Page 49 of Laird of Secrets
“Does he,” she said, a bit sourly.
“Aye. Until tomorrow, Miss Dominie,” he replied lightly, tilting his head. “Afith-fathon you and yours.”
“A blessing to you too, sir,” she murmured. She stood too close, felt too drawn to him, and so she reminded herself where they stood, who he was. The laird. But not a scoundrel. Not at all. His green eyes reflected the mossy tones in the plaid draped over the shoulder of his old jacket, and his gaze was striking and unreadable. She could not look away.
Wildly, she felt as if he cast a spell over her with that hazel gaze, felt as if he truly could be a man of the Fey. Recalling their kiss by the standing stone, she drew in a quick breath.
“Go back to your scholars, Miss,” he murmured.
She straightened away from him. “If you only want to tell me to leave this glen, do not come by tomorrow, Kinloch. You will not easily be rid of me,” she whispered.
“Och, Fiona,” he murmured, sounding regretful, “I only want to show you something that is important to me. Go on, now, the young ones are waiting for you. And I will wait for you tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
Dougal sat alone at a table in the front room of the small inn kept by Rob MacIan. The only other patrons were three of his own tenants gathered at another table, discussing when they would send their cattle into the higher slopes to graze on the sweet hill grass there. The winter had been harsher than usual, they were saying, and the cattle were thin still, though it was nearly May.
His own cattle were also in need of the better nutrition of the higher slopes, where sunlight and clear mountain streams fed the grasses and flowers, and livestock could grow healthy after a long winter and a wet spring. The Highlands of Scotland did not produce good hay for cattle, though toward harvest time there would be good oats and barley crops to feed them.
Soon enough, glen families would herd their cattle up the slopes to the shieling huts, simple cottages used in spring and summer by those tending the cattle for weeks at a time. Once the hills were more populated during the shieling time, moving whisky about without attracting attention would be more difficult.
When the tenants invited Dougal to join them, he declined with a smile. He was waiting to meet someone, sipping ale in silence, watching through the small window near his shadowed seat in a corner. Along the road, he saw a black coach—not the shabby beast Hamish drove, but a sleek barouche and four.
The coach drew up in front of the inn, and as the tenants craned to look out the window with curiosity, Rob MacIan strode through the room. Like his nephew, the reverend, the innkeeper was a tall, fair sort, gone big and ruddy with age and ale. He went to the door and stepped out into the yard to call to one of his sons to see to coach, horses, and driver. Rob then greeted the passenger.
Taking another sip of ale, Dougal appreciated the fine, fresh brew. He could usually tell by the flavor which household in the glen had produced it. Turning the pewter cup on the tabletop, he waited patiently.
A tall man, lean and dark-haired in a black frock coat, neat gray trousers, and high black boots entered the tavern. He removed his black hat, ducking his head slightly beneath the lintel. Though he carried a cane, he seemed to have no real need of it, given the agility and athleticism in his form and motion.
The tenants glanced at each other, then at Dougal, frowning. Perhaps they assumed that the newcomer was a government officer. The handsome fellow was clearly privileged, Dougal noticed, which would not identify him as a government official at first sight. Most of the gaugers he had ever known, in fact, were a shabby lot. The man’s piercing eyes seemed to assess everything and everyone in the room with a swift glance. Seeing Dougal raise a hand, he came toward him.
“MacGregor of Kinloch, I presume.”
“Lord Eldin,” Dougal said in greeting, rising to his feet, as Eldin seemed to expect a more formal greeting. He offered his bare hand, gripping the earl’s gloved fingers and strong handshake.
Sitting on the opposite bench, Eldin set his hat gingerly on the table, sweeping the table surface first. Rob MacIan came toward them. “Sir, you must be thirsty after your journey,” he said, setting down a tankard of ale.
“From Auchnashee to here is not far,” Eldin said, looking at the tankard with mild disdain. “I will have a dram of whisky, if you please. That local brew you recommended once before to me—Kinloch whisky. Among the finest brews in the Highlands, so I hear.”
Dougal tipped his head as Rob hurried away. “My thanks, sir.”
“I am not flattering you. If your brew is that good, I am merely stating a fact.”
“Indeed,” Dougal said, and sipped his ale.
Eldin lifted his own tankard, tasted, set it down. “That is more than passable stuff for a local ale.”
“A cousin of mine, Helen MacDonald, makes it.”
The earl swallowed again. “Light and delicate for an ale. Refreshing. I have never had the like. What makes the difference in the brew?”
“Heather flowers, I believe. She uses an old recipe known to the family.”
“Heather ale? I’ve heard of it. Excellent. Does she sell it?”
“She does not produce enough quantity for that. And of course her price would be high for a larger amount.”
“I will seek out the woman and order her ale for my hotel.”
