by Susan King
Revelation struck. She had been wrong. “Oh! I apologize. I thought you were combining both your ventures, making large quantities here in the open, but smuggling it out. It is a licensed venture.”
“Fully licensed.” He chuckled. “But what a bold ambition—an enormous smuggling enterprise that we only pretend is legal. Perhaps we should plant more trees to hide the place.”
She laughed ruefully. “The revenue officers would notice so much chimney smoke and activity here. You would have to produce the documents for them.”
“Rest assured, every square inch here has been examined and approved. King George himself might be served Glen Kinloch whisky at court one day.”
“The king asked for his favorite whisky when he visited Edinburgh last summer. There was quite a kerfuffle over it—he did not even realize that he was asking for illegal spirits, and he seemed unaware that his favorite brew came to London through smuggling. Some people were outraged. Others were amused.”
“Highlanders enjoyed it, I expect. I did hear something of it,” he went on. “A cousin of mine, Ronan MacGregor, is responsible for the king’s favorite brew, Glenbrae. A very fine whisky, I must admit. It was delivered to the king in Edinburgh under—well, highly suspect circumstances, from what my uncles heard said in Callander one day.”
“Ronan MacGregor is your cousin? I saw him at one of the king’s assemblies. A very handsome fellow, all done up in Highland kit, looking like a true warrior. He put some of the other Highlanders, who were dressed rather like tartan peacocks, to shame.”
“I have no doubt of it, for he is quite the Highlander, tall and strong and even more notable for the strength of his intellect. He is—well, let me tell you outshining others would never have been his intent. He is a quiet sort, is Ronan. I understand he had narrowly escaped with his life just before that event. Arrested for smuggling, and nearly hung for it.”
“There was talk of that, aye, but I never heard the outcome. I do hope he came away unscathed. When I saw him, he was with a pretty young lady—the daughter of a government official, I heard it said.”
Kinloch frowned. “A government official? With luck, the young lady urged mercy for Ronan.” He shook his head. “I must ask around—I have not heard from the lad myself for a while. Last I saw him was before news of his arrest. He suggested to me that I send some of our Kinloch brew as a gift down to King Geordie in London. Said the king quite liked smuggled whisky. We had a good laugh over it. His own Glenbrae whisky—well, it may be the only one that challenges Glen Kinloch for remarkable quailty.” He smiled.
Remembering the tall, stunning Highlander called Ronan MacGregor, she could easily see the resemblance. And that both were engaged it whisky trade of one sort or another—well, it was hardly surprising. And, she thought, rather intriguing. “Please, do let me know if you have news of your cousin. I would like to know that he fared well after the king’s visit. As for your own legitimate whisky, we have a family friend who could convey a bottle to the king if you like.”
“It would be difficult for anyone but the inner circle to reach King George to offer a bottle of Highland whisky, no matter how it was obtained.”
“Not for Sir Walter Scott. I would be glad to ask him for you.”
“Indeed?” He cocked a brow. “Scott organized the king’s visit. You do have impressive friends and kinsmen, Miss MacCarran. I am surprised you agreed to come to our wee Highland glen to teach. You must be very busy in Edinburgh.”
“I would far rather be in your wee glen than in the city, to be honest. The fresh air, the beauty of the hills, the welcoming people.” She paused, and when he did not comment, she waved toward the distillery buildings. “My brother told me to beware the laird of Kinloch, but perhaps he does not know that you have a legal enterprise here.” Perhaps she was wrong, after all, about more unlawful activities.
“Your brother is new to the area. The distillery was only recently approved by the government. It is possible he did not know that at the time he told you to be wary of Kinloch the laird.” He looked amused.
“If your tenants obtain licenses too, that will put an end to smuggling.” She hoped so—it would remove a direct threat to the laird of Kinloch and his glen. Not long ago she might not have known or cared. But now she did, very much so.
“Aye, but it would not happen quickly. Highland whisky is more expensive than Lowland whiskies, and takes longer to make, as we produce it from malted barley, a longer and more careful process. It is superior to the cheaper grain whisky made in the south, but that is more easily made and easier to obtain. Yet we must move our whisky out of Scotland to make enough income to sustain those who depend on it. Many are losing their other means of livelihood, thanks to the clearings.”
“Highlanders use the best ingredients and a careful process, so the price will always be higher than the grain stuff.”
“Aye. And it will come even dearer with more and more excise officers being sent up to the Highlands to find and destroy small stills and enterprises.”
“And my brother is one of them. I feel as if I should apologize.” She sighed. The more she knew about Kinloch, his glen, and his whisky enterprise, the more she understood his dedication and how much he cared, the more she cared, too.
He looked at her for a long moment, then away. “No need.”
“Patrick worked in Edinburgh as a lawyer,” she explained, “but he wanted adventure. So he accepted a post as an excise officer.”
“He will find more than enough adventure here, and may he survive it. Why did you both want to come to this part of the Highlands?”
“My brother and I need to—” She stopped. She could hardly explain about her grandmother’s will and her true reason for coming here. “My brother James owns the Struan estate now, and we thought it would be nice to be close by.”
“I see. I wish someone had told your brother Patrick that he would do better in Edinburgh as an advocate. His adventure could come at a heavy price.”
“It is dangerous, I know. And it worries me.”
“I am sorry, lass. But these men can be a sorry bunch. The government pays them poorly but pays extra coin for every bottle and keg a gauger captures. So they scheme to betray Highlanders even when we follow the law, so long as they can confiscate bottles and barrels to put coin in their own pockets.”
“You do not care much for revenuers.”
“Gaugers killed my father,” he said curtly. “He died for the price of the small kegs he carried on two ponies.”
“I am sorry. Truly I am,” she murmured, setting a hand to her chest, sensing in his quiet but brusque tone a hint of the sorrow and bitterness he must feel.
“The whisky he carried was legally made, not smuggled. They did not care.”
She shook her head sadly. “Was it recently?”
“I was thirteen.”
“Just a boy!” She saw his guarded expression alter for a moment, saw the vulnerable boy—then it shuttered closed. He wanted no sympathy or fuss, she realized. But she wanted him to know that she understood. “I lost my parents when I was young. I know how that feels.”
He nodded. “I became laird of Kinloch that day. Since then, I have learned much. Most of it outside the schoolroom,” he added wryly.
“You left schooling behind because of so many responsibilities,” she said.
“I went to the glen school, and then to university for two years. My father wanted that. But I was needed here and came home. Come this way, Miss MacCarran.” He took her arm to guide her over the bridge, their footsteps thudding over the planking. “We’ve lingered too long. The sun will set soon.”
“I should like to see the distillery, if you will show me.”
He gestured for her to precede him. “We spent last year repairing and expanding the place. We planned to rebuild the schoolhouse this spring as well. But the Lowland teacher arrived sooner than expected.”
“So she did. I have not fit your plans from the start.”
She lifted her head as she detected a sharp, strong odor in the air, wafting from one of the nearby buildings. “That smell! It reminds me of the beer the servants made when we lived in Perthshire when I was a girl.” The odor was distinct, like wet hay. She wrinkled her nose.
“The processes of making whisky and beer are the same, to a point,” Kinloch answered. “What you smell now is the hot barley mash, being boiled down to produce the wort, from which the whisky will be distilled. It’s not a pleasant smell. First the barley must sprout, so it is turned for days with shovels, then dried over peat fires, which will give the whisky a smoky flavor. Then the sprouted barley is boiled down to the wort, distilled and collected, and mixed with water from burns and streams. Finally it is set in casks to age. I will show you if you have time.”
“I do. I mean to stay in Glen Kinloch a long while.”
“So I gather.” He tilted a brow, smiled. To one side as they walked, the water of the burn rushed and frothed, setting up a screen of sound. Fiona felt so drawn to the man, and so entranced by the place, that she sighed, wishing she could stay for a very long while.
But that reverie was broken when she heard a man shouting. She spun to look, as did Kinloch. Hamish MacGregor ran toward them, waving his arms.
“What is it?” Kinloch called.
“Fire!” Hamish shouted. “At Tom MacDonald’s!”
Dougal MacGregor began to run. Fiona picked up her skirts and followed.
Chapter 12
Feet pounding, skirt hems lifted, Fiona ran behind Kinloch along the earthen lane leading between the distillery buildings. Seeing Hamish running toward them, Fiona hurried beside the laird, glad he had not tried to send her back—she would have come regardless.
“Hamish! What is it?” Kinloch asked as they reached him.
Hamish halted, catching his breath. “Fire,” he repeated. “The black pot.”
“Is anyone hurt?” the laird asked.
“None. But the smoke and flames can be seen far and wide. The gaugers might see it and come soon.”
“Black pot?” Fiona asked, phrasing it in Gaelic, poit dubh, as Hamish had.
“A still,” Kinloch answered quickly. Then he gestured. “You should go back.”
“But I want to help,” she replied.
“No need. Better you leave.” He spoke curtly, taking her shoulder to turn her. “Please, go home now, back to the MacIans.”
“She cannot go alone, Kinloch,” Hamish said. “The gaugers will see the smoke and come up here to find an illegal still. The girl must not meet them on her own.”
The laird glanced at Fiona. “You could go back to Kinloch House and wait there.”
“I will not. I want to stay. Let me help. I can carry buckets of water.”
“Fiona, mo nighean,” he murmured in soft Gaelic. My girl. She felt a thrill slip through her. “I want you to be safe.”
“I am safe here,” she replied, returning his steady gaze.
“Och, bring the lass and come along,” Hamish said impatiently.
“Very well.” Kinloch took her arm, his grip strong yet gentle. “But see you keep out of the way and safe. And promise you will not speak of this to anyone.”
She frowned. “Still you do not trust me.”
“Caution is best.”
“And this from a man who likes a risk himself?”
“Some risks are safer than others,” he said, turning with her as they hurried along after Hamish.
“Do you still think me a threat because of my kinsmen? None of us would bring harm to you or yours, Kinloch. I can speak for all of us.”
“It is just that I do not trust easily.”
“I pose no danger to you, Kinloch.”
He did not look at her, walking quickly while she kept pace. “You are a danger to me all on your own, lass. I dare not trust myself near you. Do you know it?”
Fiona glanced toward him, seeing the profile, the sweep of dark hair, the guarded expression. What he said had a simple honesty that made her heart beat faster. “You need not be wary of me.”
“Tinneas-an-gradh-dubh,” he said after a moment. “The black lovesickness is not easily cured. Hurry now. Hamish is well ahead of us.”
Lovesickness. Her heart leaped. Rushing along with little time to think, she knew she had a touch of the same ailment. No easy cure indeed.
Where the path narrowed and wound through trees and up a slope, the laird of Kinloch touched her arm to guide her. The light was dim where the way cut up and then down the hill’s angle, studded with roots and tangles of bracken. Stumbling, Fiona reached out to keep her balance. He took her hand, fingers warm and sure, and kept it in his. The clasping felt so good that she did not want to let go. He did not release her hand as he stretched out his free hand to push away overhanging branches as they passed through together.
“Hamish is far away now,” she said. “Do you know where he is headed?”
“I do. Promise me you will not tell anyone what you may see.” They left the shelter of trees for the open sweep of the glen floor.
He meant her brother, she realized. “You have my word. Why do we go this way? Crossing along the shoulder of the hill would be faster.”
“Too open. We cannot risk being seen and leading gaugers to this place.”
They reached the valley floor and stepped out into the glen. Approaching a narrow stream that cut through the valley floor, they crossed its rushing waters by stepping rock to rock. Dougal MacGregor took her hand again.
Beside them, the massive, rounded hills rose upward. Perched on the sturdy, rounded shoulders of the hills were a few cottages. Sheep scattered, grazing, along the slopes—herders and dogs had not yet brought them in, perhaps summoned away by the fire. Ahead, another stream rushed down through a rocky passage on the hill. Beyond the cluster of homes, pine groves thrust skyward in rich dark patches all along the hillside.
Above the trees, she saw the smoke, curling thick and dark, too much so for a home’s chimney. It rose up from a great thicket of pines that crested one of the lower hills. A little below the pine grove, she saw Hamish in the distance, hastening upward and between the trees.
“There,” Dougal said, pointing. He lengthened his stride, and Fiona hurried to keep up. Overhead, smoke billowed. She could smell its pungency growing stronger. As she ran, her bonnet ribbons loosened and her hat dropped to her shoulders, then blew away, skittering downward toward the meadow. Gasping, she spun, but could not catch it. Therewere far more important matters to hand.
Lifting her skirts to catch up with Dougal, who strode far ahead now, she noticed small lights flitting over the glen and hillsides, like dust motes glimmering in sunlight, even as dusk gathered and the light of the fire bloomed, brightening one part of the sky. She ran on.
Ahead, she saw Hamish MacGregor with two other men. The laird joined them, then turned to wait for Fiona. The others, she saw as she approached, were her student, Pol MacDonald, and his father, Thomas.
“It is Neill’s poit dubh on fire,” MacDonald was saying.
“Is the lad hurt?” Kinloch asked.
“He is fine, and the fire is lessening now, thanking the Lord. But the hut is destroyed, and a good copper still has blown apart. We moved the casks away, but until the rest burns off, we can do nothing.”
Dougal nodded. “Gaugers about?”
“Not yet, but there is a risk,” Hamish said. “Thomas sent his older sons out to look around. We are off to examine what is left of the still.”
They walked onward, Fiona hastening after, unsure she was welcome. Dougal slowed to fall into step beside her.
“Neill was testing the proof?” He directed this to Thomas MacDonald.
“He lit the sample, but it blew. Too strong,” Thomas grunted.
“Your proofs are never too strong,” Dougal said.
“It was Neill’s own batch,” Thomas said.
“Neill?” Fiona asked.
“My oldest brother,” Pol said.
“Neill is safe,” Thomas said, “and has learned the power of the whisky brew.”
Hearing shouts ahead, the men hurried, Fiona with them. Smoke rose anew above the pine trees. Something flashed among the trees, and she saw a narrow trail of flame snaking down the slope.
“Look!” she said, pointing. Dougal put out an arm to hold her back.
“The stream,” he called to the others. “It’s burning!”
Fiona cried out as she saw yellow flames licking furiously along the surface of the stream, the brightness whipping down the hillside like a dragon’s tail.
Above that stream of fire, tiny round lights swirled in the air. Sparks, Fiona thought—but they were pale in color, not the hot gold of the fiery stream.
The men surged forward, and she followed.
Fire danced upon the flowing water in bright ribbons. Dougal slowed, seeing its downward course, awed for a moment by its fierce beauty and danger. Sparks flew all about, snapping in the air. He glanced up, concerned the trees might catch the flame too. So far the fire was staying close to the stream, but he had seen this sort of thing burst out of control before.
Men shouted, running down the hill toward them. He put out his arm again to keep Fiona at a safe distance. She stayed back, staring as they all did at the burning water. Others gathered along the banks as well.
“There is little we can do now,” Dougal said. “It will extinguish on its own.” Others murmured agreement. Beside him, Fiona coughed a little in the smoky atmosphere.
He touched her shoulder in silent concern. Soot darkened her cheek, she had lost her pretty bonnet, and the flames, far too close, reflected gold in the sheen of her dark hair. He wanted to send her away, but knew she would refuse. He liked that in her, a stranger yet to this community; he was glad to see the ease with which the others had accepted her presence here on this hill.
Hamish came near, waving a hand toward the flames. “Gaugers will arrive soon for sure. That light can be seen for miles.”
“Neill must have dumped a fair amount of brew into the water,” Dougal said.
