“We’ll need to suspend our shipments for a while,” Hugh said. “Until after the inquiry, at least.”
“Aye, Laird. ’Tis our habit every year to quit until the weather clears, anyway,” said MacTavish. “Benoit willna come into these waters again until late January, or even February, depending.”
“That’s good. And even then we might want to delay the trade for a while longer.”
“But the income…”
“I’ll make up the difference for now,” said Hugh. “And with the changes I’m considering, I believe there will soon be a more steady prosperity for all of Falkburn.”
“What are ye thinkin’, Laird?”
“A distillery.”
Chapter 17
Wisdom is best taught by distress.
SCOTTISH PROVERB
His statement was met with silence.
“Where is the best whisky in the world made?” he asked.
“Scotland, of course. But we’ve never—”
“Which does not mean we cannot begin,” Hugh said.
MacTavish leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table, while Tullis frowned prodigiously.
“We can do it legitimately. Pay the taxes.”
“Pay the taxes!” Tullis exclaimed, though he kept his incredulous voice down to a hush. “Laird, ye must know it goes against m’ Scottish blood to pay taxes to the English crown.”
“I understand, Tullis,” said Hugh. “But Kincaid’s murder turned our trade into a much more dangerous business than it’s ever been before. You must know that the crown will send someone to replace the surveyor, and we cannot hope the man will be as ineffective as Kincaid.”
“Aye, that’s true,” said MacTavish.
“A new man might even report Armstrong for incompetence and see to it that he’s replaced.”
“And what about Pennycook?” asked MacTavish. “If MacGowan’s been bribing him with our brandy for his daughter’s favors…”
“Speakin’ of it would land him in a world o’ trouble,” said Tullis.
“Yes, so I’m guessing he’ll keep quiet. Even so, Kincaid’s murder turned the magistrate’s eye toward Glenloch, in spite of Pennycook’s silence.”
“Because of MacGowan,” said Tullis. “He killed Kincaid.”
Hugh shrugged. He felt sure Roddington was involved somehow, but the marquess wouldn’t have been the one to smash Kincaid’s forehead in. It was more his style to have pushed the man into the sea. “Aye,” he said. “It seems likely.
A deep crease furrowed Tullis’s brow, but MacTavish appeared to be more receptive to the idea of abandoning Falkburn’s free trade.
“How would we do it?” he asked. “How would we start up a still…I mean, a legal distillery?”
“I haven’t worked out any details yet,” said Hugh with a distinct sensation of breaking with the past. A past that deserved to be broken. “But we’ve got a river full of good, rich water, and if every field is planted with barley this spring, we might be able to start when autumn comes.”
“ ’Tis surely a…different solution,” said MacTavish. “I canna say I ever looked forward to those late shipments down at the castle, when we could be caught at any time.”
“Not that there was much chance of it wi’ the lot who keep watch up in Stonehaven,” said Tullis.
“Aye, but as Laird Glenloch said,” MacTavish remarked, “tha’s likely to change. And no’ for the better, either.”
As they talked, the idea of a legitimate distillery took on a more solid shape in Hugh’s mind, as did his conviction that Glenloch’s smuggling days were over. “I remember hearing of a new kind of still…I’ll see what more I can learn about it.” And about the distilling process in general. He would need to engage architects and engineers to build the distillery, and a manager to oversee the entire process.
Someone refilled Hugh’s glass, and as he looked up into the smoky gray eyes of Tullis’s comely barmaid, he realized she’d been hovering about their table, but he hadn’t even noticed her presence.
Naught had changed about her. The lass’s body was still as lush and inviting as ever. She smiled prettily at him, but her mouth did not create the same havoc in his brain that his wife’s did, nor could her lusty eyes draw him into her arms the way Brianna’s could do.
His throat tightened, and he suddenly felt as though he could not breathe. The prettiest lass in Falkburn had no sway over him. He felt no stirring. No desire.
He knew as well as Brianna that their marriage had been a mistake. He should release her from her vows. Surely the scandal of divorce would be minimal in Scotland, freeing her to wed someone else…Someone like Lachann Sinclair.
Hugh’s stomach burned at the thought of it.
“We can figure how much barley to plant,” he heard MacTavish say, but Hugh was barely able to focus on the subject at hand.
But one thing he did realize. He had to be daft even to consider committing himself to a project that would require his frequent presence in Glenloch—only a short ride from Killiedown Manor.
Brianna placed the pendant on the mantelpiece. She did not know how she was going to bring it to Hugh’s attention, only that she needed to do it. The ghost would not have shown it to her unless it was necessary.
Perhaps she would give it to him after she told him of her hope to remain with him at Glenloch, as his wife.
Her heart tripped in her chest at the thought of saying the words. She might very well have misread his signs of jealousy, and he was just as anxious to be rid of her as he’d been when they’d wed.
And yet she could not help but hope his attitude had changed, at least enough to give them a chance to forge a true marriage. She knew he must have gone out of his way to purchase the lovely shoes she now wore, and he had cared enough to arrange for a luxurious hot bath to be brought to the nursery for her that morn. They were small things, but signs of his true character, nonetheless. He was a kind and thoughtful man whose consideration went beyond the bedchamber, though Brianna had not mistaken the intensity of his lovemaking in the library, or when he’d reached for her during the night.
The force of his passions had created a torrent of confusing emotions in Bree, and she’d been too cowardly to face them. But now she risked unguarding her heart, slowly and carefully, unveiling her feelings in layers. And in so doing, she knew that she loved him.
Bree pressed one hand to her mouth and closed her eyes tightly against the flood of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. ’Twas frightening, this emotion that had caused naught but pain for her in the past. She’d lost every connection she’d ever made, and been turned out of every house that had grudgingly taken her in. She’d hoped for a friend who would be true to her, and prayed that Bernard Malham would take her with or without her dowry, all without success.
It was only the isolation of Killiedown and her aunt’s loyalty that had kept her heart safe.
And yet she was far beyond having a choice in the way she felt about Hugh. She wanted him, wanted to be his wife. She’d made a vow to take him with all his imperfections as well as his virtues. Bree understood now that she’d meant those words, though she had not been able to admit it, even to herself, on the day she’d spoken them.
With trepidation, she went up to the nursery and put on the gown she’d worn for their wedding, then pinned up her hair, using Amelia’s combs. She told herself repeatedly that this was no mistake, that she felt more for Hugh Christie than she had any other man—even Bernard.
The servants left at dark, and Brianna waited patiently for Hugh to return and sup with her. But as it grew later and he did not appear, she lost all appetite for food. She started to feel unsure of her course, and had second thoughts about telling him how she felt. He had never contradicted her intention to return to Killiedown, and Brianna suspected he might very well be anxious for her to go.
She paced nervously in the library. The room that had felt so warm and inviting just the night before, so cozy and intima
te, now felt cold and huge. And empty.
There was no good reason to remain there, dressed in her best gown and waiting anxiously, for it was clear that Hugh had found something far more engaging to do in Falkburn than to return home to her. She went up the steps, thinking she would return to the small nursery, but changed her mind when she reached the top of the stairs. She headed in the opposite direction, back to Amelia’s bedchamber.
Brianna pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and stepped inside the room as she considered the best way to approach her husband when he returned. Or whether to approach him at all. She felt a need to understand Hugh’s first marriage a little better before speaking to him of their own.
But no answers came to her.
She turned her attention to the furnishings in the cold bedchamber. ’Twas likely Amelia had spent her nights there, rather than in her husband’s bed. And if the miniature in her locket meant what Bree thought it did, then Amelia could not have been very welcoming when Hugh had come to her here.
Considering the possibility that Amelia might have hidden some correspondence that would shed light on her sorrow, Brianna went to the larger of the two wardrobes and slid her hands into the spaces between the folded clothes. Finding naught, she opened each of the drawers and searched inside, finding nothing but the usual stockings and smallclothes.
She closed the wardrobe and turned her back to it, leaning against it as she thought about Amelia’s profound unhappiness. She’d been separated from someone she cared for, a situation that was far too close to that which Brianna would soon suffer, if she did not manage to convince Hugh that they ought to stay together. She did not want to think of the empty days—months—she would have to endure at Killiedown Manor without him.
Feeling as lost as she’d ever been, she let her gaze drift aimlessly, finally alighting on the dressing table. She frowned, noticing something lopsided about it. A drawer.
‘Twas odd that she had not taken note of it before, but the table was carved very ornately, and the drawer seemed to be part of the façade, only it was slightly ajar now. She went to it and found an indentation, just below the top of the table. ’Twas in a concealed space where her fingers fit, just barely. She pulled it open and found naught but a few small sponges and a jar of water.
Brianna opened the jar and sniffed, drawing back at the acrid smell of vinegar. The discovery meant naught to her, and when she was startled by the sound of doors opening and closing downstairs, she left the room, anxious to see Hugh. To tell him how she felt, before she lost her courage.
She was just descending the stairs when he entered the hall, stopping abruptly when he saw her. They stood paralyzed in the moment, and then he turned his back to her and walked into the drawing room.
Brianna refused to acknowledge the snub, aware that their earlier parting had been uncomfortable. She followed him into the main room of the castle, watching as he poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter of brandy. He took one sip, then went to the portrait of Jasper Christie hanging beside the panel that led to the secret passageway. Hugh lifted it down, laying it flat on the floor.
To Brianna’s amazement, he stood on one end of the heavy frame and pulled up the other side, breaking the frame in half. He carried the whole thing to the fireplace and tossed it in, causing the existing fire to flare when it caught.
“Hugh?” she asked.
“ ’Tis time for a few changes,” he said.
“I see.” She watched him do the same to a smaller picture, then take his brandy in hand and leave the drawing room, going into the study to repeat the exercise.
“What brought this on?” she asked, following him to the dining room, where he tore down the portrait that hung there.
“Naught but a desire to break with the past.”
His words raised her sliver of hope to more of a shimmer. If he wanted to put the past behind him, then surely he was looking forward, toward a future together.
She opened her mouth to tell him of her wish to stay with him, but she’d anticipated a quieter, more romantic situation. Perhaps in his bedchamber as they undressed each other. Or when she straddled him, naked and needy. He would not deny her then.
But he was wholly occupied with destroying his father’s likenesses. “There are probably more portraits, and even a few landscapes stored in your attics,” she said. Perhaps they could go up and explore those rooms together in the soft, intimate lamplight.
“Those can all burn, too. These walls will remain empty until I can commission new paintings.”
“New paintings?” Her heart sank, for it seemed to be a hint that he intended to leave for London soon. Where else would he go for artwork?
“Aye. I’ve decided to end the free trade at Glenloch and begin a new venture.”
The discussion was not going at all as Brianna had planned, and her eyes filled with tears of frustration, not that he noticed. “What will you do?”
“Whisky.”
“I don’t understand. You just said you were going to end the smuggling.”
“We’re going to make it,” he said, taking a drink of his brandy as he walked into the library. “We’ll distill it ourselves. We’ll call it Glenloch whisky and sell it all over Britain.”
“Then you mean to…to stay?”
He did not look at her, but walked to the fireplace and set his drink on the mantel. In a very deliberate manner, he remained a few steps away from her, hardly looking at her as he spoke. “That won’t be necessary. At least, not right away.”
Brianna felt her small rays of hope slipping away. “So you’re going to leave.”
He started to say something, but his gaze caught on Amelia’s locket, and he looked at it as though it were a venomous snake. “Where did this come from?”
“The ghost showed it to me.”
He looked at her with exasperation. “You know full well there is no ghost. We’ve only encouraged the tales about it to keep the curious away from the brandy.”
“You’re wrong. The ghost is real, and it led me into Amelia’s bedchamber. It showed me where the locket was hidden.”
“Aye. This was hers,” he said, his jaw clenching. “Where was it?”
“ ’Twas caught on a splinter on the side of her dressing table, next to the wall,” she said, her heart tumbling to her toes at the distance he’d put between them. “Open it.”
Gingerly, he picked it up, but his fingers were too big and he could not work the catch. Bree went to him and took it from his hand. As she worked the catch, she could not have been more aware of the way he avoided her touch, and she realized he’d come to some decision about them. Opposite to the one she’d reached.
Tamping down her anguish, she opened both parts of the locket, so that he could see the miniature, as well as the lock of hair.
He gazed at it for a long moment, then took it from her and closed his hand around it, snapping it shut. “’Tis Simon Parker. A gentleman from town.”
He said naught after that, but his features darkened ominously, and Brianna knew that he was considering the ramifications of that portrait and the small lock of hair hidden behind it.
Hugh picked up his brandy and went to the staircase. Simon Parker, for God’s sake!
He wondered what other treasures Amelia might have left for him to find—if he’d ever allowed himself to look.
The servants had cleared away all her belongings from his other houses, but his staff at Glenloch had been reluctant to spend any time in Amelia’s bedchamber. As had he, but for an entirely different reason.
He entered her room, opening both wardrobes and pulling out every drawer. He dumped the contents on the bed and pawed through them, looking for other keepsakes, other clues of what had been in her mind.
He knew what a miniature in a locket and a lock of hair meant. She’d been in love with Parker, and he with her. But Hugh knew her father would never have allowed the match—just as Brianna’s guardian had refused her first choice. An obscur
e baron was nearly as bad as a merchant’s son.
Christ, he should have known there was more to Amelia’s distance and despondency. She had loved another man. No matter how Hugh had tried to please her, his wife would never have been happy in their marriage.
He took a long pull of his brandy, then rubbed a hand over his face. Simon Parker would have made a perfectly fine husband, although he wouldn’t have been accepted into the society Amelia’s family valued so highly. Had she wed Parker, the daughter of an earl would have become a merchant’s wife.
And spared him years of misery and blame. Of guilt.
Hugh sat down on the bed, his stomach clenching painfully. Their fathers had likely known of Amelia’s preference for the other man when they’d arranged the match. Not that it would have mattered, for marriages among the titled elite were arranged every day by their parents with little regard to the parties’ preferences. And Lord Benning would certainly have discounted any tendre his daughter might have had for the untitled Mr. Parker. It was astonishing that they’d ever had the opportunity to form a bond.
What a young fool Hugh had been. He’d felt attracted to Amelia on sight, for she had been beautiful and charming, and a little bit mysterious. Now he understood what had caused that aura of mystery about her. She’d been keeping a significant secret, and it had made her miserable.
“She was in love with him,” said Brianna from the doorway. “That was why she—”
“I realize that.”
“But you didn’t know it at the time,” she said. “You…You loved her, didn’t you? And you thought you failed her.”
Hugh stood abruptly. “You’re damned right I did! What else should I have thought? That she was pining for another man—”
Bile rose in his throat and he pushed past her, walking away, fleeing down the stairs and through the scullery. He jammed his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat and slammed out the door to head toward the stable.
He didn’t want to think about Amelia or the grief she’d caused. He wanted to punch something.
Taken By the Laird Page 26
