Page 55 of Laird of Secrets

“That will not happen to Patrick.”

“It could, and it has, to many good men before him.”

She stopped to look up at him. “You truly believe he is in danger?”

“Aye, and you as well.” Pausing beside her in the shadow of a thicket of trees, Dougal wanted to fold her into his arms, dispel her worry, make her feel safe. “Fiona,” he murmured impulsively.

Her gaze searched his. “Aye?” she whispered.

“Uncle Dougal!” A high-pitched voice sounded. “Uncle! Wait!”

“Lucy?” He turned, seeing her. “What is it?”

The little girl ran toward him, dark hair like a flag behind her, its ribbon lost as she came forward looking panicked, waving her arms, spilling to her knees on the path, scrambling up again. “Uncle!”

Chapter 11

“Iwant to go over the glen with Annabel to her house,” Lucy said, coming closer. She indicated the other little girl, waiting behind her.

“Is that all? You gave me a scare, lass.”

“I am invited to have supper with Annabel and her mother, and to stay the night there.”

“Are you asking me, or telling me? What about your studies?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Lucy said. “There is no school. We have no assignments. Isn’t that so, Miss MacCarran?” Fiona nodded.

“Very well. Ask one of your great-uncles to walk you both there, and go straight to Annabel’s house. Do not linger along the way,” Dougal said sternly.

“Thank you! I will do that.” Lucy smiled brightly, her dimpled expression reminding him keenly of his sister. “I told Annabel we would give her mother some of our fairy brew.”

“Did you now,” he drawled. “Then tell Maisie I said she can fetch you a small bottle and put it in a basket for you to take with you. Maisie is at the tower today, I think.”

“Aye, she is cleaning and cooking. And I hope she has not put away my paper and pens to make things neat. I am writing a poem!”

“Go on, now.” He waved Lucy onward, and she ran back to join Annabel. The little girls joined hands, chattering as they went up the hill.

“Lucy writes poems as well as reads them?” Fiona looked up at him.

“She loves poetry. She copies verses she fancies from the books, and writes her own too.”

“You are a fine guardian, Kinloch. Some men would not have the patience for a child of that age.”

“She is my ward, but I have come to think of her as my own. My sister has been gone three years.” That said enough, to his thinking. The love and protectiveness he felt for his niece was strong, but it was not in his nature to talk about such things.

“Her father is gone too?”

“Aye,” he said gruffly, without detailing the wooing and abandonment his sister Ellen had suffered. “My uncles and aunts lend a hand. There are many to care about her and watch out for her.”

She nodded. “I can see that. What is fairy brew?”

He walked beside her. “A spirit traditionally brewed in the Highlands.”

“Not made by fairies?”

He laughed, shook his head. “Not directly.”

“My sister-in-law has a kinsman who makes a fairy whisky that has some kind of magic, so the family claims. They are secretive about it, though.”