The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “Cailleach said something similar.” In truth, Claire was more comfortable talking with Cailleach, perhaps because they both seemed out of tune with Lady Macpherson. “But how can that be? Her family is here. Your beautiful home is here. She’s placed all those ads inviting women here.”

  “My mother prefers to live in London. She always has. My father built Ravenswood with all possible modern amenities to encourage her to stay. But even that stone monstrosity didna change her mind. She missed her parties and constant entertainments. Beckmore couldna provide those for her.”

  “Your father must have loved her a great deal if he built a castle for her.” Claire couldn’t imagine anyone building such a structure for her.

  Once they reached the road, the laird put the camera in the back of her gig and tied his massive horse to trot alongside. Then he helped Claire up to the seat before he claimed the place next to her and snapped the reins. They jolted forward.

  “If it weren’t for the League of Distillers, I’d—” He thought for a moment, then looked sharply at her. “If I provide the necessary materials, would you show me how to use the camera? I’d like to make some exposures at the distillery.”

  “I could take the photographs for you.” She tried to hide her eagerness to do just that. Distillery photographs would be excellent documentation for her project, especially if they showed unhealthy processes.

  He looked at her askance. “I didn’t think you approved of Ravenbeck. How do I know you wouldn’t take a hatchet to the stills like that American rabble-rouser?”

  “You mean Carrie Nation. Yes, I’ve heard she has been known to destroy taverns in her protests against strong drink. I . . . I wouldn’t do anything like that.” She glanced sideways at him. “Mrs. Nation is coming to London, you know. She’s speaking at a big temperance rally there.” Claire neglected to add that she hoped to be the one to introduce her.

  “As long as they keep her in London and away from here,” he grumbled.

  “Taking the photographs would be my way to thank you for allowing me in your home,” she improvised. She shifted uncomfortably. Even though her intent was not to actually destroy the distillery, her purpose wasn’t as innocent as she was trying to make it seem. “What do you plan to do with the photographs?”

  “I believe I can use them for . . . advertisements.”

  It wasn’t true. She could see that he had another purpose in mind, but it didn’t matter. He’d be providing her with the materials necessary to return to the Sober Society with a composition worthy of the prize.

  She agreed enthusiastically to his plan.

  “Excellent. Make up a list of all that you need and I’ll send James to secure your supplies.”

  “I’ll need a private room as well. Something with very limited light would be best.” He turned to her with raised eyebrows. “I’ll need to develop the prints,” she explained. “Light reacts with the chemicals on the paper. There should be no light interference until the chemicals are washed off after the print has formed.” She tried to temper her smile, but she couldn’t believe her good fortune.

  “You truly know what you’re about, don’t you?”

  She heard a bit of awe in his voice, and it spread through her veins like warm honey. Awe and admiration had been rare gifts in her life, and given only by the ladies of the Rake Patrol. This was a rather new experience. One she quite liked.

  “But, English?” he said, with a wry glance her way. “No more of those ridiculous slogans.”

  “Because you recognize the truth in the temperance mission,” she said, triumphantly.

  If his heated glare had a physical component, she would have been knocked clear off the seat and into the stream that ran parallel to the road. He uttered words in a language she couldn’t understand, but she assumed they were some sort of blasphemy.

  “No more slogans,” she acquiesced.

  It was just as well. Who needed slogans? Once her scandalous photographs of sin and squalor were published, she imagined the public outcry could well close Ravenbeck and other distilleries like it.

  Chapter 14

  “What is it this time?” Cameron looked up as Hamish entered his office, closing the door behind him.

  “Three worms, and all have holes in them,” Hamish said with a scowl.

  It wasn’t good news. The evaporate rising from cooking mash in the stills contained the alcohol that eventually became whisky. The curvy tube, called the worm for its shape, was attached to the top of each enclosed copper still to capture the steamy evaporate and allow it to cool back to liquid. As insignificant as the narrow tubing might appear, the worm played a critical role in the distilling process. The loss of three worms could be grave. “You’ve patched them?”

  “Aye, but you know what this means. Three worms. It’s no accident.”

  “Sabotage,” Cameron said grimly. “The League of Distillers is sending another warning.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose no one saw who did it.”

  Hamish shook his head.

  “We’ve already posted guards, Could one of them be in league with—”

  The door to his office swung forward with enough force to scare Peat from his sleep. His mother, more formidable than any saboteur, stood in the doorway.

  She turned toward Hamish with sweetness and charm. “Please forgive me, but I wonder if I could have a word with my son.”

  “This is not the best time, Mother,” Cameron replied irritably. “Perhaps when I’m home—”

  “I won’t take but a minute of your time,” she replied, with a smile difficult to ignore. His mother had been a beauty in her time, and still could manipulate with her looks.

  He glanced up at Hamish, who was struggling to hide a grin. “We’ll talk again later.”

  Once the door had closed behind Hamish, his mother rounded on him.

  “Why haven’t you been paying attention to Miss Huddleston?”

  Lord have mercy. “Is this what you found so important as to interrupt my work?”

  “Your future, and the future of the Macpherson line, is of utmost importance to me. I don’t understand why you don’t feel the same.”

  Cameron sighed. “I understand the importance of producing an heir . . . eventually. But right now I’m besieged with—”

  “You managed to find the time for that Starke woman. You took her out on the loch for a row. She hadn’t even the sense to take a parasol. Her face will be covered with freckles if she doesn’t take precautions . . .”

  Actually, Cameron had noted that she already had a soft sprinkling of faint freckles across her nose. He found them endearing, and much preferred her sun-kissed complexion to that of the pasty girls his mother frequently imported.

  “. . . to say nothing of that tumble in the woods with her yesterday.”

  “Tumble in the woods?” How the devil did his mother know of their encounter in the woods? Did he have a spy at home as well as at the distillery?

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Cameron. I know well what it means when a woman—even some scrawny lass dressed in men’s trousers—returns with twigs and leaves in her clothes and her hair loosened to her shoulders.”

  How could she refer to Miss Starke as scrawny? He remembered the soft, curvy derriere outlined so clearly by those trousers, and the firm, solid feel of her when he had her pinned to the ground. His groin remembered as well, and expressed appreciation of her unique non-scrawniness. “Miss Starke is no scrawny,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Be serious, Cameron,” his mother scolded. “With the shape of her nose and her repetitious wardrobe of black and white, she looks like a . . .” She glanced up, and must have noticed his scowl, as she blanched. “Well, she doesn’t have the advantage of Miss Huddleston’s appearance.”

  Cameron dropped his head and counted so as to regain a calm and logical attitude t
o his mother. When he was done, he took a breath and explained.

  “I did discover Miss Starke by the hermit’s cave, that’s true. But there was no tumbling of the sort which would suggest impropriety. I surprised her and she fell.”

  “You surprised her . . .”

  “Aye. I thought she was a stranger connected to the difficulties here and—”

  “She could be, you know. What do you know of her?”

  “What do you know of Miss Huddleston?” Cameron challenged.

  “More than you might think. Her mother sent me a long letter of gratitude for caring for her daughter’s injury. She included enough details that I feel comfortable with that young woman’s background and upbringing. But have I heard a word from Miss Starke’s parents? Why—”

  “She’s an orphan, Mother. Her parents are dead.”

  “Oh.” That bit of news seemed to rob her of speech for a moment, but not for long enough. “Nevertheless, you have an obligation to the family. Now that Adam is gone, it’s imperative that you settle down with the right woman. I think Miss Huddleston would be that woman if you gave her an opportunity.”

  It appeared the only way to extricate his mother from his office was to agree with her request. “If I promise to pay more attention to Miss Huddleston, will you allow me to get on with my work? The very work that provides for the upkeep of your fancy residence—”

  She stood, interrupting his speech. “Which reminds me, I’ve invited Lord Lothian for a visit in two weeks’ time. I believe he’s interested in you for a government position assisting him in varied capacities.”

  Cameron imagined the lord was more interested in his mother than in finding a suitable assistant. She was still a very attractive woman. However, he was relieved to see her stand to depart. He sprang to his feet to open the door, but Hamish opened it from the other side. Anxious, Cameron assumed, to continue their discussion about saboteurs and spies in their midst.

  His mother turned before she left. “When Lord Lothian arrives, please dress in suitable fashion, Cameron. And if you could . . . this time, leave the wolf skin in the woods.”

  Chapter 15

  “I understand the doctor has said you may safely leave this room.”

  Claire’s heart leapt to her throat at the sound of the laird’s voice. She closed the book she’d been reading to Faith.

  Just as she was thinking of him, he appeared at their door. She’d been hoping to speak with him since their chance meeting by that hermit’s cave. Difficulties at the distillery had kept him away, or so James had announced the past several nights at dinner. She’d even thought to catch him at his morning ablutions at the loch, but apparently he’d canceled those as well.

  She’d missed him. That must be the reason her insides went all fluttery when she heard his deep Scottish brogue. Yet even as she looked up, smiling to greet him, she realized she was not the one he sought. Her welcoming smile faded.

  “I imagine this room feels much like a prison,” he said.

  “It has been trying,” Faith answered politely.

  “Then I have a surprise for you. When James went into town to secure supplies for your friend, Miss Starke”—his gaze slid momentarily toward Claire, whom he acknowledged with a quick nod before returning his attention to Faith—“he brought back a wheeled chair. I thought you might enjoy a tour of the gardens.”

  “You bought a wheeled chair just for me?” Faith asked, astonished. She tried to peek around him. “Where is it?”

  “At the bottom of the stairs, waiting with James. Would you care to see it?”

  Faith nodded enthusiastically. Macpherson slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her neatly from the bed.

  Jealousy squeezed Claire’s ribs at seeing Faith in his arms. Only too recently she’d found herself surrounded by those arms, with his lips so very close. For the last several nights, she’d lain awake in her bed, wondering what he would have done if she’d lifted her lips just a bit, just enough to press against his—

  “Isn’t a wheeled chair extravagant?” Faith asked.

  The interruption of her scandalous thoughts pulled Claire back to the immediate conversation.

  “My mother is aging.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, even as his lips remained taut. “I expect she’ll have need of such a chair soon.”

  The thud of a heavy object hitting the floor sounded from the empty bedroom next door. From his slight smile, Claire suspected the laird knew his mother was eavesdropping.

  He lowered his voice. “The chair is borrowed, but we’ll keep that between us.”

  They were sharing confidences, excluding her, Claire realized. Her heart sank.

  As he carried her into the hallway, Faith called from the nest of his arms.

  “Claire, could you bring the tartan? It might be cool outside.”

  Claire bit her lip. Of course it was cool outside. They were in Scotland, for pity’s sake. But then, Faith hadn’t been outside since her fall down the stairs. Claire collected the length of fabric and the shawl she’d recovered from the attic at the top of the turret, then followed behind as they traveled to the ground floor.

  James waited at the foot of the stairs, just as the laird had said he would. The laird settled Faith gently in the seat. As Claire stepped forward to wrap the cloth about Faith’s shoulders, he lifted the plaid from her arms and carefully draped it as if Faith were made of spun glass.

  He stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Why, Miss Huddleston, you look bonny wrapped in the cloth of my ancestors.”

  Faith laughed, a musical sound. Unlike her own, Claire reflected. Edwina had once said Claire’s laughter was hearty and rich and far too infrequent. Claire just assumed that was Edwina’s polite way to say her laugh was loud.

  The laird expertly guided the chair down the main hall toward one of the exits. Claire fell into step behind them before he looked over his shoulder.

  “Your friend will be safe enough with me, English,” he said, effectively dismissing her. “We shall be in the gardens. You can watch from the windows if you question my honor.”

  “Why do you call Miss Starke ‘English’?” Faith asked as he propped the door open and guided the chair through. “We’re both English, you know.”

  The door closed before she could hear his answer.

  Her spine stiffened as she watched from the window. She wasn’t questioning his honor. That wasn’t her purpose for wanting to follow them.

  “The laird is under a great deal of pressure to find a wife,” James said quietly behind her.

  “Faith didn’t come here to become a wife,” Claire objected. “She came to accompany a friend.”

  “You think he should ignore the sweet plum that fate has so cleverly dropped in his lap?” James’s harsh tone drew her gaze.

  “No . . .” she said reluctantly, not particularly fond of the image of her friend as a succulent fruit, especially in the lap of man with a large appetite. “But she’s English,” she protested, remembering the hint of derision she’d heard when the laird had first addressed her with that moniker. “He doesn’t like the English.”

  “You must be mistaken.” A furrow appeared on James’s brow. “His mother is from England, as am I. Not all Scotsmen hate the English.”

  “Hate is a strong word.” That wasn’t the emotion she sought to describe. But she couldn’t deny a tension had flared whenever they were together. A tension she’d assumed resulted from their different nationalities. “Perhaps I should say he’s not fond of the English.”

  Outside, Macpherson bent low to whisper in the ear of her closest friend. Jealousy squeezed her rib cage with sharp talons, forcing her to realize that the tension between them had nothing to do with nationalities. A burgeoning flame sputtered deep inside. She corrected her statement. “Not fond of me.”

  She hadn’t intended to give voice to he
r thoughts. The words slipped out dismal and low. So low that she prayed James hadn’t noticed. How pathetic must she be that the laird’s understandable attraction to Faith would upset her so? She should be happy her closest friend had attracted his interest. Yet a familiar cold band of betrayal and abandonment tightened about her heart.

  “She’ll be fine in his care. You needn’t worry,” James said, though she found little comfort in his voice. He touched her arm, pulling her gaze from the window. “Come. Let me show you the room he set aside for your photographic use. You’ll have to tell me if I failed to find some important component.”

  After one last look out the window, she turned to follow James. The sooner she could finish her Sober Society project, the better. Faith’s ankle would heal and there would be nothing to delay their departure. That was, assuming Faith was not deeply involved in a loving relationship. A sudden chill lifted gooseflesh on her arms. She tightened her borrowed shawl. Soon, she’d return to London with a deeper appreciation of the sun and warmth and leave these brisk temperatures and that disinterested laird behind. Why would anyone want to leave the more temperate England to come north? She looked over at James.

  “How is it that you’re here?” she asked. “Isn’t this an unusual position for an Englishman?”

  “The position suits me,” he said with a slight smile. He pushed a door that led outside. “And it appears to suit the laird as well. As he explained it to me, the parties of Englishmen who pay to hunt on the estate are more comfortable with a ghillie who speaks their language.”

  She had to agree with that. She’d had a difficult time understanding the boy who gave her a ride to the estate, as well as Cailleach, on occasion. Who’d have thought the same language could sound so different in another’s dialect?

  “As for their mistrust of the English,” he continued, “you have only to recall your history. The English have not treated Scotland well.”