Page 29 of Highland Fire

Silence, so long a silence on that narrow stretch of road that Rand was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated.

For more than three hours, he and Murray had patiently kept vigil on the road to The Fair Maid.

Other men were posted at change-houses all along Deeside.

They were lying in wait for Daroch and his band of smugglers.

Their orders were explicit. Only one person was of any interest, only one person must not escape their net, the boy, Dirk Gordon. Until he showed his face, they were to turn a blind eye to the smugglers and their commerce.

Rand had set everything in place with meticulous care. Having discovered that MacGregor was a smuggler, it had been no great labor to trace the source of the contraband whiskey. The still was hidden away in the mill of Balmoral, just across the river from his own place.

In an effort to allay any fears Daroch and his band might harbor, Rand had given out that he was returning to England to spend Christmas with his family.

In point of fact, he had got no further than Murray’s place at Inverey.

With him out of the picture, he had every hope that young Gordon would be tempted to leave his lair.

When word came to him that the miller of Balmoral was enjoying one of his busiest days of the month, he knew it was time to act.

His horse shifted restlessly beneath him, and Rand patted the bay before dismounting and tethering the reins to the bare branch of a birch.

He was chilled to the marrow. Not even the Randal plaid he had thrown over his riding cape gave much protection from the elements.

The light sprinkling of snow which had begun to fall earlier gave no sign of slackening.

Hunching his shoulders against the chill air, he cursed his ill luck for the sudden drop in the temperature.

In all likelihood, the smugglers were home in their beds, or enjoying a dram or two of illegal Deeside uisge-beatha around a blazing fire.

He said as much to his equally frozen companion who was stamping his feet to ward off the cold.

“You are far off there,” said Murray. “With the weather changing, there is no telling when the drove roads will be passable. Your smugglers are a canny lot, I’ll give you that.

But they are reliable, and this is a crucial time for them.

Every Scotsman worth his salt will want to restock his cellar for the New Year.

It’s our most celebrated festival, you see.

If Daroch can’t—or won’t—deliver, there are plenty of others who will. ”

“Is there anyone on Deeside who isn’t involved in smuggling?” asked Rand testily.

Murray laughed. “If there is, I don’t know of him. Good God, no sensible man is going to pay the malt tax for inferior whiskey when he can have the best for a fraction of that price. Even your own cellars at Strathcairn are well stocked, not to mention the garrison at Braemar.”

“So I’ve discovered.”

“Look here, Rand, I still think we should have pounced on them when they were loading up with the stuff.”

“I’m not taking any chances. If they were armed and had put up a fight, anything might have happened.”

“But—”

“What was that?” Rand’s words were merely a diversionary tactic to end the argument.

Murray could not be persuaded that Dirk Gordon had more lives than a cat.

In a general mêlée, some were bound to get away.

Dirk Gordon would be one of them. Rand had a sixth sense about such things, and he knew well enough that to get to the boy, he must first deal with Daroch and MacGregor.

Those two would do everything in their power to shield the lad.

Rand knew something else. Dirk Gordon must not suspect that it was he, Rand, who was closing in on him, or he would run to earth before they could act.

Suddenly, they heard it, the soft tread of horses hooves and the creak of wheels laboring through the snow. “Gee-up, Nell!” MacGregor’s voice and the crack of the reins on the pony’s rump. Shadows moved and a dogcart came into view.

“Damn!” said Rand under his breath. MacGregor was all alone on the box. Then where the devil was Dirk Gordon?

Caitlin fastened the shutters against the gathering storm and stood for a moment staring vacantly about the small room.

Coming to a decision, she quickly crawled into bed.

The silence was broken by the reassuring sounds of Mrs. MacGregor’s soft snores coming from the spare bed in the kitchen alcove, and the occasional rattle of the window panes as a wind got up.

The candle by her bed flickered. From time to time, Bocain shifted her position on the hearth in the next room and whimpered in her sleep.

The door had been left ajar so that the heat from the only fireplace in the house could circulate to all corners.

There was no necessity for her restlessness, Caitlin assured herself.

Daroch was well able to take care of himself.

The Randal was miles away in England and not due back for another week at least. In this inclement weather, only smugglers were likely to be abroad.

Decent folk were snug in their beds. Daroch could slip into Strathcairn’s boathouse and slip away again before anyone was the wiser.

She could not help swallowing every time she thought about it.

How had it come to this? It was her own fault.

It was she and no other who had proposed this particular little “welcome” for the English laird when he had first come into Deeside.

Knowing that he was an avid fisherman, she had willfully used a poker to poke holes in the bottom of the decrepit rowing boat which was housed in Strathcairn’s boathouse.

She’s had visions of the Randal being made to look ridiculous when he launched his boat in shallow water and promptly sank in it.

Only, the Randal hadn’t used his boat to go fishing; he knew nothing of the holes she had cleverly plastered over with a mixture of peat and mud.

There was no saying when the boat would next be used, or who would take it out.

She was certain of one thing, though. It could not be launched till spring, when the river Dee was in full spate.

She had not foreseen the delay. Just thinking about it made her go cold all over.

What she had done wasn’t a prank. It wasn’t harmless like the other little “surprises” they had engineered for the Randal. This was criminal.

For weeks past, her conscience had troubled her. Daroch was supposed to have taken care of the matter for her, but every time she had asked him about it, he had put her off with excuses. He could not see the urgency. Fine, she’d told him, she would take care of it herself. That did it.

Tonight, he’d promised her. Tonight, with Lord Randal absent and half of Deeside at home anticipating delivery of their supply of contraband whiskey for the New Year, he would make a detour to the boathouse. When he left, the boat would be a wreck, and anyone seeing it would know it.

Her thoughts meandered. Finally, she dozed.

Coming to herself with a start, she pulled herself up.

The candle by her bed was sputtering in its holder.

She glanced at the timepiece and judged that Daroch would have left the boathouse long since.

It was done. Apart from the trifling matter of having to find a way to recompense Lord Randal for one wrecked boat, she could sleep with a clear conscience.

Dousing the candle, she settled herself against the pillows.

All was dark. All was quiet. The minutes ticked by and still sleep eluded her.

Sighing, flinging off the covers, she slipped from her bed.

She made no sound as she donned her boy’s clothes.

Bocain, as silent as her mistress, waited alertly for the command.

Though she was sorely tempted, Caitlin gave her hound the order to stay.

Bocain was too easily recognized. Anyone seeing them together would make the connection instantly.

There was no moon to light her way. The snow, which was beginning to fall with increasing vigor, muffled the sound of her pony’s hoofbeats on the winding track.

At the boathouse, she found Daroch’s horse and gig secured to a tethering ring at the side of the stone building. A fine hoar frost covered the pony’s back and haunches. At Caitlin’s approach, the beast tossed her head and stamped her hooves restlessly.

“Easy, girl.” Caitlin calmed the frightened pony by stroking her neck. Something was very far wrong. “Daroch?” she whispered and pushed into the pitch black interior.

Almost at once, she stumbled and fell full length over something on the floor. Daroch groaned and Caitlin scrambled to her knees. “Daroch?”

Another groan and Caitlin pulled off her gloves and groped with her bare hands.

His face was icy cold and there was a bump the size of an egg on one temple.

The stench of whiskey was overpowering. She clucked her tongue impatiently and felt his limbs for broken bones.

Her hands came away sticky. Blood, she thought, and fought to control her alarm.

Rand absently reined in his horse, allowing his two grooms to precede him through the gates to Strathcairn.

He was lost in thought. So much for his stratagem to flush out young Gordon.

At every change-house where he had set men to watch, he had been given the same story.

The whiskey had been delivered sure enough, but not by anyone who resembled the boy’s description.