Sarah Gabriel Page 2

  “Surely it was the wind, Patrick,” she said.

  “Or free traders evading customs officers such as myself,” he said, inclining his head. “Fiona, are you ready to go back yet?” Sounding hopeful, he picked up her canvas knapsack to carry it.

  “Not quite. I’ve found some excellent trilobites here, and I want to keep looking.” A cool updraft lifted the ribbons of her gray bonnet and made the skirt of her gray woolen gown, pale as the mist, dance over her ankles and the tops of her leather boots. Raising a gloved hand powdered with dirt and rock dust—her cheeks and nose were no doubt dusty, too, but she did not mind—Fiona turned to look at the Highland slopes that surrounded them. The hillsides were brown and dreary, their spring greening only just begun, and the air had a wintry nip. Another gust of wind made her shiver slightly, and she glanced around. “This place is so…remote.”

  “Exactly. And that makes it is easier for smugglers to slip cargoes of their whisky through the hills down to the lochs and rivers,” he answered. “I have said this before, but I do wish you had not been so eager to stay in this glen for the next few weeks. There are rogues about, I guarantee it.”

  “I have promised to teach here,” she said. “And I intend to fulfill my part of the conditions in Grandmother’s will.”

  “Those clauses may prove the bane of all of us, but for James,” Patrick said. “Come back with me—you could be back in Edinburgh by week’s end. You know Eldin would lend his barouche if you needed it. Our cousin has always been fond of you, when he seems to dislike most people.”

  “I do not need his charity or his barouche. I will stay until summer with Mrs. MacIan.”

  “Mary MacIan can barely see or hear, talks endlessly, and drinks whisky like a man.”

  Fiona laughed. “It is acceptable for Highland women to take a dram with the men, or even on their own, as she does. I think she is a delightful sort, and quite unique.”

  “She’s no fit companion if you mean to walk the hills around here. Promise me you will not wander about alone. There are rascals about in this god-forsaken place.”

  “As an officer of the government now, you suspect a smuggler at every corner.”

  “Not without reason,” he said quietly. “I am concerned for your welfare.”

  “As I am for yours,” she pointed out. “I know you were bored as a Signet clerk in Edinburgh, and that you were willing to take the risks when you were appointed as a customs officer along Loch Katrine. Sir Walter Scott confided to me, the last time we had supper together with Aunt Rankin before I came north, that the work of pursuing smugglers is stressful and dangerous,” she went on. “And so as your older sister, I worry on your behalf.”

  “But I rather like the adventure of it. I’ve learned a good deal in my apprenticeship months here. And the region is populated with rogues, remember that.” He frowned at her. “In the ten miles or so of Loch Katrine’s length, from the southern end up to this more remote area near Glengyle, most families run private stills.”

  “Anyone can produce whisky, up to five hundred gallons or so; you told me so yourself. When we were small in Perthshire, there was a private distillery on the home farm to supply the estate. Father very much liked the brew they made,” she said, glancing away as she made a rare reference to their father, who had passed away years ago, along with their mother, leaving the four children—the twins, Fiona and James, and the younger boys, William and Patrick—in the care of their relatives, as well as the overbearing guardianship of Lady Rankin, their great-aunt, on whose estate Fiona presently lived, just outside Edinburgh.

  “Home distilleries are not the issue. The dispute is that most still owners manufacture far more than their allotted amount, and smuggle thousands of gallons a year for export, avoiding the taxes posed by the Crown.”

  “A few smugglers would not be interested in a glen teacher.”

  “Unless she wanders the hills and interrupts their business,” he pointed out. “I promised our brothers that I would keep an eye on you.”

  “No need. I came here to teach, just as I have done in other glens.” She drew herself to her full height, taller than most women, though not nearly as tall as her brothers. “I will be fine.”

  Patrick twisted his mouth awry, then nodded. “Very well, but I want to hear from you often. The mail runs out of here once or twice a week.”

  Fiona nodded. “Reverend MacIan reassures me that the glen is safe and quiet, and that the tenants are fine, hardworking shepherds and drovers, and farming families. Not smugglers.”

  “Those farmers raise barley crops and make whisky. Did he mention that hardworking Highland men are free traders by night, moving cargo on pack ponies and carrying loaded pistols through these peaceable hills?”

  “He said nothing of the kind,” she said, and walked farther up the slope, while Patrick followed. She stepped carefully over turf, looking down at the rocks as she went.

  “Nor would he. Even Mrs. MacIan remarked today that whenever the laird is on the mountainside, it is wise to keep away. Best to take heed.”

  “I suppose she meant that the laird of this glen is a disagreeable sort,” Fiona said.

  “One of the more notorious smugglers in this part of Scotland is called the Laird,” Patrick explained. “He is laird of peat reek whisky only. The actual laird of this glen is a Mr. MacGregor, I believe, who raises sheep and cattle and makes whisky on the side. Just beware any mention of this laird of peat reek. The law has been looking for that sly lad for years.”

  “Peat reek? Is that the poisonous variety? The whisky we tasted at Mrs. MacIan’s was rather nice, I thought.”

  “It was excellent. I see you are determined to be stubborn about this,” Patrick went on.

  “I am not worried—I shall not encounter any smugglers or peat reek lairds. I am just a glen teacher. Oh look!” Fiona knelt again to study a section of rock, dusting it clean with a cloth. “What a nice little ammonite fossil,” she said, pointing to a curled shape impressed on the rock surface. “I believe there is a massive limestone bed beneath this hill, with deposits of graywacke along with the Old Red Sandstone layer, with liberal evidence of a great, ancient flood. I cannot wait to tell James about it.” She rubbed at the rock with a gloved finger.

  “Your geological babble is lost on me, but James will love it. Fiona, sorry, but I must get back soon. I have a dinner engagement at Auchnashee. Perhaps you can explore here with James when he returns.”

  “James and Elspeth will be in Edinburgh for another month or so.” Her twin brother, James MacCarran, Viscount Struan, was an accomplished geologist and professor of natural sciences, while Fiona considered herself a mere amateur with a keen interest in fossils. “He must finish his lecture series for the university before he and Elspeth return to Struan House. They want their child to be born in the Highlands rather than in Edinburgh, later this summer. Struan House is but a half day’s drive from here, so I hope he will visit me here. I know you will be too busy to see me often—and I do not want you to feel anxious about keeping watch over me.”

  “We do have a good deal of work now, with the new laws in effect. Smuggling continues full pace along the loch, despite the changes in regulations.”

  “I thought the recent laws were going to make your work easier.” She stood, brushing her skirts with gloved hands.

  “Nothing is ever as simple as we hope,” Patrick said. “Taxes were lowered to create less incentive to smuggle whisky out of the Highlands, and the government has recruited hundreds more revenue officers to catch offenders in the hills. Penalties are stiffer, too—if a still is found and dismantled and no owner comes forward, the laird of that land is held responsible, regardless of his involvement. But I suspect many Highlanders enjoy the risks of free trading too much to stop altogether.”

  “I am sure they do, given their tendency to ignore authority,” Fiona said, smiling a little; secretly she had always enjoyed the vein of rebellion that ran through Highland history. “You will
be kept busy at the other end of the loch, so do not fret about me up at this end. And do not expect me to visit you, either. Cousin Nick’s refurbished hotel will be lovely for tourists who visit the romantic Highlands, but I do not care to see him any more than necessary.”

  Patrick nodded his understanding. “I do not have much choice, since he’s offered me free rooms at the hotel. And tonight I am invited to dinner with him and a few Edinburgh businessmen to discuss plans for the hotel. Did I tell you that Nick has decided to become a revenue officer?”

  “What!” Fiona widened her eyes. “Nicholas MacCarran, Earl of Eldin, stooping to regular work? I cannot imagine it. He is far too concerned with his own comforts, and has grown too arrogant by far. I doubt he even cares if others break the law, so long as they leave him be. Nick cares about Nick,” she added. “It was not always so, sadly, but after his family perished when he was away at school, he was no longer the lad we knew. But a law officer? Never!”

  “It is a formal title only. He paid a fat sum for it, and will rarely ride out on patrol. He wants a veneer of authority here, and the Crown needs the money. This is a reminder that it does not do to trust the Earl of Eldin too far.”

  “Sad, really.” Fiona sighed. “I liked him so well when we were children. But if we do not meet the collective conditions in Grandmother’s will, Nick will inherit the bulk of the estate. You are right to watch him carefully.” She walked onward, Patrick beside her. “I’d like to gather a few fossil samples higher on the hill before going back to Mrs. MacIan’s house.”

  Patrick glanced behind them toward the loch. “Mr. MacDuff arranged to take me back by boat within the hour.” He frowned. “But it does not do for a gentleman to escort a lady on a nature walk and then desert her on a hillside.”

  “But a brother can leave a sister if she insists that he go.” Smiling, heedless of her skirts, she knelt once again on the damp turf and brushed at the dirt on a rocky surface.

  “I know you find the old rocks interesting, but I think you will not discover here what you truly want to find.”

  “True, there are no fairies under these rocks.” Fiona laughed ruefully. “I do wonder how I can possibly fulfill Grandmother’s request to find real fairies and sketch or paint them for the book James has been putting together from her work. She wanted me to continue my charitable work, and that I can easily do. But fairies—and her order that I marry a wealthy Highland husband—well, it seems almost mad.”

  “Perhaps you should just leave here and return to Edinburgh. We can contest the will. I plan to talk to Grandmother’s advocate, Mr. Browne, and to Sir Walter Scott, too, about that.”

  “Sir Walter says it is sound. If we do not meet those clauses, everything goes to Nick. It is quite simple, but quite…extraordinary for the four of us.” Fiona stood again, facing Patrick.

  “We could manage without the fortune,” he said. “It would be easier than finding spouses with fairy blood, or drawing sprites and so on. Just invent some images and have done with it,” he urged. “None of us would blame you if you decided to do that.”

  “When I make a promise, I keep it, no matter what. You have said almost nothing about what the will asked of you—nor has William said much.”

  “I am not eager to admit that I must find a fairy bride by order of my grandmother,” Patrick replied. “And William, being a physician, must guard his reputation or be labeled a quack. He is supposed to collect spells of fairy medicine, or some such.”

  “James was fortunate to accomplish his request, but it was a wonderful coincidence that he met and married a woman who can claim fairy blood in her family. As for the rest of us—”

  “May we be half so lucky. Fiona, I intend to oppose the will, if you and James and William will agree that we have a case. Then you need not go searching under flower petals and rocks for fairy creatures.”

  “Either way, I must stay here. I have agreed to teach at the glen school. The Edinburgh Ladies’ Society is relying on me. No one else could take this teaching assignment.”

  “No one else wanted to come up here, Fiona.”

  “But it is a lovely place,” she murmured, glancing around at the misted hills and the long, rock-studded slopes that ran toward the loch. “Sometimes I think I cannot bear to exist as another spinster in Edinburgh, attending charitable meetings and social gatherings, gossiping, netting purses, and finding silly ways to fill time. This charitable work is interesting, even adventurous, and I do need to make something of my life,” she added passionately. “Something that does not involve netting purses and pouring tea!”

  “We have all seen that the Edinburgh Ladies’ Society for—what is it?—oh aye, for the Education and Betterment of the Gaels, has been good for you these past few years.”

  “True, and they are genuinely dedicated to helping Highlanders. I care very much about that cause,” she murmured.

  “They were genuinely delighted to find a lady who is not only fluent in Gaelic, but willing to travel to the back of beyond.”

  “If not for those opportunities, I might have given in to grief…after Archie’s death,” she said.

  “Not you,” he said. “You are a hardy soul.”

  Fiona shook her head in gentle denial. Not even her family knew how close she had come to succumbing to perpetual near-widowhood; she had been so young, and Archie had seemed to be everything to her. But now she knew better, and she would not make the mistake again of giving herself over so completely to someone, only to be abandoned when death took him, as it had taken both her parents when she and her siblings were all quite young.

  “I’ve had marvelous opportunities to travel the Highlands to do my teaching, and have a wonderful hobby in the fossils—oh, Patrick, it is getting late,” she added. “Go! I promise to return to Edinburgh by summer, with or without the fairy drawings.”

  “Or the required wealthy Highland husband?” Patrick lifted a brow.

  “I can hardly find one of those here, or anywhere in the Highlands. I am a few years older than most, a spinster with dull academic interests—not much of a catch. Nor are there many wealthy Highlanders left, with what Scotland has suffered over the last century.”

  “You are a lovely girl, and you have rejected every suitor who has been interested.”

  “They are interested in what I might inherit. Otherwise, I am the sister of a viscount and the niece of a viscountess, and lack a fortune without that inheritance. Being no one in particular, I am unlikely to find a wealthy husband at all. Nor do I care about it particularly.” She lifted her chin.

  “You refused a marriage offer just last Christmas.”

  “I felt no spark toward the man,” she said. “Nor was Sir Walter impressed with him, either. You know Sir Walter is convinced that we can all do what Grandmother asked of us. He was such an excellent friend to her, and to us. She truly believed that the old MacCarran traditions of fairy magic can be restored if we marry spouses with fairy blood.”

  “Nonsense, however well meant,” Patrick said, “is still nonsense.”

  Fiona nodded and looked out over the hills, the breeze stirring her bonnet ribbons. “It is beautiful here. So mystical. Here, I could believe any legend.”

  “So could I,” he said. “Well, I had best go, while you go on looking for fairies under rocks.”

  “Or at least fossils in rock. They will help prove the new theory that a catastrophic flood brought primeval waters as high as the level of these mountains.”

  “Enough,” Patrick groaned, then set her knapsack on the ground. “I will leave this with you. Please be careful when you walk back to Mrs. MacIan’s cottage—and all the while you are here in Glen Kinloch.”

  “I will.” She kissed his cheek, and he turned to depart, waving a hand.

  Watching him for a moment, Fiona then bent to retrieve a small hammer and chisel from the canvas knapsack. Kneeling again, she angled the chisel point against a pale rock and smacked the handle with the hammer until a chunk split away
.

  Grandmother’s intentions were good, she thought as she wrapped the piece of stone in a small cloth and tucked it into the canvas sack. But it was not so easy to find a Highland husband with a title and fortune, as indicated by Lady Struan’s will. Besides, Fiona thought, she had managed to recover from the grief of losing her fiancé, Archibald MacCarran, her cousin and chief of their Highland clan. Eight years earlier, Archie had died a hero on a bloody field of Quatre Bras the day before Waterloo. Her twin, James, had been left with a permanent limp after the same battle. She, too, carried scars from that day, hidden in her heart.

  Since then, she had pragmatically accepted her situation, though secretly she still dreamed of a husband, a family, a home in the Highlands—dreams lost along with her fiancé.

  Perhaps her grandmother had wanted Fiona to find happiness again. But I’m perfectly happy, Fiona thought, brushing her fingers over another rock. Well, she was fine, at least.

  No magical solutions involving fairies would help this MacCarran find the bliss of love again. After all, that was what she had lost—love’s magic.

  Enough, she told herself; the afternoon light on such a misty day would soon fade. She hefted the hammer and chisel again to resume her work. A few minutes later, she lifted her head, feeling a strange prickling along the back of her neck, as if she sensed someone watching her. Then she heard a sound like a crisp footfall.

  “Who’s there?” she called, looking around. “Patrick?”

  Her voice echoed in the mist, echoing softly. Shivers ran down her back. No matter how she might dismiss such things, she secretly believed in the possibility of haunts, bogles, and fairies. Everyone thought of Fiona MacCarran as practical, calm, capable, neither a dreamer nor a fool.

  But she was not as dull as they thought. She had private dreams and precious hopes, though she tried her best to accept her life as it was now.

  Turning, she glanced around the empty hillside, realizing then how far she and Patrick had walked. The long loch was visible far below, and limestone cliffs towered above the hills, which were crowned by wreaths of mist. The day was dreary and cool with a silvery light—the atmosphere was beautiful, eerie, and lonely.