The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “He’s a strange one,” Claire confided as she and Faith left the stable.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “James,” Claire said. “The laird sets great faith by him, and he seems to hold the laird’s secrets, but he never talks. Or at least, he never talks to me. Does he talk to you?”

  Faith paused a moment and glanced at Claire, then shook her head. “We’re not talking about James. We need to talk about what really happened tonight.”

  “I thought the laird made it perfectly clear.”

  “Look at you,” Faith said, exasperated. “Your hair is loose. Your clothes are muddy—”

  “I fell in the mud,” Claire insisted. “Then Cameron rescued me.”

  “That’s what we need to talk about,” Faith said with a smug smile. “The rescue.”

  Chapter 23

  He found her at work the next day in her photography croft. The door stood ajar, which he assumed meant that she was not developing her prints. Peat, who was guarding the door, offered a tail wag as Cameron approached. He rapped on the door frame. “May I come in?”

  Standing in the dim croft wearing one of Cailleach’s aprons over her clothes, she smiled. Instantly, the dim interior brightened. “I’ve just removed a batch from the fix. Would you care to see?”

  Enthusiasm radiated from her face and happiness lit her eyes. Anyone could see she was in her element. His heart sank, knowing that his mission might remove some of that light from her eyes, but he had to admit he was curious about what she’d accomplished with Adam’s camera.

  “Is the lump on your head still tender?” he asked. “How are you feeling?”

  “One of the maids brought some headache powder. It’s a little sore,” she replied, touching her head lightly. “But I’m in better command of my senses this morning.”

  Damp black-and-white prints had been clipped to a clothesline suspended above the table. He entered, expecting to see prints of the Beckmore residents, or perhaps even Ravenbeck distillery, but he found something else entirely. He found Scotland.

  How could this stranger, this Sassenach, manage to capture the wild spirit and the pure essence of Scotland? Yet she had. He could see it in the tumble of frothy water over the rocks in a country burn, or the eternal promise of the loch, dark and serene, nestled in the shadow of Schiehallion’s pointed peak. He felt the quiet peace of a kirk weathered by the centuries standing silent guard on a hilltop through her print, and the beckoning intrigue of Ossian’s Cave, where he’d tackled her by mistake. Looking at that print reminded him of his regret that he had not kissed her that day. A regret he had corrected last night.

  “These are wonderful.” He couldn’t keep the awe from his voice. “You’ve certainly been busy.”

  “Aye.” She laughed. “Did you hear? James found the camera and the frames in the gig.”

  The sheer delight in her voice made him smile as well. “You should do that more often.”

  “What?”

  “Laugh. It’s a bonny sound.” A photograph of a familiar burn caught his eye. The burn, in fact, that supplied the fresh water for the distillery. By itself, not an outstanding subject, but she’d captured a sense of potential and purity with the angled rocks and tree-lined banks.

  “Did you come to tell me about your conversation with your mother last night?”

  “You have an artist’s eye,” he said. “Something you inherited from your father, perhaps.”

  She didn’t respond to that. He supposed he didn’t blame her. He examined the other prints drying on the line.

  “There are no people in these prints.” He frowned. “Have you been traveling about alone? That’s not safe.”

  “Not alone. Peat’s been with me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” His frown deepened.

  “And I like exploring on my own,” she continued. “No one else would understand waiting for the light to be just right, or letting the land whisper its secrets till you know just how to compose the shot.”

  She busied herself putting away the chemicals and unused paper. Without the tensions and conflict brought on by their frequent dialogues about whisky, she radiated a sort of joy in life.

  “It’s funny,” she said. “I was always surrounded by people in London and often felt alone. Yet here I can go for miles without seeing a soul and still feel filled with nature and life and light.” She turned toward him. “Isn’t that extraordinary?”

  Her eyes widened. She must not have realized he had moved so close. His body effectively trapped hers.

  “I think you must be part Scot,” he said, smiling. “Do you remember that day when I mistook you for a bounder?”

  “At Ossian’s Cave.” Her lips turned up in response. “How could I forget?”

  “I’ve regretted that meeting every day.”

  “You have?” A slight frown marred her eyes as she searched his face. “Why?”

  His hand stroked the delicate skin of her jaw. “Because I didn’t do this.”

  His lips claimed hers, gently at first, tentative. Kissing her with so many chemicals close at hand might not be the wisest choice. His intention was not for a sweet thank-you kiss—and if he misjudged her sensibilities, she could blind him in an instant.

  But then her lips softened beneath his and parted. It was all the invitation he needed. He pulled her tight against him and deepened the kiss without meeting any protest.

  Good Lord, she was sweet. She tasted like Cailleach’s black-currant jam, dark, sweet and . . . innocent. He coaxed her tongue to mate, and though hesitant at first, she answered with a slow slide of her tongue along his. He groaned softly and was about to explore further when he realized she was pushing frantically at his chest. He pulled back with the intention of asking what was wrong when he heard it himself. Bollocks! With so few people at the castle, how was it they were never alone?

  “Claire? Are you in there? A letter came for you. I think it’s from—”

  Faith pushed the door fully open and stopped. Macpherson turned, moving out of Claire’s way, thus she saw surprise widen in Faith’s eyes. Claire’s own cheeks warmed at her friend’s discovery.

  Faith addressed the laird. “I hadn’t expected to find you here.”

  “I was—”

  “He was looking at the prints I’ve recently developed.” She pointed to the images attached to the clothesline. “As he has so generously paid for the supplies to produce them, I thought he might want to see my work.”

  “And very talented work it is,” he added, dragging a hand through his hair. “You ladies have something to discuss, and I’ll no interfere.” He started for the door. Half turning, he added, “I’m”—his knee caught the edge of a table, causing a grimace and a murmur of something in Gaelic, low and swift—“off about my business.” He nodded to Faith as he hobbled out the door.

  Mischief twinkled bright in Faith’s eyes. “He cannot keep his distance, that one.”

  Claire turned her back to her friend and took a deep breath. He had kissed her. He’d initiated that kiss. She hadn’t been foolish in making her desires known last night. Her lips still tingled. Dear Lord, if one could call that crushing demand a mere kiss. And, God have mercy, she responded by giving all that the laird had coaxed from her. Already she yearned for another kiss—one without interruption.

  “‘Lips that touch alcohol will never touch mine,’” Faith teased. “What else would his lips have touched if I hadn’t interrupted?” She giggled.

  “It was just a kiss,” Claire replied with more intensity then intended. There was no point in denying that they had been thus engaged. She softened her voice. “Just a kiss, nothing more.”

  “I warned you to be careful about being alone with him.” Faith’s voice took a serious tone. “All one has to do is look at the way he watches you to know he’s interested in something mo
re.”

  “Then he’ll be disappointed, as a kiss is all that he’ll have.” She continued to put away her supplies. Even as she said the words, she felt a part of her grieve. That kiss was as revealing as it was stimulating. She’d felt possessed. She’d felt wanted. Two emotions she hadn’t realized she craved until confronted with their lack.

  She could feel Faith’s study of her back. “Are you certain?”

  Claire turned and clenched her fists. “We’ll be leaving in little more than a week.”

  Even so, she knew she wanted more. Was this how alcohol addiction began? One taste led to the need of another? If that was so, she needed to stop the addiction right now before it worsened. She schooled her voice to reflect her determination. “The laird represents everything I detest. There cannot be an attraction between us. It simply cannot exist.”

  Faith didn’t appear convinced, which wasn’t surprising. Claire wasn’t convinced either.

  Faith held out an envelope. “This came for you.”

  Grateful that the letter diverted her thoughts from the laird, Claire ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the letter. Could this day get any worse?

  “It’s from Mrs. Preston of the Sober Society.” Claire groaned. “They’re so excited about my proposal to document the effects of alcoholism with photographs that they’re asking me to send some early prints to use to promote the rally.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted? Their enthusiasm?”

  “Look at my prints, Faith.” Claire waved her hand toward the fluttering photographs. “I don’t think they’ll be interested in images of the loch, or the woods, or the streams. I can send photographs of some of the women of Beckmore, but they’re not the images of neglect or abuse.”

  “You still have time,” Faith observed as she examined the prints. “These are lovely, however. The laird was correct in his assessment of your talents.”

  “It’s the light,” Claire said. “The light is magical here.”

  Faith smiled. “Perhaps it’s more than the light.”

  Claire sighed and looked to her friend. “What am I to do? I sorely need that prize purse. Our invitation expires in little more than a week and I haven’t found the sort of evidence that I thought I might. I suspect it exists, but the townspeople believe they are protecting the laird by hiding any instances of abuse. I can’t win their trust in a week, and we can’t stay here indefinitely.”

  “Given what I interrupted, I’m certain the laird will—”

  “It’s precisely because of what you interrupted that I can’t stay here beyond our commitment. I’m not foolish enough to imagine his intentions toward me are substantive. I’m simply a challenge, a diversion, a pawn in the game he plays with his mother.” A soft smile crept to her lips. “Even you must admit an attraction to me must be a thorn in her side.”

  Faith smiled at that as well. “You can return to your formulation of slogans.”

  It was Claire’s turn to laugh. “Even I realize how naive I was to imagine that campaign had potential.”

  She glanced at the crutch that Faith used with amazing dexterity. She could manage that on a train. Her friend’s injured ankle was no longer the reason they continued to stay. Claire hadn’t protested because she’d read that letter from Faith’s parents, urging her to build a relationship with the laird. And Aunt Sophie and her corgis remained at their London residence, so Faith was content to stay.

  As long as Claire had access to a camera and printmaking equipment, she was loathe to leave as well. She didn’t want to leave Cameron, but maybe in London she could find—

  Faith cocked her head. “There’s always the minister.”

  Claire reared back. “Not marriage!”

  “No, silly, the Scottish minister. The diplomat, remember? Lady Macpherson is hosting that dinner party in his honor. Perhaps you can convince him to act in some way that would appease the Sober Society. What was his name . . . Lord Lothian, I believe.”

  “The Marquess of Lothian? The Secretary for Scotland? The highest-ranking official and lawmaker in Scotland will be here?” Claire asked, astounded. “I thought she was entertaining some lesser-known official.”

  Faith nodded. “I wasn’t certain of his title. Lady Macpherson just said Lord Lothian and his family would be visiting. James is to take them hunting as well.”

  “I truly doubt the secretary will change the laws of Scotland on my account.” Claire managed a laugh. “That is ridiculous.”

  “Yes. But if you can report to the Sober Society that he said he would consider the temperance argument, they’d have to acknowledge you in some fashion. The man is, after all, the Secretary for Scotland. Mrs. Preston couldn’t expect more even if she addressed the man herself.”

  It was a possibility—a remote possibility, but a possibility. She’d never have such an opportunity to speak to such an esteemed government official in London.

  “I . . . I’m not certain I’ll know what to say,” Claire confessed. She’d never addressed anyone so highly placed.

  Faith laughed. “You’ve never been at a loss of words when it comes to temperance. Don’t fret, you’ll be fine. And once you report back to the Sober Society . . .”

  Recognition, acknowledgment, and a fat prize purse—all of it could be hers, she thought. And all she needed was a few minutes to plead the case for temperance. The opportunity was a gift from Heaven. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 24

  Fool. Fool. Fool. The word echoed with his every stride into the dense woods. She was like one of Cailleach’s fairy sprites. Luring him in for a kiss and then smacking him alongside the head with so much unleashed passion his groin still throbbed. What was he thinking? Well, he wasn’t, that much was clear.

  “I’m not going to catch a single rabbit with you thrashing about like that.”

  Cameron turned to see James sitting with a bow in hand on a high rock off to the right.

  “Cailleach sent me to catch tonight’s supper. Had I known you intended to scare off the rabbits, I would have gone fishing.”

  Cameron scowled and continued his fast-paced trek. Fishing made him think about being in that boat with Miss Starke, and thinking of Miss Starke brought him around again to that kiss and his inexplicable desire to take it further.

  “If ever there was an impossible attraction, this would be it,” Cameron muttered.

  “So Miss Starke is the reason we’ll be having porridge for supper?”

  Cameron stopped and turned around. “Why are you following me?”

  “Because I didn’t think I’d see the day that you’d moon over a woman. This is entertaining.” James smiled.

  “Entertain yourself somewhere else,” Cameron growled.

  “Why is it an impossible attraction?”

  Cameron threw up his hands. Obviously, he was not going to be alone with his thoughts. “She despises my livelihood.”

  “There are days when you aren’t too fond of it yourself,” James said.

  “It’s not the same thing. She believes I’m the spawn of the Devil because I fancy a drink now and again.”

  “As do most red-blooded men. I think she’ll need to compromise on that.”

  “I dinna think compromise is in her vocabulary.” He kicked a rock in his path. “If ever a woman felt she was in less need of a man, it would be Miss Starke.”

  “She had need of a man last night to save her from the runaway gig,” James said. “From what I saw in the stable, she was feeling the need for a man for other purposes as well.”

  Cameron glared at his friend. “If someone hadn’t interrupted last night, she may have found that need satisfied.”

  “Och. Your mother has the worst timing.” James grinned. “How did that go last night?”

  “She, of course, thinks I’m interested in the wrong woman. I suspect she realizes s
he wouldn’t be so easily able to manipulate her way with Miss Starke as she might with the others she’s brought here. She wanted to remind me that Miss Starke would be leaving in little more than a week. Shortly after that house party she’s arranged for Lord Lothian.”

  “And you said . . .”

  “I told her she could no be saying Miss Starke dinna measure up and that as she was the one responsible for Miss Starke being here with those silly ads, she should keep her trap shut and leave things be.” He leaned his arm against a tall rock. “I dinna think she appreciated my observations.”

  James laughed. “No, I don’t imagine she did.”

  Cameron suddenly realized the rock that braced his arm was part of Ossian’s cave, the opposite side of the tunnel from where he’d attacked Miss Starke earlier. Was everywhere he traveled to remind him of her?

  “It looks like someone has been here recently,” James said, concern in his voice. He stooped down, brushed aside some leaves, and examined the imprints in the soft ground. “These aren’t deer tracks.”

  As they were on the opposite side of the cave from where he and Miss Starke had tumbled in the leaves, Cameron knew the footprints had to belong to someone else. He followed the direction of the footprints, which led into the cave. James followed close behind.

  Inside, the cave wasn’t of a great proportion. A bench had been placed in the dark recesses for those seeking shelter from the elements. Sunlight didn’t penetrate deep into the cool cave interior.

  Cameron felt along the wall. Before the fire, he’d been known to entertain a lassie or two at the cave. Back then, he’d kept a bit of a candle and matches in a small alcove hidden behind a loose stone. Though he hadn’t used the privacy of the cave for boyish pursuits in years, the candles had been so well concealed that . . . there. He wiggled the rock out to discover several small candlesticks and a dry tin of safety matches. He lit two candles and handed one to James. Soon the cave interior flickered with candlelight and shadows.