Page 73 of Laird of Secrets
“With you?”
“Good Lord,” he murmured. “Can you make it up the stairs to your room?”
“Aye—oh! I was reading a book. Let me fetch it.” She turned impulsively, dragging him with her toward the table where the book lay upturned and open.
Dougal picked it up and looked at the cover. “‘Fairy Tales of Scotland and Ireland.’ I have read this. An excellent collection by—Lady Struan,” he read on the spine. “Would she be related to your family? You are interested in fairy legends, and would this very interesting.”
“I read it years ago, and I want to read it again. Yes, a relation. My grandmother was the author.”
“Truly,” he said, his tone suddenly flat. “How interesting.”
“Oh aye. She wrote several books about fairies and fairy lore.”
“A talented lady. So you became interested in such things because of her?”
“Quite.” She glanced away. Spying the whisky glass on the table, she picked it up again and sipped the last bit quickly. The heat sank through her, soothing her nervousness. He stood so close—and she wanted him too much just them.
“Lass, that whisky has done its work on you. Up the steps, and goodnight, sweet Fiona.”
“What a stern fellow you are,” she admonished. Her head spun. She did not feel quite herself. She felt strangely free, keen to say whatever came to her. Felt happy in his company, too, and knew clearly that was not due to whisky.
“Upstairs? But I want to stay here longer. I have been admiring your library. It is a handsome collection. You said you had only a few books.”
“A few certainly, compared to other collections I have seen,” he replied. “I enjoy books, but I am not a scholar. When I was younger, I disliked studying. I wanted to—well,” he said, “no matter. Later I realized the value of education and how much I enjoyed it. So I read and learned what I could on my own. I was unable to complete my years at university, but I have benefitted from this fine library, reading whatever and whenever I can.” He spread a hand wide to encompass the shelves.
“You have read all these books?”
“Many of them. I have acquired hundreds of volumes, but the library was begun by my grandfather. And my father felt so strongly about my education that he insisted that I complete a university degree and become a lawyer. But then he was gone, and I was forced to make other decisions. Education was simply beyond my reach, and it was no longer what I wanted.”
“What did you want, Dougal MacGregor?” She leaned toward him as if he were a lodestone.
“I wanted to be a smuggler.”
“Ah. You got your wish.”
He watched her in silence. She realized he had never outright admitted to her that he was a smuggler, though the implication was there Perhaps foolishly, part of her had hoped there was little truth in it.But his silence spoke clearly.
Something caught her eye and she looked up, seeing the tiny lights again, swirling and floating in the dimness near the ceiling rafters. Some came down to encircle Dougal’s head, even touch his shoulders. “Oh my!” She giggled, put a hand to her head. “That is a very fine whisky. I am seeing the lights again. Wee dancing lights all about.”
Dougal frowned, taking her glass to sniff it. “Fiona,” he murmured, “which bottle did you use for your dram?”
“That one.” She pointed. The room spun. “The silver flask.”
“Silver flask.” His voice went low, with a touch of thunder in it.
“Aye. Look at the wee lights—there, do you see? What are those?” She blinked as dazzling rainbow glimmers spun faster and faster. They came together, taking on shape, sparkling like colored stars, forming a column of light. The contours coalesced into a head, shoulders, body—
“Oh, look!” she breathed.
The lights began to form the shape of a woman who came into clearer detail, as if a ghost. She was exquisitely beautiful. Fiona moved close to Dougal, grasped his arm. “Ghost!” she whispered, and felt as if she were trembling all over.
“What?” He glanced that way.
The woman made of light smiled kindly at Fiona. Her hair was a golden spill of light, her eyes glittered like diamonds, her gown was a starlight mist. She reached out a hand, fingers sparkling with rings. She nearly touched Dougal’s arm. Then she looked at Fiona, smiled again, and floated away, dissolving in the shadows of the room. Dougal had turned his head and seemed to watch her too.
Heart pounding, Fiona pressed close to Dougal. “There—she is by the bookshelves now. Do you see her?”
He glanced at her. “What are you talking about? I see nothing.”
