The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  Gaelic. It had such an ancient, mystical sound, yet was so right for this ancient and mystical land. Peat trotted alongside them, occasionally darting into the woods for a foray.

  “You needn’t sit as if Ned’s wife lashed a poker along your spine,” Cameron said in a low, seductive tone. “We’re out of sight of Beckmore. Ye can lean back if ye desire.”

  It was her desires that were causing her turmoil. A woman of temperance should not cozy up to a distiller. It was against her principles. But it was all so very tempting an offer. “If you were in any other profession, I would not hesitate.”

  “Och, that’s what has ye sitting stiffer than a standing stone, is it?” She felt his shrug. “I am what I am, English.”

  “As am I.” She sighed.

  “Was it so terrible at the Rising Cock?” he asked, annoyance in his voice. “Were the people so wretched and weak from their alcoholic passions as to be cruel and vile to ye?”

  “Of course not,” she protested. In truth, she’d been surprised by their kindness.

  “You took a long time to get dressed,” he observed. “Much longer than it took me to get you out of those clothes.” She frowned. “I’m teasing, English. It really was Ned’s wife who had the honor.”

  The honor. She recalled how Mrs. Stewart had asked if she had told Cameron about the markings on her back. “Ned’s wife and I had a talk. She noticed the scars on my back and guessed the reason.”

  He stiffened at the word scars. Perhaps he had thought he was the only one, she mused.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  “My father drank.” She grimaced. “He was mean when he drank. I couldn’t always avoid his temper.”

  “Not everyone is like your father, English. Do not judge the drink by the man who abuses it.”

  “One like my father is too many.”

  “I canna argue that,” he said. “But why should so many suffer for the actions of a few?”

  She wanted to stand her ground and not concede the point, but she was finding it increasingly difficult, which, in turn, made her extremely uncomfortable. Was there something different in the air here? Was it Scotland? If she was wrong in this basic principle of temperance, one that she had held so resolutely in London that it had become a part of her being, what other principles had she followed blindly and without question?

  When she’d boarded the train for Edinburgh, she’d thought it was the judgment of Faith and Miss Townsend that would come into question, not her own. And yet now . . .

  “What did you mean when you said I belonged to you?” she asked, needing to divert her attention from the arm occasionally brushing the small of her back.

  He hesitated, then answered. “You’re a guest in my house, and thus ye fall under my protection.”

  “Nothing more?” she asked, strangely disappointed.

  His voice lowered in seductive invitation. “Would you like there to be more?”

  She wanted to scream yes, but she was afraid she’d read too much in what might have been teasing kindness. She was afraid of his rejection, so the silence between them stretched.

  “Look.” He pulled the horse to a stop and placed his hands on her hips, holding her securely in place. His simple gesture made her feel safer than she’d felt in a long, long time. She glanced at his face. He’d angled his jaw to the side behind her. “There’s the tree that was struck by lightning. That’s what scared Thistle.”

  She swiveled around to look, knowing that if not for his firm grasp, she’d surely be unseated. The exposed interior of the old oak gleamed in the moonlight, while wide strips of its rough bark littered its base and the road.

  “How is such a thing possible?” she asked in awe.

  “Lightning is powerful.” She felt his shudder vibrate through the air between them. “Sometimes it’ll race along the outside bark of the tree to reach the ground. It might leave a scar of that journey. Other times the fierce heat of the lightning turns the water inside the tree to steam. The bark canna hold the pressure and it explodes.”

  Right now she felt she might explode from the heat of his hands holding her in an all too pleasant fashion. Add the proximity of his chest and his mesmerizing voice, and she wasn’t certain she could contain the very delectable and intense pressure. “What will happen to that tree?”

  “It will die eventually. Once exposed, it willna survive the winter.”

  Which confirmed her fears. If she were to succumb to her longings and desires for this man, her past temperance existence would die in the process. Who would she be then? What would she stand for? Her purpose and her past were so at odds with her Scotland experience and the man who was making her feel safe and secure.

  “This is where I found you,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve no serious injury.” He chuckled low. “You’re like the tree that the lightning leaves with only a sore head.”

  But she knew he was wrong. So very wrong.

  She returned to her original position, that of watching the course of the small stream, a burn he’d called it, that, after a short slope, ran along the side of the road. He released her hips, much to her disappointment, then clicked the reins to move them forward.

  “Did you find the camera and the box of frames?” she asked suddenly, surprised that she hadn’t thought to ask earlier. “They were under the seat. I thought that might protect them from the rain.”

  He frowned. “My concern was for you. I wasna watching for anything else.”

  She shifted her gaze from his face to the surrounding area, hoping to spot an intact camera box and not a jumbled mess of parts. But clouds drifted over the moon, darkening the soft light.

  “Should we stop now and look?”

  “We’ll come back in the light and search,” he assured her. “It might be that they’re still tucked under the seat. We’ll check once we reach the stable.”

  In spite of her determination to hold herself beyond temptation, her shoulders slumped. Tomorrow, they might find the camera sitting in the stream, ruined beyond repair. She would have failed in both her vow to Cameron’s brother and in her attempt to win the much-needed money from the Sober Society. Then what would she do? Her slogans now seemed so childish as to be annoying; she certainly didn’t want to rely on those as a set piece. However, of her two failures, the former concerned her most. The prize, while needed, brought too many contradictions to the surface. But the loss of the camera . . .

  She certainly couldn’t afford to replace the camera; but more than that, she could never replace the sentimental value of his beloved brother’s treasure. Had she never taken that camera out of the turret room, that personal tribute would still be safe.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks at the realization. Cameron’s life would have been better if she’d just kept out of it. Her heart wrenched, imagining his agony when he realized what her carelessness had destroyed.

  Chapter 22

  They plodded along until Claire’s head nodded softly in sleep. What sort of lass cried in her sleep? A tear leaked from the corner of one of her closed eyes and slid down the curve of her cheek.

  “Och, lass.” He gently guided her shoulders toward his chest. “It’s only a box of glass and leather.” He kissed the top of her head. “We’ll find it in the morning.”

  Guiding Buaidh on a dark, moonlit night in the country he loved with a fine lass curled against his chest, a sense of peace descended on Cameron that he hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. She’d been through a lot today, as had he. In the moments that he had thought he’d lost her, so many memories of the past two weeks had come rushing back. From the moment she’d showed up at his door accusing him of being a white slaver, through his discovery of her in the attic and her bold foray the morning after, his life had taken a turn. Even with their many differences, they’d shared a connection. What was it that James kept telling him? That it was
the challenge of Claire and her temperance beliefs that he found so desirable? Perhaps that was part of it. But he was far more attracted to her fierce independence and willingness to take a stand—more so than to the pliant fashion plates his mother imported from London.

  Even in sleep, emotions played across her face. The woman would never win a game of poker. Did she realize her brows lowered and she bit her lower lip, much as she did now, when lost in conflicting thoughts? What was she puzzling through this time? He hoped it might be her attitudes toward whisky and temperance. The lass needed to understand that spirits alone were not the cause of society’s ills.

  Perhaps if she modified her views towards alcohol, she could modify her views about him as well. Ever since he’d seen the rosy flash of her nipple through her damp linen corset cover, he’d been fighting the desire to wrap his hand in the dark waves of her hair and pull her close. He placed a light kiss on her head. But temperance had nothing to do with his wanting to taste those rosy peaks, or that damned spot at the curve of her neck that lured him so.

  Miss Claire Starke might pretend to be a prissy maid of temperance, but he suspected that beneath that exterior burned a passion waiting to be unleashed. While a part of him was eager to shatter that cold exterior and let her experience all that she denied herself, another part knew she would hate him for doing just that. She was a woman of principle, his English. And he stood on the opposite side of those principles. Passion and pleasure would never change that.

  She needed to see more of the positive aspects of distilling. Then she might change her opinions and remove that barrier that existed between them.

  Thoughts about distilling led to concerns about the increasing threats of the League of Distillers. When he’d heard the explosion of the lightning strike, he had thought it was another attack against Ravenbeck. There had to be a way out of that dilemma that didn’t involve sacrificing his principles or the distillery. He pondered the issue until the stables came into view.

  Old Achaius, the stable master and groomsman, had fallen asleep just inside the stable door. Cameron saw no need to wake him. Claire, however, was another matter. When she didn’t stir with the stopping of the horse, he fingered the soft hair away from her ear. Such a delicate receptacle, just waiting for the kind words and encouragement that she’d missed when she needed them the most. Her father may have been a famous photographer, but Cameron would have assisted him to the realm beyond if he weren’t there already. He nuzzled her ear briefly before whispering that it was time to wake up. She smiled in her sleep, then curled tighter against his chest.

  ***

  A low vibration against her ear stirred Claire to consciousness. She blinked her eyes open to discover she’d fallen asleep with her head nestled against Cameron’s chest. No wonder she felt his amusement rumbling through his chest, his soft laugher at odds with her pleasant dream of gentle kisses and endearing words. But it had to have been a dream. Her mother had been the last to whisper such kind words.

  “Sorry.” Cheeks heating, she sat up with a start. She yawned. “I hadn’t meant—”

  “I wouldna wake ye, but if I didn’t, ye’d fall off the horse. Ye’ve had enough spills for one day. Now hold the saddle with both hands.” He dismounted, swinging his powerful thigh around the back of the horse. Strange how she suddenly felt alone and . . . fragile, sitting sideways on this massive beast. She’d been alone most of her entire life; why would she be aware of such isolation now?

  He stepped to her front, placing his strong, confident hands about her waist. Heat fluttered through her rib cage. She placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling the bones and muscles shift as he lifted her away from the saddle.

  Holding her high in the air, he paused, searching her face. Her breath caught. Whatever had caused his laughter earlier had disappeared, replaced with something raw and dangerous. He eased her toward earth in a slow sensuous slide down the front of his body. Her breasts neared his eyes, his nose, his lips. Was she still dreaming? Was it too decadent to wish that he’d linger just there, with her breasts so very near his lips? Heightened in sensitivity by her imagination, her breasts scraped along his chest. Her lips touched his nose lightly a moment before her nose caressed his own. In that instant, without forethought, she slid her hands along the side of his head and pressed her lips to his in a kiss.

  It was bold. It was brash. But it was heavenly, truly the stuff of dreams. He still held her, her feet not yet touching the ground. Her lips found his, warm and pliable, surrounded by a stubbly growth that was surprisingly stimulating. She withdrew, then swirled her tongue over her lips to capture the spice that had teased her dreams. Suddenly, she was vulnerable, exposed, much like the sad turtle that loses the security of its shell. She was afraid to look at his face, afraid to see rejection or condemnation of her impulsiveness in his eyes.

  “I meant to thank you before,” she said by way of explanation. When he still didn’t respond, she dragged her finger across his lower lip, feeling free to explore. He caught her fingertip between his teeth, then stroked it lightly with his tongue. The simple gesture sent shivers clear to her toes. He lowered her gently to the ground, letting her find her feet.

  “Shall I thank you again?” she asked timidly. This was unfamiliar territory, this close proximity of a man and a woman. In answer, his hands slid to her back, pulling her closer. Releasing her captive fingertip, he fisted his hand in her loose hair, then tilted her head before ravaging her lips.

  Dear Lord in Heaven, his kiss turned her knees to water. Her entire body hummed, trilled, rose up to offer whatever he desired. She felt consumed, but wanted more. So she pressed back and pulled his head down for more. She thought to be more daring, the results being so superbly delicious the last time, and allow her tongue to mate with his when he suddenly stilled, then withdrew. He rested his forehead on the top of her head.

  “English, I don’t think we should—”

  “Claire Starke! What have you done to her? Why won’t she answer me?”

  Claire turned her head to see Faith with one crutch framed in the stable door opening, with James at her side. The kind groomsman was stirring from his chair by the door. How long had they been there?

  “We’ll speak of this later,” Cameron promised in tones only she could hear, then turned to Buaidh to administer to his horse.

  “What has happened to you?” Faith continued as she made her way down the wide aisle of the stable with the benefit of a single crutch. “If I didn’t know better I would think that you and he—”

  “A lightning strike scared Thistle, and she tossed Miss Starke from that gig.” He nodded to the back of the stable. “I found her and took her to the Rising Cock till the storm ended.” Cameron unfastened the leather straps of the saddle that they’d shared.

  One would think nothing had transpired between them, yet Claire’s lips tingled and her body hummed in the most demanding way. How inconvenient that Faith had thought to wait up for them. The promise that they would talk later did not satisfy the thrumming. What did he mean by I don’t think we should—? They shouldn’t kiss? Her heart plummeted. She’d made a fool out of herself again. She’d misread what she’d assumed was returned mutual affection, but she’d been wrong.

  “How inconvenient of us to interrupt you two,” Lady Macpherson said from the stable opening, where she stood in her nightcap and, most likely, nightgown hidden beneath an old wrapper in a tartan plaid. “Cameron, I’d like to speak with you in the study. Achaius can finish that for you.” She turned and left without waiting for a response.

  “Bollocks,” Cameron muttered.

  “We knew something had happened when the gig returned empty,” James said. “Peat returned just a little bit ago.” James and Cameron exchanged a glance that seemed to express volumes. Cameron turned to leave.

  From Lady Macpherson’s expression, Claire assumed she was to be the topic of conversation in the
study. Although the invitation didn’t include her, she moved into step behind Cameron, intending to defend herself.

  Cameron looked back, then smiled. “I appreciate that you’re ready to do battle with my mother, but I’d best handle this alone.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Don’t worry. I shall defend your honor to the fullest.” Then he followed his mother’s path out of the stable.

  She was dismissed, yet she also felt revered. No one had ever had reason to defend her honor. No one had ever offered to defend her for anything. She’d never relied on someone to do that which she’d always done for herself, but she found it satisfying that someone cared enough to do just that.

  “Come with me.” Faith grabbed her arm. “We need to talk.”

  Faith pulled her past the horses that were hanging their heads out the stable doors to watch the commotion. But Claire dug in her boots at the sight of one curious onlooker.

  “Thistle! How are you, girl? You made it home safe.” She patted the horse’s soft muzzle, wishing she had an apple for her friend. How could she have been so reluctant to be close to horses before this trip to Scotland? Were they to stay longer, she’d ask Cameron to teach her to ride, but that was not likely. The look on Lady Macpherson’s face reminded her that she and Cameron were from two very different worlds.

  But that kiss . . . ah. She sighed . . . that kiss. It was rooted more in her dreams than in her reality. She’d probably not experience the like of it again, but having experienced it once was more than she’d ever hoped.

  Faith tugged on her arm, urging her to leave, but Claire needed to do one more thing before she complied. She called to James, who was the assisting the old groomsman with Buaidh. “James? Could you do me a favor?”

  His glance lifted to Faith before it settled on Claire. Odd. She filed that away for future pondering. “Could you check the gig to see if the camera and my pack of film frames survived the jostling? I’m hoping they are still beneath the seat.” And not in the burn, she silently added. James nodded.