Page 64 of Laird of Secrets
“Then see if Maisie is about. But hurry back. We have much work to do here.”
Dougal nodded. “Miss MacCarran,” he called, walking toward her. The sunset poured golden light over her face and hair, and illuminated the gentle curves of her body. She was a vision of grace and beauty, so much so at that moment that Dougal stopped, forgetting his resolve to keep his heart distant.
“Mr. MacGregor?” She turned. “All is well?”
“For now. Come to Kinloch House for a bit to rest and recover from the smoke. I will take you. It is not wise for you to cross the glen alone just now.”
“I thought you were needed here to help the MacDonalds.”
“I will return here. A local girl, Maisie, helps us in the house. I will see if she can stay there the night. You and I would not be alone in the house, if you are worried. My uncles and I will likely be away much of the night dealing with the damage from the fire. You are welcome to stay the night at the house, and we will be sure that you have a companion.”
“Thank you, I would like to rest a bit. But I cannot stay. Mrs. MacIan would worry about me, especially if she hears about the fire.”
“I will send someone to tell her you are safe at Kinloch House.”
“I will go back to her cottage later this evening.”
“Not on your own. Gaugers will be about.”
“I am not afraid of them.”
“You should be. They are unlikely to treat you with respect, even if your brother is with them. And that would cause a problem for you, and your brother—and myself, I assure you.”
She paused, coughing again. “Very well. I will stay for a bit, and we shall see.”
“Aye then. Come with me.” Dougal escorted her out of the smoky woodland and down into the open glen. Taking that route was dangerous enough, he thought as he walked beside her. Though she coughed and sniffled, she kept pace. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw smoke rising and drifting above the trees. Tam MacIntyre and his men would surely investigate it.
“This way.” He walked with Fiona past the trees that hid the distillery and toward the broad path leading to Kinloch House. As they crossed a terrain rough with rocks and uneven ground, they came to a narrow burn. He took her hand to aid her over the water, stepping stone to stone. When they reached the other side, he did not let go of her hand, nor did she pull away. She accepted the support and comfort of clasped hands even once it was unnecessary.
She glanced up. “The lights,” she said. “I see them again, there. How odd.”
“Just the sunset.” He did not look, only tightened his fingers over hers.
* * *
The moment she entered Kinloch House, climbing the few steps to its worn oak entry door, Fiona felt at home. Until now she had seen only the crumbling exterior of the tall peel tower, formed by two rectangular sections constructed to form an L-shape. The entrance opened into a stone-floored foyer, with a curving stone stair to the left and to the right, several doors along a corridor.
Sunset light spilled into the hall from windows along the turning stair, turning whitewash and wood to a rosy gold. Once inside, she saw small rooms along the corridor furnished with old, shabby pieces, worn patterned rugs, scarred wood floors. The entry walls were paneled wood, with other walls whitewashed or painted in earthy tones. All seemed simple, worn, comfortable, and inviting.
“It’s lovely,” she told Kinloch. Just then two large hounds careened around a corner and loped forward so fast that Fiona stepped back. Kinloch took her arm.
“Steady,” he said, and she was not sure if he spoke to her or to the dogs—tall and gray, the sort of noble beasts she had seen in old portraits. Despite their majestic appearance, they were clumsy gluttons for their master’s affection as he rubbed their heads and shoulders vigorously. She did, too, laughing when the dogs butted against her seeking more petting and licking her hands.
She coughed again, for the irritation in her throat had not yet cleared. Kinloch reached out to pat her back and rub her shoulder. Warmth flowed through her, wonderful and indulgent. She sighed, rolling her head, feeling a little like one of the dogs begging for his touch and affection. As his hand briefly comforted her shoulders and neck, Fiona wanted very much to turn into his arms.
But he dropped his hand away and gave the dogs his attention again. “This is Sorcha and Mhor,” he said. “They are useless creatures, but we love them. Let me show you the house. There is not much to it. A simple place, and very old.”
She followed him, the dogs bumping between them as they turned a corner, and looked around. “This is a lovely place!”
“Do you think so? It is just two upright towers with a turning stair between them, and a few rooms off to the sides. Here is the parlor.” He gestured.
Fiona peered inside the small room, with its pale walls, bare planked floor, a worn Oriental rug. It looked well-used, with a settee covered in faded green damask, a red wing chair, an old table with two wooden chairs, and a stout Jacobean cupboard under a window. The fireplace crackled with flames and the musky scent of peat bricks. The table held a stack of books, and a child’s toys occupied the floor in a corner of the room. A modest chamber by many standards, but so cozy and inviting in its simplicity that Fiona longed to sink onto the threadbare settee, pick up a book, and relax. She turned away with Dougal as he crossed the hall.
“The dining room,” he said. Here, a long table and several chairs sat on a shabby rug and corner cupboards were crammed with mismatched porcelain. A fire flickered in the hearth and the room filled with golden sunset light—another cozy, shabby, inviting room, and she longed to sit and rest there. But Kinloch beckoned her along the corridor.
The kitchen had whitewashed stone walls, an arched fireplace, a jumble of cupboards, and a long, heavy worktable. On the hob, a kettle of soup simmered, savory and enticing. Fiona felt so hungry that she licked her lips and hoped her guide would invite her to eat.
“You may like to see the study,” he said. He seemed so eager to show her the house that Fiona followed, glad to see the love and pride he had in his home. Up a few stone steps to a snug room with a low ceiling, its walls lined with shelves crammed with an untidy, extensive collection of books. Books and papers were piled on the central table and on a narrow desk in a corner by a window. Two wing chairs held stacks of large ledger books.
