April Moon

by Merline Lovelace

  With low murmurs and brisk directions, they set to the task of lifting and carrying casks and boxes. A few of them hoisted the small, heavy wooden casks to their shoulders, while others carried out two or three boxes in a stack, and some took a few of the sacks.

  Within minutes, they were gone. When she was sure of safety, Jenny crawled out of her hiding place. She opened the lantern a little and moved around the crowded cave, searching for anything that bore the Glendarroch symbol, a tiny design of an oak leaf burned into the wood.

  She found boxes of laces, silks and other fabrics, and kegs of brandy and rum, as well as whisky that was not Glendarroch make. Sighing in frustration, she glanced anxiously toward the cave entrance. The smugglers might be back soon. Lifting the lantern, she scanned the cave one last time, and suddenly glimpsed the tiny, familiar oak leaf design branded on some wooden casks.

  Sighing in relief, she hurried to the other side of the cave to discover several stacks of small, portable kegs at the back of the cave, hidden by a tall pile of boxes, so that Jenny could not get to them easily.

  Enough, for now, to know that Colvin goods were here. She had to let her kinsmen know.

  But she did not want to leave Simon with his wound bleeding again, although she knew he would insist that he was fine.

  Realizing that some whisky would be useful for his wound, she tried to get to one of the Glendarroch casks but could not reach them. Examining the wooden boxes stacked nearest her, she pried open one nailed lid with a broken bit of stone. Inside she found tin flasks filled with liquid, most likely Highland whisky.

  Removing one flask, she wedged it down her bodice, above the ties that snugged beneath her breasts. Shivering from the cold touch of the metal, she slipped out of the cave and ran down the empty passageway.

  WHAT THE DEVIL had become of her?

  Simon paced the little balcony area feeling an increasing sense of alarm. He had seen the smugglers go in and out of the very cave into which he had shoved Jenny, and had to duck deep into the crevice to avoid being seen himself. Now he was fraught with concern for her, and angry with himself for leaving her.

  And he had seen that the smugglers were moving illicit cargo, while he, the excise officer, was trapped, one man unable to stop them. Despite their presence, he had to find Jenny.

  Bending to crawl back through the gap in the rock, a wave of dizziness took him with such force that he paused while the little cliffside niche seemed to swing crazily. He broke into a clammy sweat and his arm throbbed painfully. He knew it was bleeding again, felt the warm soak of it through the bandages.

  Still, he could not sit here panting and reeling. He had to find Jenny, either to save her—or stop her from whatever madness she had planned that night. He suspected Jock had sent her here on some illicit chore.

  Head swimming, he looked through the gap again, and saw a slender dark shadow slipping through the crevice to come toward him. Relief washed over him, and he realized again how very much she meant to him.

  He waited while she emerged sideways through the gap and placed her booted feet on the floor, skirts rucked over her stockinged legs to her knees. Then he took her arm to assist her.

  “Jenny, thank God,” he murmured, and pulled her into his arms, feeling an undeniable force, relief and love and a sudden, inconvenient surge of desire. He pressed his cheek against the sweet wildflower softness of her hair as he embraced her.

  Her arms came around his waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “The men came to that cave. I had to hide there for a while. There were six of them this time.”

  He nodded. “And more than that in the main cave. I saw them loading goods into two rowboats.” He did not want to let go of her, he realized, nor did she seem inclined to pull away.

  As he held her, something cold and oddly shaped pushed into his chest. Frowning, he set her away from him, glancing down at the tantalizing swell of her breasts. A strange bulk rested beneath the fabric of her bodice. Keeping that awareness to himself, he glanced at her. “And just what were the smugglers doing there, lass?”

  She laughed, at once sultry and mischievous. “I found their store, Simon. Casks, boxes, sacks—there’s whisky and West Indies rum, French brandy, laces, silks, all in one cave.”

  “Aye?” A wave of the accursed dizziness he had tried to ignore hit him again, and he leaned against the rock wall near them. A cool, reviving wind blew against his neck and through his hair. Moonlight poured over his shoulder to show Jenny’s face.

  She looked at him with concern. “The cave looks small from the outside, but inside ’tis spacious—and full of cargo.”

  “Including tin flasks?” With deft fingers, he reached inside the neck of her dress, grabbed the flask and drew it out. The metal felt warm where it had touched her skin, and he could not help but notice the firm, luscious shape of her breasts. “You did not have this on you earlier. Do I need to search you more thoroughly?”

  She watched him in surprise, then drew a long, deep breath.

  He dangled the flask between his fingers. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked in a low voice. “Are you in league with these smugglers after all?”

  She blinked at him and licked her lips, an unconscious gesture that revealed her nervousness.

  He wanted desperately to kiss her in that moment, wanted to take her in his arms and explore every part of her, touch and savor her as he had done years ago. His body throbbed with the need, despite their situation, despite the dizziness and pain that plagued him.

  “No,” she said firmly, at last. “I brought that for you.”

  He frowned. “I do not accept bribes.”

  “Nor do I give them. Sit down over there.” She motioned toward the ledge of stone that served as a seat. “Your wound is bleeding again. Are you fevered?” She touched his forehead, then his cheek. Her hand was cool, the sensation delicious and soothing, as if he was fevered—but surely there was another reason that he felt overheated in her presence, with his heart slamming and his body hardening.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and let out a grunt as she shoved him gently downward.

  “Sit. And give me your coat again.” She assisted him as before, being careful of his wounded arm. Kneeling beside him, she gasped softly. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered.

  He glanced down. The bandage she had applied earlier was a dark mass in the moonlight—surely not how it should look, he thought, feeling almost befuddled, swamped by dizziness again. He leaned back against the wall, aware of damp, cold rock.

  Gingerly she peeled away the sodden strips of cloth to reveal the wound, and wiped his arm with the previously torn sleeve that she pulled from his coat pocket. Reaching for the tin flask he had set down, she handed it to him. “You’d better drink some of this. I’ll do what I can to stop the bleeding.”

  He glanced down at his arm. “Damn,” he murmured.

  “It needs to be cauterized.” She sighed, looking worried.

  “I’m not happy about it, but I’m not keen on bleeding to death, either. Have you ever done this?”

  “No. But I’ve seen it done. But how…in here?”

  “I have a knife, and we can use the lantern flame.” He withdrew the little black-handled sgian-dhu that he carried sheathed at his waist beneath his vest. Silently, he laid it on the ledge of rock beside her.

  She opened the lantern shutter and turned up the wick so that the flame flared. Simon lifted the flask and drank.

  Mellow fire slid down his throat, faintly sweet, its inner heat flaring quickly. “Excellent,” he said, mildly astonished, distracted for the moment from the dreaded task ahead.

  He had been raised around illicit whisky production in pot-stills hidden from the king’s men, yet somehow he had never developed a taste for whisky himself, despite its ubiquitous presence in every Scottish household he had ever known. He found the stuff unpleasant at best, harsh and undrinkable at worst. But the contents of the tin flask surprised him—delicate and su
btle, its delicious warmth was invigorating and intriguing. He took another sip.

  “This is…rather good,” he admitted.

  “Have a little more,” she suggested. “You may need it.” She pushed his hand, holding the flask, toward his mouth.

  He sipped. “I confess I’ve never tasted whisky quite like this. There is something…faintly sweet about it, almost soft, yet the burn is strong. It’s like…honey and flame mixed together. A superb choice in stolen peat-reek, my dear,” he said, and raised the flask in salute.

  “Superb? Then I wonder—let me taste it,” she said, and took the flask from him. Setting her lips around the neck, she drank.

  “Careful, lass, it’s powerful,” he cautioned. “I can already feel it in my blood after just a few sips.”

  “Aye,” she said, frowning thoughtfully, and swallowed again. “Oh, aye…this is indeed the best whisky in all of Scotland. It’s Glendarroch make.”

  Disliking the stuff as he did, Simon always found it a challenge to distinguish one whisky from another. “How do you know it’s Glendarroch?”

  Jenny swallowed again. He watched the delicate ripple of her throat muscles, saw the pink tip of her tongue touch her lips. She closed her eyes, savored, then sighed. Watching her, Simon felt his body fill and harden, but he ignored the sweeping urge of desire as he waited for her answer.

  She looked up. “Because I know my own. I made this whisky.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “YOU?” HE STARED at her in disbelief. “You are responsible for Glendarroch whisky?”

  Had he come here searching for the men who were smuggling Glendarroch whisky only to discover that it was not MacSorley, not even Jock Colvin, but Jenny herself he was after, and Jenny he must arrest?

  “Aye, for the most part it’s my doing,” she said, as if there was nothing wrong in producing illicit whisky. “I oversee the production in the stills, while Da and Felix sell and move our goods. Our stuff is in great demand these days.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he drawled.

  “We can hardly make enough to meet the requests.” She shook her head. “You’d best drink a bit more.”

  “And you’d best tell me more about your illicit whisky business,” he said sternly.

  She frowned at him. “Will you arrest me if I do, gauger?”

  He leaned forward, right hand still pressing his left arm. “Whatever we do or say in this place,” he murmured, “stays in this place. Will you trust me in that, at least?”

  She nodded slowly, then touched the blade of his sgian-dhu to the lantern flame. “You’ve been gone a long while, Simon,” she said as she worked. “Not long after you left, I took over the production of several of Da’s pot-stills. He had so many that he couldna keep up with them all—and dinna ask me how many, or where they’re hidden, excise man.” She glanced at him.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled. “Go on.”

  “I had watched the process since I was a child, so I knew a good deal about whisky-making. Da thought me old enough to taste the batches. I had a knack for knowing one kind from another, and for judging the best of it.”

  “How did you come to do that?” he asked, looking at her curiously. “I remember that you were fond of wandering the hills when the heather and summer wildflowers were in bloom, and I know your da had pot-stills hidden in those slopes. But I do not recall that you were fond of whisky, though you had some now and then, as we all did from childhood on.”

  “And I know you never liked it much at all, but you must drink it now, regardless.” While he did, she tilted the sgian-dhu and let the bright flame pour along the steel blade, which took on a limpid shine. “Wandering the hills gave me the knack, I think,” she said. “The hills, the heather, the flowers and grasses and burns, all of it are part of me. I know their scents, their tastes, their feel, and I sense it in the whisky somehow.” She shrugged. “I can tell when the flavor of the drink is too peaty, or if there were heather bells mixed with the barley mash, or if primroses or wild onion flavor the water of the burn. If there’s wild garlic, for example, we throw the batch away—I willna accept it.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “I doubt I could tell the difference.”

  “Ah, you would have been able to if you had stayed with us. I might have taught you myself.”

  “I would have liked that,” he said softly.

  She glanced away. “Aye, well, drink it now—even though you may loathe it.”

  He laughed. “Your brew is very fine, I assure you.” He sipped. “Go on. What sort of magic do you conjure over Glendarroch whisky?”

  “When I began supervising the production, we tried different kinds of barley, different containers, varying the distilling times, and so on. I made more and more suggestions, and one day,” she went on, reaching out to urge the flask toward his lips again, “we discovered that some whisky that had been stored in some old oak sherry casks, and left alone for a year, was better than anything we had ever produced. It had a lovely golden color, and all the strength and whimsy of Scotland itself in its flavor. Drink another wee sippie, now,” she urged him.

  He did, then lifted a brow. “Do you want to make me fou?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  Simon half smiled, contemplating her beautiful, sparkling eyes. He did not feel drunk. It took a lot of any sort of drink—ale, wine or other—to take him down, but he had relaxed enough to realize how tense he had been in her presence, overly cautious and concerned he might misstep, missay himself.

  Better to be himself and take his chances, he told himself. She would either love him or not, regardless. And no matter what happened, he could never stop loving Jenny Colvin, rogue’s child, whisky smuggler, nurse and more bright and dazzling to him than that full moon over the sea, he thought, glancing past the cave.

  Oh, aye, he was a wee bit fou, he thought.

  “Is this the aged whisky, then?” He lifted the tin flask.

  “Aye, that batch is a little over three years old by the taste of it.”

  “If it’s such rare stuff and so much in demand, the excise man should not be drinking your store.”

  “We’ll make an exception for you. And MacSorley had no right to this batch—oh,” she finished suddenly, biting her lip.

  He paused in lifting the flask to study her. “And just how did Glendarroch’s finest batch turn up in MacSorley’s cargo? Is your father in league with them? Answer me,” he added, when she looked away, still and silent.

  She sighed. “Captain MacSorley stole it from us,” she admitted. “After my father was imprisoned, Uncle Felix discovered that fifty casks of whisky were missing from the place that we had stored this stuff for aging. Da asked me to come here and see if ’twas here, so then we would know for sure that MacSorley took it. So…my father can die in peace.” She blinked back tears.

  “Och, Jenny,” he murmured in sympathy. Then he shook his head. “But why is this so important to Jock?”

  She lifted her chin. “That whisky will earn a fortune in trade. The longer it ages, the more it’s worth. Da wants his kin to have the benefit, not MacSorley. He also suspects that MacSorley stole the magistrate’s horse and blamed him for it, and he was right. Cap’n MacSorley is an evil rogue,” she went on. “He wants to control the smuggling along this coast, but my father has the greater share of the business.” She scowled.

  “I see. Now that you’ve found the whisky, what then?”

  “Felix and the lads will deal with MacSorley.”

  “The excise men should take care of that,” he said grimly.

  “Aye, and they’d take care of my father, too, in their way. No, Felix and the lads must do this. Remember, preventive man,” she warned, “this was all spoken in our place of secrets. And whatever we do and say here is never to be known by anyone else.”

  “Agreed,” he said softly, and felt a surge of desire thrill through him unbidden. “Besides, you have the knife,” he teased, smiling at her.

 
“Aye, and it’s hot now. We must see to your arm.”

  He frowned. “Aye then. Get on with it.”

  She reached under the hem of her dress to rip another length of fabric from her petticoat. Then she thrust the sgian-dhu into the lantern flame again, heating it one last time.

  Simon watched, waited. The whisky’s power heated his blood, warming him head to foot, baking out the clammy feverishness he had felt earlier. He did not intend to get truly drunk—he had never enjoyed the drunken state much, and he would need a clear head to face MacSorley’s lads.

  The flame spilled over the shining blade. Simon cleared his throat, sat straighter and angled out his left arm.

  Jenny looked at him then, her face lovely in the blue-shadowed moonlight, the lantern light showing sparks in her eyes. For a moment, he saw an incandescence in her, saw the beautiful and compassionate spirit that had drawn him back here, despite distance and years, despite grief and secrets, doubt and hope.

  He saw the tenderness of love.

  Then she lowered her glance.

  He wanted to kiss her. The feeling roared through him. He wanted to hold her, and explain what he had held in his heart for so long. Instead, he said nothing, waiting while she poured a little whisky on a wadded cloth and leaned forward.

  “This will sting,” she said.

  When she pressed the spirit-soaked cloth to his arm, it burned like fire. He sucked in a hissing breath.

  Quickly Jenny leaned forward and kissed his mouth. Tasting her sweet lips, he forgot physical pain for an instant. He cupped the back of her head, deepened and savored the kiss, felt his hunger for her burn hot and insistent.

  She tilted her face and let the kiss renew, and he felt his soul begin to stir in him. Secrets long-held clamored for release. He had carried them for so long.

  Then she pulled away in the darkness, sat back.

  He blinked in surprise. “What was that for?”

  “To hush you. I was afraid you might cry out when the whisky touched the wound.”