Page 74 of Laird of Secrets
“The ghost.”
“We have no ghosts that I know of, old as this place is.”
“Or was it a fairy?” she whispered to herself. The woman had been a sparkling luminosity, a mystical form that could have been other than ghostly.
“Fiona,” Dougal murmured. “Come—“
“I need paper and ink,” she whispered. He turned his head to listen. “I must make a drawing of the—the fairy.”
“Good God,” he said. “You are seeing things.”
“It is just what I hoped to see in Glen Kinloch. A fairy.”
“What?” He frowned at her. “I thought you came here to teach.”
“I did, and also—oh, she is gone.” The beautiful woman in gold and gossamer had vanished. Fiona sighed. “It was not my imagination. I did see her just there. But I suppose you will say me wrong.”
He was staring at the spot where the woman had stood. “No one is there.”
“I saw her, I swear it. A ghost, or a fairy woman. I hoped to—” She stopped, bit her lip.
He narrowed his eyes. “Was there some other reason you came to Glen Kinloch, other than to teach?”
“I must find fairies, in order to get the money,” she blurted. She did not feel herself at all. She felt expansive, excited, feeling an urge to be honest, to be bold. “And I came to the Highlands to find—well, perhaps to find you. But you are not what my grandmother wanted. Or Sir Walter Scott either. My brothers will like you, though. That is, if you will have me.”
“What money? What about Sir Walter Scott? And your brothers? What are you going on about?” His eyes blazed as he frowned at her.
She was blathering on, she realized, and ought to stop. The whisky had loosened her tongue, made her thoughts and her words race too quickly away from her. No dram or drink had ever affected her like this. She put a hand to her head. “I had little more than a glass of whisky. What was in that silver flask?”
“A particular brew that I should have locked away. Fiona, tell me what you are talking about. Why did you come to the glen? What money?”
She looked up into his green and scowling gaze. “Do you know, sir, you are a beautiful man, and I think I want to kiss you.”
“What—” He caught her by the arms as she lifted up on her toes and leaned forward, stumbling against him. She kissed him, felt him lean hard away as her mouth pressed to his. He resisted, then murmured under his breath, a soft growl, as he took command of the kiss, so that it turned sure and fierce, lips seeking.
Sighing, she felt her knees melt, felt as if she tumbled from a height, as if her heart bloomed like a flower. And she knew then, fou or sober, bold or shy, capable or wild, that she was falling in love.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed close to him, stunned by her own feelings. Safe, welcomed, partnered. Loved. He was kissing her again, gently now, soothing his mouth over hers, kissing her into breathlessness. His lips caressed, his hands cradled her head in a warm, luscious chain of kisses that made her knees tremble, her body ripple with desire. Joy sparked inside her like a candle. Love took flame, filled her. She slipped her fingers through his hair, the dark silk of it, as he traced his lips along her jaw and throat. She moaned softly, wanting more desperately, her heart pounding.
“Dougal,” she whispered, savoring his name as he gathered her closer. She faltered a little, her legs unsteady. She felt overtaken by the whisky and overwhelmed by the emotions emerging within.
Then he pulled away, brows drawn tight. “Lass,” he murmured. “I did not mean to—”
“I am glad you did.” She closed her eyes, tipped her head against his shoulder. “Oh. I feel so dizzy.”
“We had best get you upstairs. But first, tell me what you saw in this room.”He kept a hand on her arm, and she was grateful for the steadying.
“Moments ago? A lovely creature, like a sparkling mist. At first I thought she was a ghost, but I think now she was a fairy, so beautiful and delicate.”
“I see. And how much did you pour from the silver flask?”
“It was not imagination,” she defended. “I did not have that much. The flask saidUisge-beatha an ceann loch—Kinloch whisky. You said I should try it. Did I take the wrong bottle? I am sorry, if so.”
“My fault. I should have made the difference clear. Glen Kinloch whisky is in a brown bottle. The silver flask holds more properly what you might callUisge-beatha síthiche ceann loch—we call it Kinloch fairy whisky.”
“Fairy whisky!” She blinked up at him, startled. “But you said there is no such thing, that the brew is only a legend.”
“We make a particular whisky from a very old family recipe that is traditionally called fairy whisky. The MacGregors of Kinloch have distilled it for generations. We do not make much, just enough once a year to share with kin and friends.”
