Page 19 of Highland Fire

MacGregor was impatient. It showed in the way he kept flicking the reins and clicking his tongue to urge the little mare to a faster walk.

There was something here that was not quite right, but she could not put her finger on it.

Ever since they had left the Mill of Balmoral, where the miller had doled out a fresh supply of Deeside uisge-beatha to Daroch’s little band of smugglers, MacGregor had been giving her odd looks.

One might be excused for thinking that the young Highlander had been making inroads into one of the several wooden kegs which were concealed beneath the load of peat they were hauling.

Caitlin knew he would not be such a fool.

It was after the whiskey was delivered to its various destinations that the men stopped off at the nearest change-house to indulge in a wild bout of drinking.

Not that she ever participated. Daroch was very strict on this point.

Latterly, one of their group was always assigned to escort her as far as Crathie. From there, she made her own way home.

“Where is MacDougal?” she asked, careful to keep her voice in a lower register as befitted the part of the boy she was playing. “I understood Daroch to say that he was to come with us.”

“Och, he’s about somewhere,” replied MacGregor, his eyes scanning the dense stands of pines which flanked the old drover road they were traveling.

“He’s acting as scout this time around. Be easy, young Dirk.

No harm will come tae ye as long as ye hae Jamie MacGregor for company.

” After a pause, he laughed softly and added, “And if ye’re a good wee lad, mayhap there will be a treat in store for ye at the end o’ the day. ”

Caitlin folded her arms and tightened her lips, unsure how to answer the strange remark.

She was uneasy, but she still had no clue as to why this should be so.

MacGregor was loyal to the band. He would not think of betraying them to the authorities.

True, he had taken up employment with the Randal, but nobody held that against him.

Since he had taken to providing fresh meat for the tables of his former tenants, Lord Randal’s credit had risen dramatically.

Even Daroch had been won over, delaying the campaign to drive off the English laird so long as he seemed to be in a benevolent humor.

Only one person in the band had stood out against him: she had.

And she’d had no sound reason for doing it.

What she feared was vague and not easily put into words.

I’m not being petty, she assured herself.

Actually it had nothing to do with the ferocious whipping the Randal had administered.

Nor did it have anything to do with what Fiona had told her—that the Randal was curious about his cousin, David.

She had nothing to fear there. It was true that she and David had kept their friendship a secret, but that was not a crime.

They had done nothing wrong except flout the conventions.

Unattached members of the opposite sex did not meet freely, unchaperoned, without causing a scandal.

Her mind slipped back in time to that glorious autumn when she and David had wandered the woods, where everything had seemed more vivid, and each day infinitely more precious because soon there would be no days left to them.

“Oh, David,” she said involuntarily.

“What?”

She covered her blunder well. “Daroch,” she said. “I was wondering what kept him so long in Aboyne?”

MacGregor gave a great shout of laughter and slapped her on the shoulder. “Ye’re no that green!”

“His kinsman, the earl—”

“The Earl o’ Aboyne is no’ in Deeside at present. Laddie, do ye no’ ken that Daroch has a wee ladybird tucked away in Aboyne? Aye, ye maun well stare! Och, he’s a sad example tae the rest o’ us.”

“But…but what about Miss Fiona? He’s courting her.”

“So?”

When the boy made no answer to this, but stared in wooden silence, MacGregor patiently explained, “It wouldna do for Daroch to flaunt his fancy piece afore he is even affianced. And Aboyne is far enough away so that there’s little chance o’ Miss Fiona ever meetin’ up wi’ bonnie Mollie Fletcher.

Dinna say I’ve shocked ye?” He grinned hugely.

Caitlin was incensed, not for her own sake but for her cousin’s. It was all of a piece with what she knew about men. “Glenshiel will look higher for a match for his granddaughter than Daroch,” she retorted. Suddenly straightening, she exclaimed, “Ye have taken the wrong turning, MacGregor.”

“Nay, lad. This is the right road. Did ye no ken that we hae a new customer? The old change-house at Muick?”

“No one said anything to me.”

“Ah, well, that’s Daroch for ye. He doesna want an argument, nor does he want ye within a mile o’ the garrison. And it’s no likely we’ll meet wi’ redcoats on this road, now is it?”

The explanation soothed her uncertainties.

More and more of late, since penetrating her disguise, Daroch had contrived things so that the risks to her were minimal.

While others of their band delivered the contraband to destinations all along the busy north road, she was sent across the river to the more isolated hamlets in the south.

The writing was on the wall if this jaunt was anything to go by.

This winding track was as busy as the streets of Aberdeen on the Sabbath during church services.

Not a thing stirred. She very much feared that her adventuring days were coming to an end.

The old change-house, The Fair Maid as it was known, was ablaze with lights.

At one time, the courtyard would have been choked with coaches and ostlers coming and going as they changed horses.

Those days were a thing of the past, ever since the north road had gained in importance.

There were plenty of horses about, but these were the mounts of the inn’s customers.

“Where did they all come from?” asked Caitlin, looking first at the horses, then at the blaze of lights in the two-story building. “Nothing passed us on the road.”

She was not unfamiliar with The Fair Maid, but had never had occasion to visit it so late in the day. At other times, it was practically deserted, and she often wondered how Graham, the proprietor, could afford to keep its doors open.

MacGregor jumped down and looked up at her with a slow grin. “There are back roads, then again, there are back roads; and there are some who would rather no’ hae it known that they come tae The Fair Maid for,”—he laughed suggestively—“a wee dram.”

The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. “What manner of place is this?” Caitlin demanded.

Even as she spoke, the back door opened and three strapping lads in baize aprons advanced to the cart and began the process of unloading under MacGregor’s direction. After a moment’s hesitation, Caitlin jumped down lightly and went to assist them.

Each keg held twenty pints of whiskey. To these hardy Scots, this was a lightweight. They were used to clearing their fields of the backbreaking rocks their ploughs turned up in spring and autumn, rocks that formed the mile upon mile of dry-stone walls which were peculiar to Scotland.

When their business was concluded, Caitlin made to climb into the box.

MacGregor forestalled her. She could see from the gleam in his eyes and by his viselike grip on her arm that there was no point in arguing.

That did not stop her. She offered a few feeble excuses to explain why it was imperative that she head for home, but there was only so much she could do without attracting notice to herself.

Finally, with an ill grace, she gave way.

“Did I no promise ye a wee treat?” MacGregor said jocularly. “Now, lad, it comes tae us all. Courage up, among other things.” Snickering, he propelled her through the back door.

He was up to some deviltry, and she was beginning to have a fair idea of what it was.

As though she were a condemned prisoner being led to the firing squad, she allowed him to guide her through the kitchens to the front of the building.

Behind her frozen stare, she was calculating the odds, determining at what point she could make her escape.

There were three main public rooms, each one giving onto the next, and the place was crowded with patrons, a very mixed clientele, from the elegantly dressed merchant or squire to the coarser-clad farmer or tenant.

The only kilt in sight belonged to the proprietor.

The odd redcoat was glaringly in evidence.

For a wild moment, her hopes rose. A few of the gentlemen were known to her, upright pillars of the community whose wives or sisters were sticklers for the proprieties.

These gentlemen would not be caught patronizing a bawdy house, she thought.

But seeing the barmaids dashed her hopes. They were floating around in what appeared to be their underwear, flirting outrageously with the patrons, playfully slapping away hands that brazenly slipped inside gaping bodices or beneath skirts.

After that one shocking comprehensive glance around the room, Caitlin squared her shoulders and boldly swaggered after MacGregor as he strode to the counter. The order was given, and within moments, Caitlin was tightly clasping a glass with a double measure of whiskey in it.

“Get that down ye,” said MacGregor, then with brusque kindness, “Now, laddie, there’s no need tae look like that.

The first time is, aye, a bit nerve-racking, but ye’ll survive it, I promise ye.

Look at me. Look at a’ the fine lads around ye.

And I willna desert ye. I’ll be waitin’ right outside the door. ”

With those few, sincere words, Caitlin’s last lingering hope died. Bringing her glass to her lips, she took a long steadying swallow of the fiery liquid and promptly choked on it. MacGregor slapped her hard on the back. As she coughed and spluttered, a few interested spectators looked up.