by Emily Royal
She turned her face away, unwilling to let him see the expression in her eyes. Mr. Stock had been demanding her next essay, and Lilah had spent some of the evenings during the journey penning the final details in the safety of her chamber.
But she could not reveal her activities to the man who sat opposite her, the man who intrigued her more than any other she’d met. She had determined to hate him for being a Molineux but, just as she refused to be defined by her sex, he refused to be defined by his lineage and title.
And she found herself struggling not to fall in love with him.
At all costs, he must never discover the identity of Jeremiah Smith.
“My home may be plain,” he said, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I cannot abide decoration purely for the sake of appearance. And I believe, Miss Hart, that’s something you and I have in common.”
“I believe it is.”
He smiled. “A man incapable of accepting criticism is no man at all.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I meant no disrespect to your home, sir. I like its regularity of form. It has been built with practicality and security in mind.”
“True,” he said. “My ancestors were diligent in their determination to protect themselves from marauding English invaders. I trust I can rely on you, Miss Hart, to enter my estate with no intention to subjugate its people.”
“I am unarmed, sir.”
“Not all weapons strike a blow to the body,” he said. “Hearts and minds can also be breached. An army might lay siege to a fortress for days, surveying the cracks in the walls, and the hinges on the doors. But a clever general will assess the softer target. The people within.”
“And you think me a clever general?” she asked.
“You could conquer the strongest fortress, Miss Hart, if you set your mind to it,” he said. “And this particular fortress would relish being conquered.”
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, and her skin tightened with need. Before she could react, the carriage drew to a halt. Voices spoke outside, and he withdrew his hand.
The carriage door opened to reveal a liveried servant.
“Welcome home, sir.”
He stepped out of the carriage, then took Lilah’s hand in a firm grip, and helped her out.
“Come,” he said. “Let me introduce you to Ma.”
At close range, the castle looked more imposing than it had from a distance. The stone was dark gray, mottled with deeper flecks of black and red. The entrance, a large, deep archway, housed two solid, wooden doors, built to withstand the centuries. Thick, iron hinges were embedded in the wood at either side of the doors, and wide, heavy-looking rings formed the handles.
A woman stood in the forefront. There was no doubting her identity. Tall and graceful, her hair was silver with flecks of red. Though simply clothed in a black gown trimmed with lace, she bore the demeanor of a queen. Clear blue eyes regarded Lilah thoughtfully, and her mouth was set into a firm line.
A ripple of apprehension shuddered through Lilah. As a child, she’d read history books about the wars of independence between the Scots and the English. One book had depicted the Scottish women as even fiercer warriors than the men. Without a doubt, one such warrior stood before her now.
Lilah’s companion placed a hand in the small of her back. His touch bore a note of protection and possession as he gently propelled her forward.
The woman exchanged a brief look with her son, then her lips lifted into a smile.
“Ma,” he said. “May I introduce Miss Delilah Hart. Miss Hart, my mother, Mrs. Finola MacGregor.”
Lilah dipped into a curtsey. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
“Och, we’ll have none of that, young lady.” The woman took Lilah’s hands and pulled her into an embrace. “I’m pleased to welcome you to my home,” she said. “I despaired my boy would ever bring a young woman to visit me.”
“Ma!” he exclaimed, and when Lilah turned to look at him, pink spots had grown on his cheeks.
The woman laughed—a deep, hearty chuckle which belied her elegant exterior, and she gestured toward the door.
“Let’s get you inside out of the cold, my dear. You must find our weather unpleasant after the warmth of London.”
“London can be just as chilly,” Lilah said. “I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with Mother Nature, having been confined in a city for so long.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Mrs. MacGregor said. “I think you’ll enjoy the land here.”
“I’m keen to explore everything during my visit,” Lilah said. “His Grace has been telling me about the mountain, and I’d like to climb it.”
“What, Beinn mo Chridhe?” the woman exclaimed. “Fraser, you don’t intend to drag the poor lass up there?”
“Of course not!” he protested. “Though I was hoping to give her a tour of the distillery before supper.”
“Have you asked your guest what she wishes to do, Fraser?” She gestured to Lilah. “Do you want to spend your time in a factory building, and up a freezing mountain, lass?”
“Oh, yes!” Lilah said.
Fraser raised his eyebrows at her enthusiasm.
“I relish the prospect of being on top of a mountain,” she said, “looking out over the world, undisturbed. As for the distillery, I’m eager to learn how whisky is made. I’ve seen the passion His Grace has for it and wish to understand it for myself.”
“His Grace!” The woman shook her head. “I’ll never get used to your title, Fraser. But it seems as if my wee boy has finally found that which I never believed existed. A Sassenach worthy of his acquaintance.”
“Ma!”
Lilah suppressed a laugh at the image of the tall, brawny Scot, a duke who commanded respect anywhere in the world by virtue of his sex, wealth, and title, being cowed by his mother as if he were an embarrassed child being asked to perform for the adults at a family gathering.
Mrs. MacGregor took Lilah’s arm. “Let me show you to your chamber, my dear,” she said. “Fraser, Miss MacKenzie will be joining us for supper. Perhaps you can ensure you’ve returned from the distillery in time to welcome her? She’s missed you dreadfully and has spoken of little else since she heard you were coming home. I know you’ll have missed her. I expect her at seven.”
He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, then nodded.
Lilah let herself be led inside, but a sliver of apprehension rippled through her.
Who was Miss MacKenzie?
Chapter Fourteen
Lilah’s maid had just finished unpacking her trunk when a servant arrived to show her downstairs. With a sigh, she donned her pelisse and followed him. She’d hoped to have time to explore her chamber. The view out of the window, dominated by the mountain with its unpronounceable name, was breathtaking. But the light was fading, and by the time she returned, it would be dark.
Fraser waited at the main doors and held out his arm. She took it, and he led her outside to the carriage.
“Is your distillery far?” she asked.
“It’s situated by the burn, just three miles away.”
“Is your mother coming?”
“Whatever for?” he asked.
“She’s supposed to be my chaperone. Or should I send for Sarah?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Her cheeks warmed despite the cool air. She might trust him, but she wasn’t sure whether she could trust herself.
“Of course I do,” she said.
The carriage set off with a jolt. He began to describe the features of the estate—the outbuildings once used for illicit distilling, the croft housing the ghillie, and the moors where the cattle roamed until the drovers came to take them to market. His voice grew earthier, and his brogue came to the fore.
She closed her eyes, wanting him never to stop, but the carriage halted outside a large, stone building with a tall chimney.
“Here we are,” he said, pride in his voice. “The MacGregor distillery.�
�
A short man dressed in a plain black coat and breeches met them at the entrance. He glanced at Lilah, then gave a deep bow.
“Welcome home, Master Fraser.”
“It’s good to be back, Hamish. How goes production?”
“We have over fifty gallons maturing in the new casks, sir. The excise officer no longer fears for his life, and we’ve already received an inquiry from a London merchant as to when he can expect delivery.”
“You’ve been productive,” Fraser said. “Are the employees settling in?”
“It’s never easy with such a rapid expansion, but folks are grateful for the work.”
“Good,” Fraser said. “I’d like to meet them today when I show Miss Hart round.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Ye’d show a lady round the factory?”
“You forget your manners, Hamish. Some ladies, even English ones, do more than sit indoors and embroider cushions. Now, lead the way.”
The building was humming with activity. Everywhere Lilah looked, she saw men and women working together. As they passed, the employees hailed Fraser as if he were a long-lost friend. He stopped and spoke to each one, praising them for their industry and promising they’d be rewarded for their dedication.
“You employ women?” Lilah asked.
“As you see.”
“That’s unusual.”
“But not unfair,” he replied. “A woman toils as hard as a man. Most of them are widows with no source of income, or wives of men incapable of working through illness or injury. I would not see them destitute by virtue of their sex.”
“What about the ones with children?” Lilah asked.
“Family needs are provided for,” he replied. “We grant them a stipend for life when they’re too old to work, and a nursemaid to take care of their children until they’re old enough to attend the local school.”
“A school?”
“We fund a school on the estate,” he said. “The surest way to lift a man out of poverty is to give him the means to do that himself. And the best way to achieve that is through education, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Hart?”
“I find myself agreeing with you more than I’d expected.”
“Excellent!” he said. “I have a mind to discuss it with your Mrs. Forbes when I next see her.”
“You think she could advise you on how to run a school?”
“No, but some of her women seeking a fresh start, particularly those with children, may wish to come here. I’ve already suggested it to her.”
“You think a woman would wish to travel so far from home?”
“I’m certain of it,” he said. “There are many women looking for a new beginning, away from their pasts. Why not come here? Despite what you hear about my countrymen, we welcome newcomers. Fresh ideas, new people… It’s how we grow.”
“Then it seems as if your education is complete,” Lilah said.
“My education?”
“The plight of the disadvantaged, a greater understanding of the world. You recall our bargain?”
“Ah, yes, our bargain.” He met her gaze, hunger in his eyes. “But I must still complete your education, must I not? I believe we’d agreed on five lessons in pleasure. Four yet remain.”
She dropped her gaze to his lips—those full, sensual lips. She had only to move forward a little, and she could taste them.
He smiled and drew back. “I believe we must add another lesson.”
“Which is?”
“To show you that I am more than an uncouth Scot or a libertine lord.”
She had judged him unfairly.
“I believe my education with regard to you has already begun,” she said, “but I’m eager to learn about your whisky, even if I don’t like the taste.”
“Then you have set a challenge, Miss Hart,” he said. “I must persuade you to taste it again.”
“I can’t see myself enjoying it a second time.”
“There are many different forms of whisky,” he said. “The taste depends on many factors.”
“Such as?”
“The water is an important part,” he said. “Our water is collected from the burn, which comes straight from the mountain—fresh and clear, almost sweet to the palate. One must also consider the barrels in which the whisky is aged. We’re experimenting with different barrels, including sherry casks. The sherry should infuse a level of sweetness. But I’m also eager to experiment with different barrels to impart a variety of flavors. However, I must stay my enthusiasm until we can reap the rewards of our efforts. And for that, I have Hamish to thank. He acts as a steady hand to prevent me from sinking too much of my assets into the venture.”
“Hamish seems a sensible fellow,” Lilah said.
The man in question gave her a stiff bow. “I do my best for the master.”
“Come,” Fraser said. “Let me show you the whole process from start to finish.”
He ushered her into the main part of the building.
A dry, acrid smell caught at the back of her throat, and she coughed. “What the devil is that?”
“The peat smoke,” he said, laughing. “Only a Sassenach would choke at the most beautiful aroma in the world! I once heard tell that, to an Englishman, the smell of peat smoke is akin to his grandmother’s week-old undergarments roasting on a coal fire.”
“Why use something so disgusting?”
“The smoke is used to dry the grain,” he said. “The longer we smoke the grain, the stronger the taste of peat. Every Highlander has peat in his blood. It’s the fuel which keeps us warm in winter. It gives our land the richness on which our plants and animals thrive.”
He escorted her into another room that contained a number of wide, fat wooden barrels. The smell was not unpleasant, at least not compared to the peat smoke she’d inhaled a few moments ago.
“This is where we add the yeast to the mash,” he said.
“How long does it take?”
“It differs depending on the strength of taste, miss,” Hamish said. “It can be ready in two days, but we leave it for four. The extra two days imparts a deeper flavor. Though the master intends to sell to the English, who are unlikely to appreciate the complexities of a good whisky, he’s unwilling to compromise on quality merely to cater to their unsophisticated palates.”
“Your master is a man of integrity,” Lilah said. “I cannot abide a man willing to trade his principles for profit.”
“Or a woman,” Fraser said. “I want to yield a profit, of course, but my primary objective is to share my passion for good whisky with the rest of the world and leave a legacy for the people who depend on me.”
Once again, guilt pricked at Lilah’s conscience. This man, who she’d admonished for being a profligate, had done more to help others than she ever could. He had every right to indulge in the pleasures of life.
What had she done, other than stitch a few torn sheets for Mrs. Forbes, yell abuse at the aristocracy, and write naïve political pieces?
Her motivations, which she’d believed to be honorable, were driven by nothing more than vanity—an attempt to use the notion of social inequality to further her writing career. She had convinced herself it was for the greater good, but in reality, the only person it served was herself.
A warm hand took hers.
“Miss Hart?”
She looked up into a pair of kind blue eyes. Now that her own eyes had been opened to the truth about herself, she could not meet his gaze. She blinked to clear the moisture pricking at her eyelids.
“The smoke…” she said.
“Of course.” Gentle hands steered her out of the room. “Hamish, perhaps you could find Miss Hart a glass of water.”
“Of course, sir.” The man disappeared.
“Is there more to see?” she asked. “I wish to continue.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ve left the best until last.”
The next room contained four large copper vats with a bulbous shape at the bottom, taperi
ng to funnels at the top.
“This is where the fermented mash is distilled, concentrating the liquor,” he said. “A wood fire heats up the liquid inside the vat, and because the liquor boils before the water does, we can catch it and separate it from the water and impurities in the mash.”
Lilah placed her hand on one of the vats and ran her hand along the smooth contours of the metal.
“It’s cold,” she said.
He placed his hand over hers. “My da told me the vats were fashioned in the shape of a pagan goddess,” he said. “Smooth, ripe curves for a man to claim, and a delectably firm, round bottom.”
He moved beside her, and his body heat seeped through the material of her pelisse. A light cough came from behind, and he moved away.
“Your water, miss.” Hamish stood in the doorway, a glass in his hand. She took it and sipped the water.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It’s from the burn,” he said, pride in his voice. “Perhaps, if you find our water to your liking, you’ll appreciate our whisky one day.”
“I find myself appreciating much of what I see here,” she said. She turned to her companion. He took the glass from her and lifted it to his lips, turning it deliberately so his mouth met the spot where she’d sipped it.
“Delicious,” he said. “A taste like no other, and one I hope to indulge in many more times.” He returned the glass to Hamish. “You may leave us now,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.”
“Very good, sir.”
“There’s one more thing I have to show you, Miss Hart,” he said after the foreman left. “The cellar.”
He took her to the back of the building, where a flight of steps descended into the darkness. He reached for a lamp which hung from a nail in the wall, struck a flint, and lit it.
“Follow me.”
At the bottom of the steps, he raised the lamp.
“Look.”
A row of barrels was stacked neatly against the far wall. Letters had been stamped on the end of each barrel, and as she moved closer, Lilah could discern the writing.
MacGregor 1823
Underneath were other, fainter letters.
