Page 39 of Laird of Secrets
Seeing a flash, she moved toward it—yet it was not the black-and-white dog. Starlight sparkled like bright bits of fire, as if the stars hung very close to the top of the hill. Fiona watched them sink and swirl—and then coalesce into something ghostly. She gasped, stepped back. The lights spun, whirled, vanished.
Ahead, she saw a cluster of standing stones cresting a low hillock, where the moving starlight seemed to have disappeared. Intrigued, she went slowly toward it. Somewhere higher on the slope, the dog barked crazily, excited.
As she went, she heard other sounds—thumps, footfalls, hooves, then the jingle of metal and harness. Her blood ran chill in her veins, and she stood motionless. The dog continued to bark, but Fiona dared not call out now.
Men and horses were approaching from somewhere. She could hear the breath and bluster of horses, the low murmurs of deep voices.
In a new burst of moonlight, she saw them.
They were not the Fey riding in a cavalcade, as legends claimed in the Highland hills, nor were they the ghosts of men lost in battle. These men were real, grim, determined, some mounted, others leading ponies.
Smugglers. And she was standing in the open, easily seen, clearly in danger.
Clouds shifted again, casting a shadow over her. Taking a chance, she ran swiftly toward the standing stones to hide, slipping behind the tallest menhir. Standing stones were not uncommon on hillsides and in fields, abandoned ages ago, their meaning and purpose lost. Grateful for their shelter, she drew her dark plaid around her, hoping to blend with the shadows until the men went past.
Lanterns swung like golden drops of fire as they came closer. Fiona stood still, leaning against stone, her legs trembling. She peered out, fear and curiosity mingling. They neared the place where she had just been standing.
Not far away, Maggie continued to bark incessantly, untroubled, bold. Fiona cringed for the dog’s sake. The smugglers could decide to silence the little dog to protect their secret. Suddenly Fiona caught her breath, seeing a black and white blur chase down the slope toward the passing group.
Men and horses were visible now, glowing lanterns scattered among them. Cold fear slid through Fiona as she pressed against the tall stone. She could hear the thunk of hobnail boots over the rocky terrain, the clop of horses’ hooves, even the slosh of liquid in the kegs strapped to the ponies’ backs. She heard rumbling male voices: a question, a reply, a curt laugh. And the relentless barking.
Maggie bolted down the hill and came straight for her, circling the stone circle. Fiona hissed at her to stop, and Maggie, excited, wheeled and ran toward the men again. Clinging to the stone and the shadows, Fiona waited, heart pounding.
Beware the hills when the Laird is walking...we always keep clear...Fiona would not have gone out at night, but for the little dog. And now she was helpless to save Maggie from the passing smugglers.
Some of the men, Fiona noticed, were looking toward the standing stones, but thankfully they moved on. A minute more and they would pass by; another few minutes and they would be gone entirely.
Her heart slammed, but some hint of courage and determination emerged, calming her, slowing her breath. She peered out just far enough to watch the men pass, hearing the rhythmicchinkof harness fittings and steady footfalls.
One of the men walking along stepped away from the rest. Fiona pressed flat and taut to cool rock, peering around the side of the stone to see where the man had gone. From behind, a hand snatched her arm, and another hand covered her mouth as he turned her around quickly.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness—the eyes, the height of him, the width of his shoulders, the swing of his dark hair were familiar. She breathed out, felt a trembling relief as he bent closer.
“Fiona MacCarran,” he whispered, “go home and lock the door.” His breath caressed her cheek, melting her, buckling her knees. She reached out and gripped his jacket, and his hand came away from her mouth, thumb tracing her cheek.
“Dougal,” she whispered.
“Hush, you.” His fingers took her chin, tilted it. He hesitated, and then his lips touched hers lightly. She slid an arm around his neck, and let herself return the kiss—and suddenly he was kissing her full, deep, holding her close to him as they stood behind the stone, his body pressed hard against hers. A sudden, hot thrill sank through her, body and soul, fueled by the kiss, the darkness, the danger.
“A Dhia,” he murmured against her lips. “What is it you do to me? You do not need this in your life, and I do not—”
“What if I do?” She splayed her hands on his chest, surprised by the power of the craving she felt. “They will be here in a moment. Take me with—”
“No. Go now.” He stepped back, turned away.
Her heart tumbled as she watched him return to the group, his rhythmic stride so familiar it was suddenly dear to her. He rejoined the others without a word, and Maggie gamboled after him. He stooped, petted her, shooed her away. Someone murmured to him, and he laughed low and pointed ahead. The group moved onward, the sound of their passing eerie. At the road, they merged into shadow.
Now Maggie ran toward her, and Fiona reached for the dog’s collar, lashing the rope to it. “Now I have you. Come here. Good girl.”
The dog pulled, trying to follow the smugglers and her beloved laird. Fiona realized then that Maggie was not defending territory, but greeting friends, men she knew, perhaps saw often out on the hills and moors at night. Fiona began to yank her back, murmuring encouragements.
As the lanterns flashed and vanished like yellow stars, Fiona paused. She should cross the road quickly and return to the house. But like Maggie, she only wanted to turn the other way and follow the laird of Kinloch. The power of the urge took her breath away, muting the voice of common sense.
Her life felt dull and limited, but for her travels and work in the Highlands. She longed for a bold spark of adventure and passion. Longed for love again, for something wild, fierce. What she had felt in Dougal MacGregor’s kisses hinted passion and discovery far beyond what the safe circles of her life could offer.
But smuggling was criminal, and her new dream was simply a fantasy. Even Kinloch had urged her to go home, lock the door, keep safe, leave the glen. Yet his kisses said something different, tempting, hopeful.
Adventure was one thing—folly was another. She should not entertain such a foolish dream as this.
