Page 67 of Laird of Secrets
They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee.
This was Lucy’s handwriting, she realized, as intent and stubborn as the girl. Also on the table was an open wooden box with a half-finished piece of embroidery showing stubby trees, brown hills, a gray castle all rendered in threads, and a few words partially stitched. This had to be Lucy’s work too.
Something stirred inside of her, touched her heart, as she looked at the things, seeing more than a jumble of books, papers, inks, embroidery and needles. She saw love, sensed patience, companionship, love, and dedication. The uncle and niece spent time here quietly, peacefully learning, reading, sharing.
No wonder Lucy was convinced that she had no need of school. She had a caring and competent tutor in her uncle.
Realizing she was letting her curiosity take over, Fiona stepped back. Comfortable as she felt here, this was their home, not hers. But she wished, suddenly and keenly, that she could be part of it.
Taking a few moments to choose a book from a shelf, she settled in the red chair by the window and opened Ramsay’sTea Table Miscellany. The collection of songs and poems was interesting, but after the long day, she soon felt drowsy. Closing her eyes, she sighed, imagining herself sitting at the library table with Dougal MacGregor, leaning on his shoulder as he read aloud to her.
And she imagined touching his hair, feeling his kiss on her brow. She daydreamed that Lucy was there too, seated nearby, stitching on her little sampler and listening while her uncle read.
Smiling, eyes closed, Fiona felt such love and contentment that she let it spin onward, onward, into sleep.
* * *
Inside the cave, seated on a rounded boulder, Dougal wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm and surveyed the interior. Lantern light flickered over irregular rock walls, and shadows angled from stacked whisky kegs that had been produced over many years. Some held whisky his own father had made when Dougal had been a boy. Those, the most valuable, were set apart from the others.
Not long ago, over a hundred casks had been stacked together in this cave, carried in groups and batches over two decades to add to the store. Twenty-seven kegs remained, with twelve more outside, waiting to be brought in and added to the rest. For now, Dougal sat to catch his breath and contemplate his plan.
Tonight, he and his kinsmen had moved casks from the burned-out MacDonald still to the cave for safe storage. He had sent men and ponies down the mountain three times that night. His comrades had descended the hills like ghosts, silent, rhythmic, grim, and wary. Unlike ghosts, they carried glowing lanterns ready to be shuttered, along with loaded pistols.
Swiftly they had moved some of the MacDonald whisky to the upper cave, while also moving some of the older Kinloch whisky to caves closer to the loch. Those secret recesses were known only to a few residents of the glen.
He went to the entrance and stood looking out over the night-dark hills. Here he overlooked the same slope where he had first seen Fiona MacCarran strolling with her brother while she collected rocks for her studies. Dougal was still uncertain if she and her brother had been innocently exploring, or spying out the area that day. If the excise men were to learn the location of this cave and its hidden cache—let alone find the lower caves—there would be hell to pay.
Thinking of Fiona, he crossed his arms as if to shore himself against the temptation of her, and fixed his gaze on the dark and sparkling loch visible below a fringe of trees. From west-facing windows in Kinloch House, one could also see the loch and the hill where he stood. If Fiona was awake, if she looked out a window just as he looked out of this cave, they would be watching each other without realizing it. He wondered if she thought of him now, as he thought of her.
A rush of desire sank through him, hot and heavy, as he thought of her in his house tonight. Part of him hoped she was waiting up for him. What a rare joy it would be to have a woman at home who waited for him, prayed for him when he went out at night, who loved him. What a delight and a privilege if she would be there to talk to him, to listen, to care. And what a deep comfort and passionate reward if she willingly opened her arms to him, to his love.
Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face. What the devil had happened to him since Fiona MacCarran had come to his glen? He did not need a woman in his life just now. He had chosen loyalty to kin and friends over personal happiness, and he was content. He had the affection of his kinsmen, the friendship of his tenants, and the honor of raising a wee girl who loved to share stories and drawings with him.
Content enough for any man, yet lately he wanted more. He had always wanted a family of his own, and being around Fiona had only made that longing more clear. He felt a tumult of desires and dreams, but by the time he sorted them in his mind and heart, the girl would be gone from the glen, and it would be too late for him.
Footsteps crunched on rocks nearby, and Dougal straightened, whirled to see a tall man approaching.
“Kinloch!” Reverent Hugh MacIan smiled a greeting as he came closer, and gestured to the kegs stacked outside the cave. “Nearly done with the storing and stacking, then?”
“Almost. Those are the last of Thomas’s casks.”
“Aye, good. What of the rest of your cache?”
“Some of the lads have taken a number of kegs down to the lochside. Once Thomas’s kegs are inside here, it is enough work for one night, I think.”
“More than enough. And too much movement in the hills can catch attention we do not want, hey. We cannot risk having the lower caves discovered. How much have you left of what was here?”
“A good bit has gone down to the loch,” he said vaguely.
“Ready for shipping when the time comes. I see,” Hugh said.
Dougal nodded, but did not want to share much detail. He trusted Hugh and others he worked with, but was reluctant to share accurate numbers with anyone but his uncles. He kept count of his whisky in his head, and in journals tucked among the books in his library. And—unknown even to his closest kinsmen—he never kept his whisky all in one place. On his father’s example, he stored it here and there, moving it around from caves high in the hills to down by the loch, and kept some of it hidden under the floors of his house.It does not do,John MacGregor had told his son,to trust everyone, lad.
“Sounds efficient. Good,” Hugh murmured. “The sale will be made soon, and the glen will benefit.” He took a leather flask from his pocket and offered a drink to Dougal, who swallowed and handed it back with a grimace.
“MacDonald whisky,” Dougal said. “Not bad, but newer stuff.”
“It has more peat to the taste than I generally like,” Hugh replied.
