The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “Not incapable,” his mother retorted. “Merely reluctant.” Her gaze darted about the table as if searching for an ally. Finding none, she sighed while a servant poured wine round the table. “A man of the laird’s position needs a wife who understands the necessity and subtleties of entertaining. I’m not certain the women in this region are raised with the training and knowledge to serve as a proper hostess. When Cameron follows his father’s footsteps into politics, he’ll need—”

  “This is an old road, Mother,” he interrupted. “One that we’ve trod far too many times. And yet none of this explains the presence of Miss Starke.” He turned from his mother to gaze directly at her. “Does it, now?”

  Her spine shivered with his challenge. She was obviously mistaken in her beliefs, and to list those fallacies now would prove embarrassing, not only to her but also—

  “I believe Miss Starke came here for me,” Faith interceded. “I believe she felt I was in danger.”

  “Danger?” The laird barked a sharp laugh. “What kind of danger did you expect to find in Ravenswood?”

  He was laughing at her. That made her hackles rise. She had encountered pity in her past, and even rudeness, but no one was going to laugh at her or her friend. She met his challenge with a level stare.

  “Surely a man of your position is aware of the Stead investigation into white slavery? It was well-documented in the press. Young women from rural areas were lured to meet with strangers by the promise of well-paying positions. They were instead sold to brothels, or worse.”

  “So you believed my mother planned to sell your friends to a brothel?” The glow from the candles sparked in his eyes. She could hear his undertone of mirth, as if he knew that giving voice to her own misconceptions would prove irritating.

  “I didn’t realize your mother had placed the advertisement.” Claire’s cheeks heated with frustration. “My understanding was that a scar-faced man who was seen in the company of ladies of ill repute . . .” The reference suddenly clicked into focus. She shifted in her seat to face the man next to her. “It was you! You’re the man who purchased the ad from the Mayfair Messenger.”

  “The ad was purchased at the direction of Lady Macpherson,” James explained. “The Mayfair Messenger has a reputation for devoting ample space to personal ads.”

  The matron arched her brows with interest. “James? In whose company were you seen?” Obviously, she hadn’t been distracted by Claire’s recognition of the ghillie.

  “My apologies, Lady Macpherson.” The ghillie stared at his plate. From her position next to him, Claire noted his flushed cheeks. “While in London on your behalf, I thought I might locate an old friend. He’s been known to visit such places, but I regret that I was not able to find him on my most recent visit. I had no idea that my activities would be so closely monitored.” He scowled at Claire. “Why were you following me?”

  “I was not, sir.” She wanted to hide her head in mortification. She certainly had not intended to embarrass another unjustly. “I . . . we . . .” She leaned forward to glance at Faith. “We have a friend who writes for the Mayfair Messenger. She was gathering facts for a story and was passing by Flower Street when she saw . . .” She touched the ghillie’s sleeve. “I’m so sorry that we misconstrued the situation, but you can understand our concern.”

  “So on the basis of my ghillie possessing manly appetites, you believed the Macpherson clan would participate in such a malodorous and illegal activity as white slavery?” the laird asked.

  He provoked her like the boning in a too-tight corset. His vexing manner made her defiant, while his intent stare made it difficult to breathe. Even more disconcerting, he seemed to enjoy her discomfort.

  “There is the matter of the Stead article,” Claire said slowly and deliberately.

  His mother, silently following the conversation, intervened. “Even if your ridiculous assumption were true”—she paused while her empty soup bowl was removed—“I had to imply marriage was a possibility otherwise who would leave the excitements of London for this remote outpost.”

  The laird’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward his mother. “You certainly couldn’t.” Claire noted the sudden shift in tensions. There was an antagonism between mother and son that she hadn’t noted earlier.

  “Someone who found London limiting?” Miss Townsend meekly offered.

  Miss Townsend! Claire had forgotten she was even at the table.

  “I was the one responding to the ad, your lairdship. Miss Huddleston accompanied me, as I didn’t wish to travel such a long distance alone.” The mouse took a moment to glare at Claire. “Miss Starke advised me not to come. In fact, I’m quite surprised to see her here.”

  The laird glanced from Claire to Faith. “Neither of you came in anticipation of marriage?”

  “If I had,” Claire scoffed, “I would certainly have chosen someone other than one involved in the Devil’s foul business.”

  “The Devil’s foul business?” The laird leaned back in his chair with a baffled expression. “Have we not already settled the issue of white slavery?”

  “Not that,” Claire said, annoyed. “The other. The distillery.”

  His eyebrows shot to his hairline, while a smile tugged at his lips. “You consider the distillery the Devil’s business?”

  “I do,” Claire stated clearly, her earlier embarrassment forgotten. This was a topic she knew well. Her convictions were unshakeable. “The manufacture of spirits serves no purpose other than to rob women and children of a decent life as their husbands drink away their savings.” She narrowed her eyes. “The Devil’s drink and poverty link.”

  Oh! That was a good one. She’d have to remember it later to write in her journal.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the laird leaned forward, addressing her as one might a child. “Perhaps that is true in London, but here the manufacture of whisky is an art.” He lifted a glass that she suspected contained the very liquid they discussed. “We call it uisge beatha, the water of life.”

  “We call it an abomination,” Claire replied, her fists tightly clenched in her lap.

  Macpherson took a sip from his glass, then studied her a moment. A thin smile pulled at his lips. “You’re one of those arrogant temperance fanatics.”

  Claire’s head lifted. “I’m a proud member of Women for a Sober Society.”

  Macpherson muttered something indecipherable, but Faith’s eyes widened and her fingers covered her mouth. Claire set her shoulders back, ready to do battle for her beliefs.

  “Enough of this,” Faith said. “Now that we know why we’re all here, perhaps we can set aside our differing opinions and enjoy this bountiful meal.”

  “Excellent suggestion.” The matron beamed at Faith. “I asked Cailleach to prepare traditional Scottish fare for us this evening. Let us agree to cease this talk of brothels, misunderstandings, and abominations and enjoy this . . .” She glanced at the wizened old woman who was ladling a thick brown meat pudding onto her plate. “Cailleach,” she asked with suspicion, “what exactly is this?”

  “A traditional meal, just as you requested, my lady,” the woman replied with a twinkle in her eye. “A sheep’s liver, heart, and tongue, diced, seasoned, and boiled in a casing. We call it—”

  “Haggis,” Macpherson supplied.

  “In a whisky sauce,” Cailleach finished. The shared grin between the two spoke of a bond that excluded the matron.

  Lady Macpherson gave James a wry glance. “Were there no traditional salmon alive for the taking?” Both Miss Townsend and Lady Macpherson set their forks aside. “Cameron,” Lady Macpherson continued, “I believe I’ll require a wee dram, if you will.”

  He directed his smug smile toward Claire. “With pleasure.”

  ***

  Damn his mother for her ridiculous game of inviting strangers in the pursuit of matrimony. Damn the personal ad
that delivered an English mouse and an English rose to his doorstep. And damn, damn, damn the misunderstanding that brought the spirited teetotaler to his table. The last thing he needed was a rabble-rouser stirring up Beckmore with a bunch of temperance nonsense, even if the rabble-rouser came in such an appealing package. He hadn’t missed her shiver when he’d whispered in her ear. What would she do if he gently drew his knuckle down the slope of her defiant nose? Or stole the words from those slogan-spouting lips? She was a challenge, that one. And he never failed to appreciate a good challenge.

  The rest of the meal continued with inconsequential discussion among the women. Cameron ignored their banter, focusing instead on the spirited Miss Starke, who didn’t participate in their conversation. Apparently she hadn’t strong opinions on fashion, food, or falderal. In spite of their wide differences, it seemed they had that in common. He gazed down the table at her, noting that after she’d carefully scraped off the whisky sauce, she attacked the haggis with a sort of gusto that the other ladies lacked. They merely pushed the food about their plates. Saplings, they were, and not suited for the Highlands’ climate. But Miss Starke—she stood apart.

  He respected that she held strong opinions, even if they were at odds with his own. Most of the women who answered his mother’s ads had no opinions other than how to best spend his money. He admired her loyalty, even though her common sense was flawed. Why else would she fly off to Scotland alone and without a chaperone to rescue her comely friend? Her staunch convictions and practical appearance were far superior to those of the weak-spined saplings his mother typically brought from London. Even her friend, the beauty with all her feathers and lace, lacked the appeal of the dripping wet stranger who’d barged into his house unannounced.

  Still, he had no need for a damned English temperance crusader in this part of Scotland. He sipped his whisky and caught her scowl as he did so.

  So she believed he was some evil lecherous lord itching to deflower innocent women, did she? If he were that foul creature, he wondered how she thought her mere presence would change anything. She was lucky that his was a nonthreatening household. The next time she charged off to save her friends, she might not be so lucky.

  She should be taught a lesson. Someone should teach her the sort of danger she faced. His lips curved into a smile. A few well-timed advances and she’d run all the way to the train stop, pulling her lady friends behind her. And if she didn’t? Well, there was reward in that discovery as well.

  “There’s a hotel at the other end of Pitlochry,” he heard his mother say. “You might have noticed it from the train when you arrived. I’m certain my son can arrange transportation.”

  Color drained from Miss Starke’s face while a sort of desperation darkened her deep blue eyes.

  “No,” Cameron interrupted before his mother could continue. “That one”—he tilted his whisky glass in Miss Starke’s direction, then sent a slow, suggestive, and downright wicked smile her way—“that one can stay.”

  Chapter 5

  Gooseflesh lifted on her arms. While she was appreciative of not needing to spend her precious funds for a room, the seductive burr in his voice combined with the alarming intensity of his gaze made her wary. Perhaps she’d not been far wrong in her original appraisal of the situation after all.

  “I’ll have a room made ready,” his mother said hesitantly. She signaled one of the servants, then turned back toward her son. “Cameron, will you spare a word with your mother?” At his nod, she turned to Faith. “Perhaps the ladies would like to return to the parlor so the men might enjoy their whisky and cigars? I shall join you there shortly.”

  It was more command than question. The three of them rose immediately and made their way toward the parlor. The moment they’d entered, Miss Townsend herded them close together.

  “This has been a terrible mistake,” she said in low tones. “I refuse to stay here more than a night. That man is horrible . . . horrible! And his mother . . .”

  “You don’t like his mother?” Faith seemed surprised. “She’s a Londoner herself, you know. She just wants what’s best for her son.”

  “Obviously, she likes you,” Miss Townsend spat. “But she’s barely spoken to me.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine living in a country where sheep are your nearest neighbors. I don’t like the food. I don’t like the laird. I’m leaving tomorrow. My mind is made up.”

  If she was leaving, Claire reasoned, then Faith would be leaving as well. Of course, if Faith was leaving, there was no purpose for Claire to stay. She should be pleased that all three of them would be returning to London tomorrow. After all, she hadn’t really planned to stay longer than a few hours, and she certainly hadn’t packed for more than two days—so why did she feel a sort of nibbling disappointment? Her regret made absolutely no sense, and that irritated her more than she cared to admit.

  “So we’re agreed on this?” Miss Townsend asked. “We’ll ask in the morning that James take us back to the station. I feel safer in his company than that of the laird.” She shivered. “Those eyes. It’s as if he can see straight through you. He’s so big. I’d be afraid every moment I was with him that he’d crush me unintentionally.”

  Claire was tempted to laugh. The quiet ghillie had none of the laird’s magnetism and authority. If it weren’t for the laird’s fascination with alcoholic spirits, she might have even considered responding to that ad herself, now that she had met the laird. But he was the enemy; she must not drop sight of that. She must be vigilant against thinking of him as anything more than the Devil’s servant, destroying lives with his demon brew.

  “If that’s your choice. If that’s what you want to do, then that’s what we’ll do,” Faith said. “I’m only a traveling companion, not a contender for the laird’s hand.”

  “Nor am I,” Claire added, but neither of the others seemed to notice.

  “Then I suggest we pack.” Miss Townsend crossed the main hall toward the stairs. “I’m certain Lady Macpherson will understand.”

  ***

  “Why did you invite that woman to stay?” his mother hissed. “Such a rude thing. Walking uninvited into Ravenswood as if it were her own, and certainly not dressed in a respectful fashion. Why, I—”

  “I invited her because she believes we are white slavers and a threat to her friend,” Cameron stated, hoping to end his mother’s complaint. “A reasonable assumption, I might add, given those silly personal ads. Now that Miss Starke has mentioned it, I’m surprised others haven’t formed similar conclusions.”

  “Those personal ads aren’t so silly if you consider Miss Huddleston,” his mother replied, her feathers clearly ruffled.

  “Huddleston? Which one was Miss Huddleston?” He hadn’t paid much attention to their names—only to the firebrand. He smiled. Her last name should be Sparke, not Starke.

  “Good Lord, Cameron,” James scowled. “She was sitting right next to you. The blonde. The beauty.”

  “The bonny companion?” Cameron asked.

  “That companion would make a very good hostess,” Lady Macpherson insisted. “She may not have come in response to my ad, but you shouldn’t overlook her for that purpose. She is one to consider.”

  Cameron scowled. “I’m not overlooking anyone, nor am I searching for a wife.” His face twisted with annoyance. “I have more serious matters to attend to than to find a hostess.” Good Lord, if his father hadn’t acquiesced to the building of this monstrous orifice to please his mother, maybe they wouldn’t be so deeply mired in debt. He had already released most of the household servants just to trim expenses. The last thing he needed was a feminine conspiracy of parties and balls—all of which would cost even more money.

  “Just consider it, Cameron. That’s all I ask.” His mother straightened. “If you’re going to follow your father into politics, then you’re going to need a capable—”

  “I’m not Adam, Mother,
” he reminded her quietly. “He held that dream, not I.” Adam should never have died in that fire. Adam should be the laird entertaining thoughts of suitable wives. Adam would certainly hold that position with more aplomb and competence than Cameron. All of this should be Adam’s.

  “But it could be your dream, if you’d just accept—”

  A scream upstairs interrupted her, followed by a thumping on the stairs and the persistent barking of the dog. The three of them rushed out of the dining room and discovered the blonde, his mother’s favorite, crumpled on the floor at the base of the stairs. Peat barked frantically at the front door.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” a maid wailed at the top of the steps. “I dinna know the hound was in there. I opened the door to make up the room as you said, and he burst out like the verra Devil.”

  Cameron rushed to the injured woman to assess the extent of her injuries. She was conscious. At least she didn’t break her neck from the fall.

  “My ankle,” she moaned. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “When I fell . . .”

  “Which?” Cameron asked, then waited for her permission to examine it. “It’s swelling rapidly.” He delicately probed the area and looked up to the hovering James. “I don’t think it’s broken, but a doctor should examine her to be certain.”

  “I’ll get him,” James said, already turning to leave.

  “Oh, you poor girl,” Lady Macpherson consoled.

  “We were just going upstairs to pack when that horse”—the mousy visitor stopped her tirade to sneer at Peat, who had become strangely quiet after all the barking—“crashed into Miss Huddleston. Such unruly beasts shouldn’t be allowed in a civilized home.”

  “Pack?” Lady Macpherson inquired. “Why would you need to pack?”

  From the sounds outside, two snarling beasts were still battling over the pelt. Small wonder the scent of prey so close excited the dog.

  “She can’t stay at the bottom of the steps,” Miss Starke pleaded. “Can you move her someplace more comfortable?”