The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “Aye, the more the merrier then.” Miles sloshed whisky into Cameron’s empty glass, then glanced at James’s full one before pouring whisky into his own.

  “I want to talk to you about getting the most profit for your whisky. You’ve worked hard to earn it. You should make the most from your efforts.”

  Cameron narrowed his eyes. “Why would my profits be of concern to you?” At the moment, profits were thin, given the wages for his men and the constant need to repair failing equipment.

  “Your profits affect us all.” Miles swirled his drink, peering at the glass. “I represent the League of Distillers. Do you know of it?”

  “I don’t know much good about it,” Cameron growled. His foggy brain wasn’t producing solid details, but it seemed that name had been connected to talk of extortion by some of the neighboring distilleries.

  “Other Highland distillers have joined the League to get a fair price for their whisky.” He sipped at the glass. “They think you should join as well.”

  He couldn’t miss the broad hint. Aye, this was the group the others had cautioned him about.

  “They do, do they?” He scowled. “Tell them I canna afford the membership fee.”

  “They want to see you successful,” Miles said. “Membership may be costly, but ’tis worth the increased profits when we stand together.”

  “Price fixing.” Cameron shared a glance with James. The details were starting to emerge. He glared at Miles. “I charge a fair price and not a shilling more. My neighbors know this.”

  The man nodded. “They worry that you’ll continue to charge that price even if they increase theirs.”

  The silence following his statement said more than words. Raising the prices on whisky to gain a higher profit was exactly what they planned to do. The scheme only worked if everyone agreed. Otherwise, the market would shift to the one with the lowest price.

  “We certainly wouldn’t advocate doing anything illegal,” Miles said, smiling thinly; yet it was clear that was exactly what he was suggesting.

  Cameron stood. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ve no need of this league.” Peat stood as well, drawing the stranger’s eye. Cameron extended his hand. “Good evening to you.”

  The accommodating stranger became a sinister snake peering through Miles’s eyes. “Take my card, in case you reconsider.”

  “I won’t,” Cameron insisted.

  “But you might.” Miles placed the thin piece of cardboard on the table between them, then recovered his bottle. “Your neighbors did. So will you.” He touched his hat, nodded to James, and left.

  Cameron waited, not wanting to share the road with that vermin. Yes, he’d heard of the League of Distillers. They’d already left their mark on the Speyside distilleries, from what he’d heard. The ones that chose not to go along with their schemes developed all sorts of mysterious difficulties. The others became puppets to the League. The owners eventually sold their family distilleries to avoid the League’s demands.

  “He means trouble, Cameron,” James said.

  “No fancy English lugs are going to bully me,” Cameron replied with conviction. “I’ll put extra men on the payroll for security.” He couldn’t really afford that, but the alternative was equally expensive.

  “You mean to fight?” James asked.

  Cameron set his back teeth. He’d worked too hard and lost too much not to realize his dream of almost a decade. He took a deep breath, feeling the effects of the whisky subside. “I mean to win.”

  Chapter 9

  “He just left without any sort of explanation?” Faith asked, propped up in the bed with the new plaid wrapped about her. “That seems impossibly rude.”

  Claire felt her lips twitch. Impossibly rude seemed an appropriate description of the laird.

  She’d wanted to speak with Faith about the exchange in the turret room, but hadn’t a chance yesterday, as Lady Macpherson had monopolized Faith’s time. When Faith had fallen asleep before dinner, Claire hadn’t the heart to disturb her. So she was pleased to discover Faith awake early this morning.

  “He wasn’t present for the evening meal. Only Lady Macpherson and I sat at table.” A shiver slipped down her spine at the memory. The conversation had been so minimal, Claire had been tempted to eat in the kitchen with the Scottish cook. But, of course, that wouldn’t be proper.

  “Wasn’t James in attendance?” At Claire’s quizzical expression, Faith added, “The ghillie?”

  Claire shook her head. “I asked about him, and Lady Macpherson inferred it was a rare occasion that he joined the family for meals. She said he likes to be alone in his gamekeeper cottage somewhere.”

  “Oh.” Faith’s shoulders dropped. “I thought he might live here.”

  Claire glanced about her. The residence was large enough to house a small village, but it felt empty and cold and almost hostile inside. She couldn’t blame the ghillie for staying someplace else.

  “I might have overheard the cook saying the laird went to that tavern,” Claire said. “You know, the one with the sign of a rooster in front of a sunrise?” She’d seen all manner of tavern names on Oxford Street, but this name she couldn’t think about, much less repeat, without her cheeks warming in response. She recalled her reaction when the lad had driven past it on the way to Ravenswood. At the time she couldn’t comment for fear of offending his young ears.

  “The Rising Cock?” Faith asked, the image of sweet innocence.

  Claire nodded and quickly gazed out the window to hide her embarrassment at the double entendre. She’d heard Faith and Edwina make jokes about this male phenomenon, but Claire had no firsthand experience. Her embarrassment was spurred more by wanton curiosity than saintly virtue. But she couldn’t explain that to Faith, so she diverted her attention outside.

  “Last night when I noted the laird’s absence, Lady Macpherson said she thought my purpose was to deter patrons from taverns, not drive men to them.”

  Laughter burst from behind her. She turned to glare at Faith before returning to her perusal of the scenery.

  The fog and rain of the previous two days had obscured much of the scenery outside their windows, but today the sun scattered diamonds across the dark blue water of Loch Rannoch. A thin mist curled around the surrounding hills, shrouding them in mystery. After two dreich days, she had no idea that so much magical beauty beckoned right outside the window.

  “I’m sorry, Claire, but you must admit she has a point. Lady Macpherson can be so funny.”

  Claire didn’t think she was funny at all.

  “Perhaps while we’re under the laird’s roof, you should resist the urge to be so controversial,” Faith added cautiously.

  Claire rounded toward the bed. “You think I should change the basic tenets of what I believe based on where I rest my head?”

  “No . . . I wouldn’t suggest that,” Faith said carefully. “I just think that as long as we’re guests here—”

  “Uninvited guests.” Claire hadn’t forgotten that the laird’s mother had wanted her to stay elsewhere. If it hadn’t been obvious on the evening of her arrival, the lack of conversation last night made it even more evident. The snub still stung.

  “Even more so,” Faith said gently, as if she realized she was treading on uneven ground. “We have a guest’s obligation to abide by the wishes of the host.” She adjusted the tartan wrapped around her. “Quite frankly, your observation that ‘the Devil’s drink and poverty link’ on the very night of your arrival did not sit well with Lady Macpherson.”

  Claire smiled, then sat at the bottom end of Faith’s bed. “I thought that was a particularly good one. I’m collecting temperance slogans, you see, to win a prize purse from the Sober Society. My competition is that mean Lucy Ledbetter, who—”

  “That’s all well and good,” Faith interrupted. “But perhaps, while we’re here, you might con
sider holding your tongue when tempted to imply Lady Macpherson’s son is the Devil’s disciple.”

  “You wouldn’t think that claim was so ridiculous if you’d seen his sudden shift to anger yesterday,” Claire replied. “Before that point, he was . . .”

  Magical. The word sat on the edge of her tongue, but she didn’t speak it. Instead, her fingers reached up and stroked the spot on her neck where he had untied the knot—the spot that still tingled from the soft caress of his fingers. There had even been a moment yesterday when she had thought he might kiss her. When he’d paused and looked at her lips with intensity.

  And she had wanted that kiss. The yearning crept up her neck with a slow burn. What would it have felt like to have a man’s lips pressed tenderly upon her own? She had once thought to ask Edwina before she married that charmer Ashton Trewelyn, but embarrassment at her curiosity had held her back.

  “He was what?” Faith asked, bringing her back to the conversation.

  “Accommodating,” Claire answered quickly, then returned to her stance at the window. “He was accommodating.”

  Yet everything in the turret room had shifted in that one instant, and her only chance to experience the sort of things that pretty girls, flirtatious girls, loved girls took for granted vanished in the swirling dust motes. The hollow spot in her heart felt even more so.

  “What do you see out there that you study so?”

  Claire sighed and shook her head, chasing away the memories of her near-kiss. That memory had already stolen her restful sleep last night. She needed to pack those memories away like those marbles in the trunk before they deterred her purpose.

  “Nothing in particular. The loch just looks so peaceful, so inviting.” She inhaled deeply and glanced back to Faith. “The air here is so clear and clean, one can see for miles. It’s so unlike London. Have you noticed?”

  “I haven’t had occasion to notice much of anything beyond this bedroom.”

  It was the closest thing to a complaint Claire had ever heard from her friend.

  “James brought a bouquet of wildflowers earlier.” Faith nodded to a vase of colorful flowers placed beneath a photograph. Claire stepped over to the bouquet.

  “He said he thought I might enjoy the color.”

  Claire sniffed at the flowers, then examined the photograph hanging above them. Strange that she hadn’t noticed it before. The print captured a view of the loch and the surrounding hills beyond the bedroom window, almost as if someone had set a camera in this very spot. Now that she thought of it, she’d found a camera in the turret room. Having sold her father’s photographic equipment for living expenses, she was well aware of the camera’s value. Yet it had been stored away like a forgotten memory, just like the hats, the clothes . . . and the sepia photograph tucked away where few would see it.

  “Has Lady Macpherson ever mentioned anything about a second son?” Claire asked tentatively.

  “A second son? Do you believe the laird has a younger brother?” Faith fussed with the tartan. “I’m afraid all this wool is a little overbearing, but Lady Macpherson was so insistent that I wear it I’m hesitant not to.”

  “I’ll open the window.” Claire turned to the task.

  “That would be lovely.” Faith smiled in gratitude. “I don’t recall any mention of a second son. It would be a breach of etiquette for me to ask something so personal. What if he were in prison or in disgrace?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to breach etiquette,” Claire said sarcastically while she pulled upward on a pane that must not have been moved in years.

  “You’ve never been concerned about etiquette before.” Faith laughed. “Indeed, I’m surprised you let the laird leave without a verbal lashing. I recall you charging down a hallway at the Trewelyn residence with a policeman chasing behind. All because you thought—”

  Movement outside snagged Claire’s attention, yanking her away from Faith’s chatter about Claire’s past mistakes. Macpherson! He strode down a walkway toward the loch, then paused by a large stone planter.

  “I truly thought you were going to be tossed in the gaol when you opened that closed library door. Do you remember Ashton’s face? Drained of color, he was,” Faith continued. “You’ve always been fearless.”

  Fearless? Claire almost laughed. She was only brave if one of her Rake Patrol sisters was in danger. As for herself, she moved through life often paralyzed with fear. Just as she had been in the turret room yesterday. Just as she was now.

  “That’s him,” she said softly, not even realizing she’d spoken. Peat trotted down the walk toward one whose broad shoulders cut a dark silhouette against the glittering water.

  “The laird?” Faith’s voice dropped to cold tones. “If I could walk, I’d go down and tell him he is ill-mannered for treating you the way he did. I’d ask him what you’re to do for clothing if he won’t allow you to borrow from a chest of discards. I’d tell him—”

  “Excuse me.” Claire dashed from the bedroom. Not certain exactly what she was doing, she hurried down the stairs, feeling the need to talk to him. If what she suspected was true, she thought to apologize. Once she reached the door that opened to the lawn and loch, she paused to smooth her skirts and fortify herself with a deep breath.

  “I wouldna go out just yet, miss.”

  Claire glanced over her shoulder at the strange little cook with the odd-sounding name.

  “He has his habits, he does.”

  Habits! Is that what they called drinking up here? “A wee dram, more like it,” she murmured to herself. She turned to the cook. “A drink in the morning leads to friends mourning.”

  The cook looked at her as if she were daft.

  “It works better on paper,” she explained, and then, with a surge of bravado, she opened the door, but to an empty walkway.

  He was gone! The ground couldn’t have swallowed him whole, could it? How was it she’d described Scotland? Magical? Mysterious? Could one of those rumored loch monsters have dragged him to the bottom? She’d never given such things credence before. Cautiously, she approached the planter that marked the end of the pathway where she had last seen him.

  Good Lord in Heaven!

  Like a Viking lord of days of old, he stood with his back toward her on a narrow sandy strip. Naked from the waist up, he was magnificent, all glorious muscle and mass. Her eyes riveted to scars on his shoulders and back. That evidence of struggle and pain gripped her heart and squeezed it tightly. She fought her instinct to offer comfort, realizing that she was intruding where she had no right.

  Still, she couldn’t move. Her feet were firmly rooted to the shore, while her knees wavered like jelly beneath her black skirt. She issued her breath slowly so as not to make a sound, letting it curl in wisps of steam in the chill morning air.

  Confusion, desire, sympathy—the needle on her moral compass spun hopelessly. For an instant, she’d forgotten why she’d come to this spot, but then she decided that if she quietly retreated, he’d not know of her intrusion.

  Holding her breath, she slowly turned to silently retrace her steps to the kitchen.

  Then Peat barked a hearty welcome.

  Chapter 10

  The cold, deep water of the loch beckoned with the promise of scattering his lingering mental cobwebs. He needed his wits about him with marriage-minded females in his residence and conniving paid troublemakers at his distillery. Even Cailleach’s foul remedy for “whisky head” hadn’t calmed the fierce pounding at his temples. His rumpled linen shirt on the ground by his feet, Cameron reached to undo the kilt that rode low on his hips, but Peat’s bark gave him pause.

  Bollocks! He glanced to the side, but couldn’t see the intruder. Yet a faint scent of vanilla floated on the breeze, and with it the futility of a refreshing dip in the loch.

  “Is that you, English?” he asked, though he knew the answer. No one managed to b
edevil him at every turn as that intemperate temperance lass did.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, your . . . lairdship. But there’re . . . things . . . I need to speak . . .”

  His brow furled. What was wrong with the woman? If she had waited just a few minutes more, he could well understand her distress. A smile formed about his lips. The sight of a Scotsman as God had made him would surely steal the words from a virgin lass.

  The breeze flitting across his shoulders set a familiar tingling in his mottled skin. Christ! It was pity in her voice, not admiration. He set his jaw. Those scars should scare her away as nothing else could. He imagined he looked every inch the monster she already considered him to be. Run, lassie, he silently challenged. Turn away in disgust like all the others before you. But he heard no retreating footsteps.

  “Is this need of yours to speak no something that can wait?” he called over his shoulder.

  When she didn’t immediately respond, he turned to see her standing stiff and still as if her boots had sunk into the soil and taken root. By St. Andrew’s arse, the woman must be part Scot.

  Yet it wasn’t disgust painted on her face. It was . . . something else, something that other parts of his body seemed to recognize. Suddenly embarrassed by his behavior, both his current attempt to shock her and yesterday’s unexplained rage, he reached for the rumpled shirt by his feet and tugged it over his head to settle on his shoulders.

  She nodded toward Peat, who sat in the prow of a rowboat tied to a short pier.

  “Were you planning to row out on the loch?” she asked. “I could keep you company.”

  Aye, but it was her company he was avoiding. After insulting the lass with his abrupt departure yesterday, he’d hoped to have his head cleared by virtue of an invigorating swim before he faced her again. Obviously, that was not to be. But his muscles still ached for activity. A row might work as well as a swim.