The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “And Macpherson knows of this new plan?” Faith asked skeptically.

  “He gave me permission to use the camera, if that’s your worry.” She suspected it wasn’t, but Faith had little interest in the Temperance Committee and their work. She didn’t need to be involved in the details. “But before I can do anything, I’ll need to find a way to get the necessary supplies.”

  “What’s that marking on the side?” Faith asked.

  “Where?” Claire turned the camera to the side Faith indicated. Dust and dirt had settled into recessed areas rendering bold two carved initials: A.M.

  The brother. This was his camera. She slid her fingers over the initials and silently swore to handle the ingenious box with respect for and deference to the previous owner.

  “He had a brother who died some years ago,” she said softly. “The camera belonged to him.”

  “I thought you were gone a long time,” Faith said with self-satisfaction. “You must not have been arguing the entire time if the laird allowed you use of his brother’s camera.”

  “He left to deal with some problem at the distillery, so I explored a bit in the turret room. Otherwise I would have returned much earlier,” Claire said. It wasn’t the entire truth, but she hoped it would satisfy Faith’s curiosity.

  Learning about his past and the loss of his brother had changed their relationship ever so slightly. She couldn’t think of him as quite the unfeeling monster she had imagined him to be when she first arrived. But she wasn’t ready to admit as much to Faith.

  “I have some news,” Faith said. “While you were out accosting the laird about his behavior, Lady Macpherson came to speak with me.”

  Claire lowered her gaze, afraid that Faith might see that what had transpired between herself and the laird wasn’t the confrontation she’d imagined.

  “We’re to be invited to a party.”

  “A party?” Claire reared back. “How can that be? We don’t know anyone here.” She glanced at her dress. “I haven’t any appropriate clothes—”

  “Not to worry,” Faith said, crooking her finger to lure Claire closer. “The party won’t be for several weeks. There should be plenty of time to modify some of those gowns you found into something suitable. Lady Macpherson wants her son to sell Ravenbeck—”

  “Ravenbeck?” Claire asked.

  “That’s the name of the distillery,” Faith explained. “She wants him to follow his father’s footsteps into politics. So she’s invited one of Scotland’s most influential politicians for a visit. She’ll host a party in his honor and has plans to have him speak to the laird about the benefits of a political career.”

  “Does Macpherson know of this plan?” Claire asked, doubting Cameron could be swayed to go into politics. He didn’t seem to care about the opinions of others . . . or maybe it was just her opinion that he didn’t care about.

  “No, and we’re not to tell him,” Faith cautioned. “Lady Macpherson insisted. I guess she wants to tell him herself when the time is right.” She frowned at Claire. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “To attend a party?” Never the social butterfly, she’d rather spend the evening exploring that library she’d found than mingling with strangers.

  “No, silly, to talk to one of Scotland’s politicians. Won’t the Sober Society Committee be impressed?”

  Claire mulled over the possibilities. A temperance discussion with a politician would only be impressive if she could persuade him to see her point of view. She felt more comfortable achieving success with her photographic prints, but then, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get the supplies she needed to make those work.

  Of course, there was that other difficulty. “Will we still be here for this party? I thought we were to return home as soon as you could travel safely.”

  “I’m not certain when that will be,” Faith confessed. “But it doesn’t matter, as we’ve been invited to stay. I’ve written my parents to let them know that we’ve been detained.” She smiled. “I told them that you were here with me, so they know nothing untoward could possibly happen.”

  Claire smiled halfheartedly. Yes, all could be safely assured that nothing would ever happen while she was around. No one would likely attempt to seduce the fair Faith into bad behavior if the ugly crow were at her side. She studied her hands in her lap.

  “I’ll let Sarah know that we’ve been detained,” Claire said. “Otherwise, she’ll be worried.” With both her parents gone and Edwina off on her honeymoon, Claire regarded Sarah and Faith as her family.

  “Why don’t you bring some of those old gowns down here so we can plot out a dress for you?” Faith said. “I need something besides books to keep me occupied, and I’m anxious to see how you look in something other than black and white. Let’s see what we can do.”

  ***

  Hamish led Cameron to the malt house, where shipments of barley were first steeped in water to enhance germination, and then spread on the malting floor, where the seed starch would turn into sugar for the developing shoot. Normally, the floor was well populated with maltmen holding wooden shovels, called shiels, who regularly turned the light brown grains to maintain even germination and reduce the buildup of heat. However, today only one man toiled on the floor—the maltster—the man responsible for the malting operation.

  Cameron rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a shiel from the wall, and began turning the swollen seeds, releasing an agreeable scent of musk and growth. “What happened? Where is everyone?”

  “No time to find out,” the maltster answered. “If we don’t turn the piece, we could lose the mash. I sent Hamish to bring me some help. Is it you, then?”

  “For now.” He glanced to Hamish. “Go find young Ian and bring him from the yard. I think I saw him when we passed through. Guess we’ll have to make a maltman out of him. See if you can grab some men from the warehouse. The barrels will wait; the malting won’t.” He hesitated a moment. “There are men in the warehouse, aren’t there?”

  “Some,” Hamish grumbled. “Not as many as we’d like.”

  Cameron had been afraid of this. Something was bound to come from his refusal to join that price-setting league, but he was surprised that they had been able to move this quickly. He’d only said no last night.

  “Angered someone with deep pockets, did ya, lad?” the much older maltster observed, even as he turned the foot-deep layer of seeds. “I figure it’s that, or the plague is making a resurgence.”

  “Aye, you guessed true,” Cameron replied, looking at the seeds as he turned them. Some had the beginnings of sprouting roots. They’d been on the malt house floor about two days, he guessed. He’d need enough men to work the barley for another one or two weeks on this batch before the seeds could be dried. He glanced down the long length of floor to where the older barley had been thinned to a depth of a few inches. Soon that lot would move to the kilns for drying. “A representative from the League of Distillers paid a call last night while I was sampling the competition.”

  Cameron heard a soft snort behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to the maltster, who had been a maltman in his grandfather’s day. “Has this happened before?”

  “Men coming into the village to pay workers not to work?” The maltster never broke his stride. “It happens. Some men take the money. Some men don’t. Getting paid for not working wears on a man’s pride. Give them the day. They’ll be back.”

  They’d better, Cameron thought as he made his way down the line. Stoop-lift-turn, stoop-lift-turn. Making whisky was not an overly complicated process, but it did require men and a delicate sense of timing to produce the volume necessary to keep Ravenbeck open. He’d make note of the men who came back to work and reward them and the ones here today somehow for their loyalty.

  A rush of noise outside the malt house suggested Hamish had found others to work the malt floor. In the last moments of qui
et before the long hall would erupt with the scraping of many shiels and the voices of men working the rows, the older, more experienced man glanced up at him. “You know, lad, it’s not the unplanned holiday that should be worrying. It’s what they’ll try next that will haunt your night’s rest.”

  The men arrived and took positions with their wooden shovels about the hall, as directed by the maltster. Cameron relinquished his shiel to another so he could talk with Hamish about finding men to guard Ravenbeck at night. Guards. The necessity made him wince. From the stories he’d heard from the other small distilleries, he needed to prepare for a long, hard siege.

  Chapter 13

  Exhausted, Cameron finally headed back to Ravenswood, oblivious to the passing pastoral landscape. After reassigning the workers, he’d spent a good portion of the day in Beckmore trying to convince the absent workers to return the next day. He’d explained again and again that without workers, Ravenbeck would close. Didn’t they remember the difficult years when the distillery doors were barred due to high taxes? Employment became scarce, life became more grim. While he and Adam had only been boys at the time, he hadn’t forgotten the hard expressions on the faces of the Beckmore men.

  He wasn’t certain his words had made a difference. Memories weren’t the best defense against easy money. At least the description of the stranger who paid his workers was consistent— a thin man maybe four inches shorter than the laird, with dark hair beneath a straw boater. Cameron’s fist clenched. The moment that stranger crossed his path, he would not likely set foot in Beckmore again.

  The day was still bright, but the sun would be setting soon. Having done all he could, Cameron rode back to Ravenswood looking forward to a glass of whisky and a warm bowl of Cailleach’s stew . . . and then he saw the gig.

  Due to the curve in the road and the low-hanging foliage, he could only see a part of the wheels and a bit of the carriage’s body, but that was enough. That the gig was secured near a narrow uphill path that led to a hermit’s cave was significant.

  Built into the landscape as a folly, Ossian’s Cave had been used for lover’s trysts from time to time, but it could just as easily be used by a sniveling snake out to harm Ravenbeck. Cameron tied Buaidh’s reins to a drooping branch a distance from the gig, then silently approached the cave from a different path.

  Just as he’d hoped, a slim man stood about six feet from the mouth of the cave, his back toward Cameron. While he couldn’t see the man’s face, he couldn’t miss the straw boater. Anticipation of a good brawl sent renewed strength to his tired muscles. Before he chased the crook into the borderlands, he’d make him admit the League of Distillers was behind the easy money payments. Maybe he could even get the bastard to tell of the League’s future plans for business disruption.

  Sensing the moment was right, Cameron ran at a slant, tackling the stranger from the side and letting his superior weight pin him to the ground. The whoosh of the stranger’s breath confirmed Cameron’s strategic success.

  However, the subtle scent of vanilla lacing that breath suggested this wasn’t the man he sought. Sudden awareness of the soft feminine body struggling beneath him drove it home.

  Immediately, he shifted his weight to straddle the hips of his victim, but he continued to hold her wrists immobile on either side of her head. The straw hat had been knocked astray, freeing strands of glossy black hair about her face. Even though his weight no longer crushed her chest, she struggled to draw deep draughts of air into her lungs.

  “Steady now,” he said, undeniably aware of her chest lifting towards his. “The breath will come. Slow and easy.” Lord, he was holding his own breath waiting for her to catch her own. He noted the moment her wide blue eyes, full of shock and panic, slowly narrowed into her more familiar expression of stubborn defiance. Relieved, he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his lips. Thank the heavens! She was going to be all right.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped with a thrash of her head. “Release me.”

  He had to ask himself the same question, as Miss Starke obviously wasn’t the villain he’d thought, yet he continued to hold her while trying to ignore the delightful effect of her squirming beneath his breeding parts.

  “Get off of me, you drunken oaf.” She tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hands.

  He laughed. She reminded him of a thistle, a beauty protected by prickly thorns. A man would have to tread carefully about her, but he was beginning to suspect the prize might be well worth the trouble.

  “I haven’t had so much as a dram,” he said. “If I am drunk, it is on your beauty.”

  It was the sort of silly thing he would have said years ago, in easier times. Normally, the lass would be flattered by his compliment and be more amenable to a stolen kiss.

  Not Miss Starke. She stilled. Her lower lip trembled, so slightly that he wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t so close. What was meant as a compliment obviously hadn’t been received as such. He released her wrists, and she promptly scooted from beneath his legs.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she said, pushing herself up to sit. “I know I’m no beauty.”

  “Perhaps no as bonny as your friend, Miss Huddleston.” He smiled, enjoying her close proximity. “But there’s no denying—”

  She shoved his chest hard, then struggled to her feet. His lips tightened. Stubborn and prickly—a true thistle.

  “My apologies,” he said still kneeling on the ground. “I mistook you for someone else; a troublemaker new to these parts.”

  She stood apart from him, swatting at the leaves and moss on her clothes. His gaze flitted over her trim hips and long legs. “I see it didn’t take long for you to make use of my brother’s trousers.”

  He avoided her eyes, knowing that icy daggers would be shooting from their lovely blue depths. Instead he leaned over to retrieve her straw hat. As he stood to offer it to her, he saw the wooden tripod and camera that her body had earlier shielded from his view.

  ***

  Claire raked her fingers through her hair to disentangle the leaves and twigs that had found lodging in it. She tried to reassemble the wayward mass on top of her head, but it was hopeless. Too many hairpins had taken flight with her hat. She grabbed the boater from his outstretched hand, then jabbed it on her head, trying to trap some of her hair.

  “I thought I was alone. I wasn’t expecting anyone to sneak up on me. Especially the very man who insisted I leave him in peace.”

  She must truly look the laughingstock, but so help her, if he were to laugh at her again, she’d . . . brain him with a rock. There were certainly enough about. She turned her back toward him so he couldn’t see her swipe at her eyes. His words, even spoken in jest, cut deep. Not bonny indeed.

  When she turned back, he was studying the camera. Disbelief settled on his face.

  “You said I could use it,” she protested.

  “I hadn’t realized you meant to try it so soon.” He ran his finger along the extended bellows. “Adam loved this camera.”

  His brother. Had she unwittingly stirred up painful memories again? She took a calming breath. She should pack the camera up before she did further damage.

  “Does it work?” he asked.

  “I won’t really know until I expose a plate for a negative.” She covered the lens with the cap, then slid the lens box back along the rails to nestle inside the wooden housing. “I haven’t the chemicals for that.”

  He cocked his head. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Checking the focusing lengths, testing the slide of the bellows, getting the feel of it. Every camera is a bit different. I wanted to see how easily this one set up and whether I could manage it alone.”

  He stood, arms crossed, watching as she folded the black cloth that blocked the sun from the back of the camera. He probably didn’t believe she knew what she was about. Many men didn’t.

  �
�You could have tested the camera without leaving Ravenswood.”

  “Yes, but not with privacy.” She didn’t want to complain that her presence wasn’t particularly wanted at the castle. She was, after all, an uninvited guest. Instead, she looked at the sky. “The light is magical here, isn’t it? I wanted to see how images looked through the lens in this light.” She sighed, then looked back toward him. “It’s a shame the negatives won’t capture the rich colors.”

  A strange smile tilted his lips. “How did you know to find this place?”

  “I overheard Cailleach. She mentioned something about preferring to live in ‘that hermit’s cave.’” She chose her words carefully. What Cailleach actually had said was a retort to Lady Macpherson’s plans for that fancy dinner. Faith had said it was to be a secret, though. She didn’t need to give Lady Macpherson yet another reason to hate her. “James provided directions . . . and a means to haul the camera equipment.” She was about to lift the tripod, but Cameron stopped her.

  “Better let me take that. The way down is more difficult than the climb.” Together they started the short descent to the road, she with the camera, he with the rest. “So you intend to take photographs of the landscape?”

  “Without the proper chemicals and paper, I won’t be able to make prints of anything.” She paused, not wishing to explain that she had sold her father’s equipment because she needed the money. Due to the expense of supplies, photography as a pastime was reserved for the wealthy—something she was not. “Looking through the lens of a camera, though, makes one see the world a little differently. If nothing else, it offers an incentive to explore.”

  He stopped his descent to look at her. “Has it been that difficult? Is my mother making it unbearable?”

  When she didn’t respond, he shook his head, then laughed deep in his throat. “I have no doubt that Cailleach is ready to move here. She and my mother have never seen eye to eye. But as my mother is rarely in Scotland—”