The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  She nodded. “He’s no there. I’ve searched . . .”

  Peat began barking wildly at the flames licking a burning shack in the yard. Afraid the dog would get hurt, Claire tried to pull Peat back, but he wouldn’t budge. Cameron appeared next to her.

  “What’s he barking at?” he shouted.

  “Mrs. Docherty says Ian is missing. Is it possible—”

  Cameron ran to the bucket line, then dumped a bucket of water over his head. “The Paint Shack,” he shouted to the bucket line. “Throw water on the paint shack and the casks in the yard!” He ran toward the burning shed and, with his arm shielding his eyes, kicked open the door and disappeared inside.

  Claire’s heart pounded in her throat. She twisted her hands in Peat’s fur, praying for Cameron’s safety and the safety of anyone he found inside.

  It was taking too long. If he found someone he should be out by now. She sobbed, tears welling in her eyes. It was taking too long!

  Suddenly, he reappeared, emerging from a cloud of thick smoke, a limp body in his arms.

  “Ian!” the mother cried, running toward them.

  Cameron stopped a safe distance from the flames, his clothes steaming from the heat. He lay the soot-covered boy on the ground.

  “He’s no breathing!” Mrs. Docherty sobbed, wiping his face with her skirt. “He’s no breathing!”

  Cameron looked toward Claire. “Help me.”

  “What do I do?”

  “I’m going to blow air into his lungs. When I stop, you push on his chest to force it out.”

  They worked in tandem. Claire watching anxiously for signs of life. The mother crumbled on the ground in tears. Cameron blew in one . . . two . . . three breaths. Suddenly, the boy started coughing. Cameron turned him on his side so he could breathe easier.

  “Cameron!” Claire said. “Look at his legs.”

  Blisters had started to form, and though the sunlight was quickly fading, she thought his legs were discolored.

  “His legs were trapped under a beam,” Cameron said. “We need to cool them down.”

  Claire ran to the bucket line and dropped her shawl in a filled bucket before it was tossed on the flames. She stretched the damp fabric gently on the boy’s legs. Ian grimaced with the pain.

  Cameron stood. “I need to help the others. Can you stay here with Ian?”

  She grabbed his wrists and turned them, the skin angry and red. “You’ve burned your hands.”

  “Not now, Claire,” he said. “Stay with Ian.” Then he was gone.

  “How did this happen?” she asked the boy as calmly as possible. She tried to dismiss the shouts and the hiss of the fire and steam behind her as she attended to his needs. If he kept talking, she thought it might lessen the pain.

  “I was in the yard piling the empty casks.” He twisted around to look at her. “It’s my job. I work here.”

  “You seem very young to be working at a distillery. Aren’t you still in school?” Claire sent his mother to find the doctor from the crowd. The lad was going to need more care than a damp shawl could provide.

  “The laird hired me hisself when my da drowned. He says I can only work after school.”

  She could hear pride as well as pain in the boy’s voice. But the pride made her heart expand for Cameron as well as the hurt child. “How did the fire start? Did you see?”

  He shook his head. “I’d gone in the shack to get some paint to mark the casks. Suddenly the air was full of fire and I couldna move my legs. I couldna hear. It was hard to breathe. I thought I was a goner. Then I woke up here.”

  “It’s a good thing the laird was able to find you and pull you out.”

  “The laird?”

  “He raced into that shack, found you, and gave you the breath of life. So you see, you have to get better so you can thank him yourself.”

  Valiantly, the boy tried to stop the tears sliding down his cheeks, but she saw them. She glanced up to see if she could spot Mrs. Docherty with the doctor.

  “I heard a dog barking . . .”

  “That was Peat.” Claire looked back to the boy. “He’s the one who told us where to find you.”

  “What are you doing here?!” a woman’s voice demanded.

  Claire looked up her to see Maggie Fraser pointing a finger at her in accusation.

  “Did you come to gloat?” she shouted. “To see if you shut down Ravenbeck?”

  “What are you talking about?” Claire asked.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Docherty arrived with the doctor. The two started administering to the boy. Claire stood and tried to steer Miss Fraser away, but the hussy wouldn’t move. So Claire asked again in a quieter tone, “What are you talking about? Why would I come to gloat?”

  Maggie had apparently decided this was not to be a quiet discussion. She raised her voice so all could hear. “Because you placed dynamite in the barley wagon.”

  The indictment caught the attention of the doctor, Mrs. Docherty, and some others in earshot.

  “What?” she asked, incredulous. “I did no such thing.”

  She shook her head, dismissing the woman. She walked away a few steps, hoping the Fraser woman would follow her far enough to distance themselves from where the doctor was working. “Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?”

  Claire noted Lord Lothian and his family had arrived from Ravenswood, along with Lady Macpherson and Faith. Faith immediately asked the doctor quietly what she could do to help, but the others just stood slack-jawed with the gathering crowd, staring at her.

  “You canna run away!” the Fraser woman shouted. “Everyone saw you by the barley wagon this morning. Don’t deny it. You had the perfect opportunity to place the dynamite and light it when no one was watching.”

  “Everyone saw me taking photographs of the distillery.” Claire tossed her hands in the air in frustration. “I had promised the laird I’d take photographs of Ravenbeck before I returned to London.” She thought that last comment would bring some measure of comfort to the woman. She’d seemed most adamant about Claire’s return at that meeting at the kirk. She looked the woman in the eye. “I have no reason to place dynamite, and I abhor the person who caused such senseless destruction.”

  “Senseless? You wanted Ravenbeck closed, and you got it,” Fraser said triumphantly.

  “What I want is for men to drink responsibly and provide for the women and children who are dependent on them.” It was true, she realized, and nothing in that statement required the closing of distilleries.

  The crowd had grown substantially around the two arguing women. The fire had been reduced to steaming ash and no longer held the attention of the people. Claire thought to use the crowd to prove her case.

  “Did anyone here actually see me place something in the wagon?” she asked. No one responded. “I took photographs in the morning, and I was gone all afternoon. Did anyone see me other than this morning?” Again no responses.

  “I saw her this afternoon, but not here,” Lord Lothian shouted. “Almost shot her, I did.”

  “You’re happy Ravenbeck is shut down,” the redhead challenged. “Admit it.”

  “No, I am not.” Looking at the faces gathered round her, she realized she meant it. At one time, she might have rejoiced in any setback in whisky production. But now that she’d come to know the importance of Ravenbeck to Beckmore, she wouldn’t want to see it closed.

  “You’re lying,” the witch declared. “Just as you lied in the London newspapers.”

  Cameron pushed his way through the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

  “This woman is a liar.” Fraser point her finger at Claire. “She’s responsible for destroying the malt house.”

  Murmuring began in the crowd.

  “Be careful of accusations you canna prove, Maggie,” Cameron threatened.

  “It’s
well known that she’s one of those temperance rabble-rousers. She tried to convince our women to join the temperance movement. Not one of us would, but she sent photographs to a London newspaper saying that we did just that.” She narrowed her eyes at Claire. Several men in the crowd raised their fists and cheered the redhead in her false accusations. Claire felt her cheeks warm.

  “Miss Starke is not responsible for the explosion!” Cameron shouted. “I don’t know anything about a newspaper photograph, but I do know this woman.” He looked at Claire with love and pride in his eyes. “She has been with me all afternoon, so I know she could no put a match to dynamite.”

  “She could have been working with someone else, Mac,” the redhead pleaded. “She wants to close down all the distilleries. How else can you explain this?” She removed a paper from her pocket and waved it in the air. “Molly saw the newspaper about the women of Beckmore in your room at Ravenswood. She brought it back so we all could see.”

  “That’s where that paper went,” Claire said. She had noticed it was not on Faith’s desk where she had left it. Still, she was surprised that Molly would take the paper and then give it to this woman, of all people.

  “What we saw is that you lied about that meeting in the paper, and you are lying about your involvement in this fire.” She slapped the paper in Cameron’s hand.

  “If you look closely, you’ll note that I am not the author of that article,” Claire explained. “I did take the photograph, and I did send the print to the Sober Society. But I also sent a note to clearly explain that my attempt to form a temperance group was unsuccessful. I told them that very few of you have experienced the neglect and abuse that so many in London have. I told the Society that meetings and rallies would be ineffective here. And I stand by that observation,” she said, with her head held high.

  Some looked away, making her suspect that there were indeed a few who’d experienced neglect and abuse, but had failed to identify themselves. It wasn’t the time or place for contemplation of that.

  “Another individual, however, used my photograph for her own purposes and created that falsehood.” She pointed to the paper that Cameron was reading. “I’ve already mailed a protest to both the newspaper that printed the article and to the Society for allowing my work to be falsely represented.”

  The crowd quieted, waiting for the laird’s reaction. He finished reading the paper, then handed it back to the redhead. “The article proves nothing,” he said. “Even if Miss Starke had misrepresented the purpose of that meeting, the article has nothing to do with what happened here tonight. Miss Starke and Miss Huddleston are returning to London tomorrow. We should no waste our time chiding an innocent woman. Instead we should focus on finding the one truly responsible. If anyone has any valid proof or evidence, find me. I want to hear it.”

  He turned, and the crowd parted before him. He stalked off in the direction of the brick warehouse, giving a wide berth to the barely smoldering ash pile that had once been the paint shack. Claire wanted to run after him and explain that she had nothing to do with that newspaper article. And while she had nothing to do with the explosion, somehow she felt responsible for it. Obviously, from the glares she was receiving from the residents of Beckmore, they certainly held her responsible.

  All except Ned, who came up and assured her that he knew she was innocent of all charges. She smiled and thanked him for his confidence. His wife joined him. “I told you she meant to do you harm. I know you have nothing to do with this. You couldn’t, not when you’re in love with the laird.”

  Claire’s head swiveled. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Some things a woman just knows.” She glanced over at the redhead. “She knows it too.”

  Molly approached her in tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Starke. I saw my mom’s picture in the paper. I borrowed the paper to show her. I dinna think you’d mind with that party and all. I dinna read the article. I dinna think Maggie Fraser”—she pursed her lips as if to spit—“would take the newspaper. I know you wouldna hurt the laird.” She smiled down at Peat, who sat at Claire’s side. “Peat knows you’re a good woman, and so do I.”

  Claire gave her a hug.

  ***

  Claire went back to where the doctor was tending young Ian Docherty. She told Faith that as the fire was no longer a threat, she was ready to go back to Ravenswood. Ian, who had heard the confrontation just a few feet away, squinted up at her through pain-filled eyes. “If the laird says you didna do it, than I dinna think you did it either.”

  She wanted to hug him, but didn’t, of course. While his legs were the most severely burned, his shoulders were likely burned as well. She kissed the top of his head instead. “I hope others think just like you, Ian.”

  As she stood, she saw the malicious glare from the redhead. It was probably good that she and Faith were leaving tomorrow.

  Chapter 34

  Cameron knew the extraordinarily quiet and stealthy James had found him by the solitary thump of Peat’s tail. Few others would think to look for him at the base of a tree facing Adam’s grave.

  “How bad was it?”

  “We lost two men,” Cameron replied in a cold monotone. “And a young boy will carry scars into manhood.”

  “Like us,” James said.

  Cameron twisted the corner of his lips. He understood James’s implication that things could be worse for the boy, but that wasn’t a great comfort. “Two more families without a breadwinner. Too many people affected by my inability to deter the League of Distillers.” He scowled, then dipped his hand in the bucket of water by his side. “Those men would be alive today if I had no been stubborn about bending to their dictates.”

  “Perhaps,” James said. “Then again, had you gone along with the bastards, you would have had to turn many more on your payroll out on the street. Would their families have been grateful?”

  “At least they’d be alive.” He tossed a pebble toward his brother’s grave. “Maybe Miss Starke is right. Maybe distilling whisky is the Devil’s work.”

  “Cameron, you can’t blame the fish in the sea for the men who drown trying to catch them, and you can’t blame yourself for the violence of others.”

  Cameron let his head drop back against the tree trunk. “Do you remember the boy, Ian? The one who Hamish caught stealing? He’s the oldest son. His da drowned several months ago, and today, he almost died in the fire. I’m sending him to the doctor in Edinburgh to look at his lungs when he can safely travel. He’s a rebel. You would like him.”

  “You already do.” That earned a smile. “You’re doing what you can, Cameron. No one can ask for more.”

  “Can’t they? After all the repairs from the League of Distillers’ sabotage, the completion of the new warehouse, and my mother’s constant entertaining, there’s no left to rebuild the malt house. If we don’t rebuild, we can’t continue production. There’s only so much I can do.”

  “You do what you can.”

  “Lord Lothian believes he knows a buyer for Ravenbeck,” Cameron said.

  “You’d sell your grandfather’s distillery?”

  “It may be the only way to keep it in operation. That’s why I’m having a conversation with Adam. Ravenbeck was his dream, after all.”

  “What does he say about the matter?” James asked.

  “He’s been pretty quiet so far. I think he wants me to figure it out for myself.”

  “You don’t have to do that tonight, Cameron. What’s done is done. Do you need to see the doctor about your hand?”

  “This?” He held up his right hand, where a blister was already forming on his palm. “This is nothing. I’ve been through worse. There’s nothing the doctor can do.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you go back to Ravenswood,” James counseled. “Miss Huddleston and Miss Starke are leaving tomorrow. You’ll want to be on hand to say a proper good-bye.”

 
“Did you see how the village stood up for her tonight?” His lips turned up in a smile. “That Fraser hussy pointed her finger at Claire. Tried to say she was responsible for the explosion.” He barked a short laugh. “Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? But Beckmore . . . Did you see that some of them stood up for her? Did you see her face?” He sighed. “They’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

  “I imagine you’ll miss her too.”

  “Aye. That I will,” he said sadly. “That I will.”

  ***

  Claire looked about her small room. She thought she’d accumulated far more memories on this extended trip to Scotland than what would fit in a carpetbag, yet there it sat on her bed. Her traveling dress hung on a peg, ready for tomorrow. Funny how she’d charged here determined to rescue Faith from a cold prison in the Devil’s fortress, yet now she was hesitant to leave.

  “Are you packed?” Faith asked from their connecting doorway. Her long hair flowed like a golden river over her nightgown. Claire hadn’t removed the pins from her own yet. “James said he’d take us to the train after breakfast. With the sobering effect of the fire, Lord Lothian and his party have decided to leave as well. It will be chaotic tomorrow.”

  “I’m working on my speech,” Claire replied. What she didn’t add is that she’d lost interest in it. Her recent experiences had made her think twice about the sometimes radical decrees of the temperance movement. Suddenly the Sober Society didn’t seem to be the answer to the ills that resulted from alcoholism. Help was needed, of course, for the affected innocents, but outlawing the distilleries might not be the answer.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Faith said. “After all the work you’ve taken on for the Sober Society, I’m pleased to see you receive some recognition in such a public forum.”

  Claire smiled, but she felt like a fraud, given her current thoughts. She hadn’t even told Cameron that she had won.

  “I still have the negatives from the distillery photos to develop.” And the negatives of those other photographs that they’d taken at the falls. She could feel her cheeks warm at the memory. She couldn’t leave those here. “I’d hoped to speak to the laird about them, but I haven’t seen him since the fire.”