregor during that undeniably exciting encounter, thoughts of which had preoccupied her at times.
“Did you ride far over the glen today, Hugh?” Mary asked.
“I did,” he answered, “visiting the good folk to let them know that the school would begin again tomorrow. I rode from Drumcairn to Garloch, and halfway back again just to share supper with you.” He smiled at her, then turned to Fiona. “Miss MacCarran, I believe I mentioned that I hold the living at the manse near Kinloch House, on the opposite side of the glen,” he told her. “Garloch and Drumcairn are the villages at either end of the glen. My father, Rob MacIan, keeps the Knockandoo Inn by Drumcairn bridge, at the lower end of Glen Kinloch. He asked me to send his welcome to you, and invites you to visit the inn for a good meal at his blessing.”
“I would be pleased to do so,” she said. “There is much of the glen I would like to see.”
“Miss MacCarran had an adventure the other night after you left here, Hugh,” the old woman said. “Out walking in the mist, she met Kinloch, who brought her back safe.”
“Kinloch! I am glad you are safe, Miss MacCarran,” the reverend said. “He is an interesting fellow to meet on a dark night.”
“I was never in danger,” she replied. “I am quite accustomed to hill walking.”
“You met Kinloch in these hills at night, and did not think yourself in danger?” He laughed. “We’ve a brave lass for our glen teacher, Grandmother,” he added with a wink.
Fiona thought of Dougal MacGregor, who had not been far from her thoughts the last few days. Of course she knew the smuggler might be dangerous—he had nearly kidnapped her, and had kissed her to distraction before she had even known his name.
“I was collecting rock specimens on a hillside,” Fiona said. “Mr. MacGregor offered to take me back in a cart driven by his kinsmen, and I accepted, for it was foggy and growing dark. They were traveling through the glen.”
“Traveling?” the reverend said, with a glance at his grandmother.
“He introduced himself as the laird of Kinloch, so I felt safe.” That was not entirely true—from the first moment she had sensed a risk unlike any she had ever known—not physical danger, but a threat to heart and soul, stirred by a kiss, a smile, a caress in the dark.
“When the Kinloch MacGregors are out and about in the hills, it is best not to notice them, or to know too much about their business,” Mrs. MacIan said.
“We are not accusing the laird of anything,” the minister said, “but you should be aware that the hills are not quiet at night. There are sometimes revenue officers and smugglers about. This area
has some free-trading traffic, like many Highland regions. Nothing to be concerned about, really,” he added.
“Thank you for the warning.” Fiona turned away to stir another scoop of butter into the mashed turnips that she and Mrs. MacIan had prepared for supper. Both Mrs. MacIan and her grandson knew that Patrick was an excise officer at the other end of Loch Katrine. He had introduced himself as such to them when he had escorted Fiona to the glen. And now the MacGregors knew. She had not anticipated it being a problem, but she would be wary. “I will remember your advice in future,” she told Hugh MacIan.
“Good, since you will be staying,” Mrs. MacIan said.
The reverend looked puzzled. “Of course she is staying. She has agreed to teach at the school until summer.”
“Kinloch sent Hamish with that wreck of a coach to take her back to Auchnashee, where her kinsmen there could put her on a coach for Edinburgh,” Mary said.
“Truly? Miss MacCarran, have you changed your mind?” he asked.
“Not at all. Mr. MacGregor of Kinloch seems to think that a teacher is not needed in the glen just now. We told Mr. Hamish MacGregor that it was just a misunderstanding.”
The reverend frowned. “I shall speak to Kinloch.”
“It is resolved,” Fiona said hastily, as she moved dishes to the table.
“Will you sit for supper with us?” Mary asked her grandson. “There are mashed turnips and mutton stew, very tender. Fiona prepared it herself, and it is quite good.”
He nodded and drew out the chairs for the women. When they were seated, they bowed their heads for the grace that Hugh MacIan murmured in a voice more suited to love poems than biblical sermons. Fiona served the turnips and the stew, and as they ate, she glanced around.
The room was the single room common to many Highland cottages, combining parlor, dining room, and the narrow kitchen space with a hearth wall, a cupboard, and a large wooden table. Two small bedrooms were curtained off along the back of the house, and a door between those led out to a small garden.
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