The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  Even though Cameron had proclaimed her beautiful time and time again last night, she knew she was not. But Lord, he made her feel beautiful with every touch and every kiss. He taught her body to tremble and shatter with ecstasy in a way she wouldn’t have believed possible. Even as she knew that she’d never experience such unique pleasure again, she was grateful for having experienced it this once. But now she had to leave this magical castle and return to the shadows of London, where, with the exception of the Rake Patrol, she’d be ignored and dismissed and called dismal names.

  “Are you ready?” Faith asked, after Claire had returned to her tiny room to change and wait to be discovered.

  Was she? It had been an enchanted time, but it was probably best to leave before the magic faded and harsh reality intruded. She touched her stomach—perhaps she was taking some of the magic with her. “I just need to pack the negatives from yesterday, and the supplies to develop them.”

  “Give me your bag and I’ll ring for one of the footmen to take our luggage downstairs.” Faith looked about her room, far grander than the one allotted to Claire, then sighed. “It was lovely to be a guest at the manor, wasn’t it?” She glanced back at Claire with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “The laird was kind enough to give me a bottle of Ravenbeck Scotch to take home to my father. My mother was hoping I’d return with a marriage proposal, but she’s to be disappointed.”

  “A marriage proposal?”

  “She thought I might catch the laird’s eye, but I think someone else managed that.”

  Claire felt heat rising to her cheeks.

  “Go on then and pack up your supplies. I’ll see you afterward in the dining room so we can say our good-byes to the others.”

  ***

  Peat padded to the bedroom door that had closed behind Claire and whimpered. Cameron commiserated. He felt as if a part of him had left as well. Living at Ravenswood would require a strong woman, one who could stand up to the isolation, one who held strong convictions; yet one who knew compassion. Claire had all those qualities and more. But she’d made it clear that her loyalties belonged to those who despised his business, not to him. She planned to leave him with her head held high, and possibly with his bairn in her womb. Yes. They would meet again, he vowed. And the next time she would not slip away so easily.

  Chapter 35

  Clutching the speech she’d prepared, Claire sat on a rudimentary stage, along with the officers of Women for a Sober Society and that flamboyant American, Mrs. Carrie Nation, who’d brought the hatchet she’d used to destroy taverns. A few male supporters were scattered in the crowd of women and children, some holding signs with Claire’s slogans. But by far, most of the men in attendance lingered on the fringes, shouting words of discouragement and rancor.

  Public recognition and acknowledgment had been her dream. This was her moment. Yet her nervous stomach churned with bile, her throat was as dry as the paper in her hand, and her very voice trembled. Lucy Ledbetter had come in second behind her in the temperance challenge, yet at this very moment, Claire would gladly change places with her irritating, chatty colleague. Why, oh why, had she longed for such a gut-wrenching opportunity? She wasn’t a beauty worthy of display. She wasn’t an orator capable of inspiring an audience. She was . . . a photographer. Something she’d only recently discovered in an enchanted castle in the wild, windy north.

  The memory brought a smile to her lips and removed her mentally from the loud, jostling crowd. Cameron had recognized her ability to speak through her prints long before she had. Even now, in her mind’s eye, she could see that spark of admiration in his appraising glance.

  She thought he might be pleased with her decision to use some of the prize purse to purchase a camera. She had her eye on one of the newer, more lightweight models, with a faster shutter speed. Eventually she could open her own photography studio and maybe put her constant financial concerns behind her. While one of the speakers extolled a litany of the vices of alcohol, Claire removed her pocket watch from her reticule, then slid her thumb over the engraving. To a developing friendship. The double entendre never failed to make her smile.

  She missed him—she hadn’t realized how much until she’d returned to her small, cold room in Mrs. Simmon’s rooming house. The sparse furnishings which she once considered practical now seemed devoid of interest and creativity. Even a rack of antlers would add a bit of interest to the otherwise dull environment. London seemed gray and dirty, and more crowded than vibrant. But worse of all, the nights were unbearably lonely and unending. She longed for a bit of Scottish brogue and a man’s touch that could heat even the coldest nights.

  Someone poked her in the side. She glanced up to see everyone on the stage had turned expectantly toward her. Quickly, she dropped the watch in her bag, then stood before the crowd.

  ***

  Cameron hovered on the outskirts of the crowd on Oxford Street. He had tried to stay away. His meeting with Glenwhinny Whiskies had gone better than expected. He had no further reason to stay in London . . . except he couldn’t leave without seeing her once last time. Try one more time to change her mind. So he came to the temperance movement rally that she’d set such store in and stood at the back of the crowd, near the entrance to one of the pubs on Oxford Street.

  Amazing, the number of pubs and taverns on this street. Beckmore just had the one, the Rising Cock. The hanging shingles up and down the street announced tavern names with bulls, bears, roosters, dogs, and every animal imaginable. No wonder Claire initially blamed the taverns rather than the men frequenting them. With so many along one street, the pubs made an easy target.

  Posters and banners proliferated the street. Some of the slogans jolted his memory and made him smile: Temperance Leads to Wealth and Health, A Drink in the Morning Leads to Friends Mourning, and, of course, The Devil’s Drink and Poverty Link.

  He spotted Claire up on a makeshift stage, waiting her turn to speak. He watched her stroke the engraved cover of the pocket watch he gave her, then smile. Could that smile be for fond memories? Or was it due to anticipation about her speech? A woman drowning in flowers had already announced that Claire had won their competition. While he was disappointed that accepting that prize had meant her departure from Ravenswood, he couldn’t help but swell with pride at her achievement, even though it ran counter to his livelihood.

  She stepped up to the podium. Proud, fearless, and confident. She wanted to make a difference in the world and—By God, look at her—with her back straight and her head held high, she was doing just that. He was anxious to hear how she would temper her speech with the reality they’d discussed. While she would no doubt support temperance, hers should be the more balanced speech given all that they’d been through. He hoped she would discuss the need for shelters for the innocent victims of drunkenness and perhaps the need for assistance to get the addled man or woman dependent on alcohol back to a productive life. Hers, he felt certain, would not be a blanket call for the closing of all distilleries.

  A disheveled man stumbled out of the Bull and Beast, then squinted up at the stage. “Is that the crow up there? What’s she doing?” He stumbled forward and made a megaphone with his hands. “Caw, caw, ca—ooff!”

  He crumbled to the ground.

  While protecting his injured hand, Cameron slipped his arms beneath the man’s armpits and dragged him back to the tavern’s exterior wall before someone discovered his handiwork.

  “He’s had a wee bit too much,” Cameron explained to one inquisitive passerby. The body thus disposed, he stepped forward to hear Claire’s speech.

  However, it was soon obvious that her speech was to be like all the others. All those discussions about fault and need weren’t worth a farthing. She raised a fist, the crowd cheered. She called for legislation, and the crowd raised their signs. The hope that Claire had been persuaded to see things differently was extinguished. As long as she denounced distilleries,
there could be no life together for them. His heart plummeted. He’d been foolish to think she was different. He’d been foolish to suppose she was the one. He’d been foolish to bother to come here today.

  Crushing disappointment brought his head low. He turned to leave, but instead slipped into the Bull and Beast. Watching the woman who had stolen his heart revert to the self-righteous firebrand who believed he was the Devil merited a stiff drink.

  Chapter 36

  Claire paused for dramatic effect in her speech. She lowered the megaphone and lifted her gaze to the crowd. Her slogans, hoisted on sticks, bounced in her field of vision. How silly those slogans seemed now. Indeed, how hollow and unbalanced her entire speech seemed now. She’d written the words that the Sober Society wanted her to say, but they tasted false and vile in her mouth.

  Sarah stood in the front near the podium, frantically taking notes. Claire knew she hoped her coverage of the temperance rally would appear on the front page of the Mayfair Messenger. Faith stood to the side of her with a single crutch. And by Faith’s side stood . . . was that James? Yes. His scar was unmistakable. He scowled at her in disappointment, mirroring her own thoughts.

  If James was here, could Cameron have come as well? She searched the crowd, then thought she saw his broad back slipping into the Bull and Beast. Had he been here? What would he think of her speech? She glanced down at her prepared words. Then again, perhaps she wouldn’t want to know.

  The crowd shifted restlessly. Indistinguishable murmuring rose at her continued silence. What was she doing? She shuffled her papers, pages of lies. Had she learned nothing during her stay at Ravenswood?

  She looked back at Mrs. Preston, the woman who had pinned the sash identifying Claire as the Temperance Challenge winner, but who now winced while Claire examined a pocket watch.

  To A Developing Friendship . . .

  Suddenly it all became clear. Continuing this speech would be paramount to Lucy Ledbetter’s deceitful newspaper article. Claire crumpled up her papers and tossed them aside, then raised the megaphone to her lips.

  “All that I’ve told you today is a lie, or, at best, only partly the truth. Recently, I spent three weeks in Scotland, and this is what I know to be true. One can not blame alcohol for turning good men into heathens who abuse and harm innocents, anymore than one can blame a woman’s frivolous hat for putting frivolous thoughts in her head.”

  The crowd quieted, and she shouted the thoughts that she’d pieced together herself. Good men and even women could drink whisky in a reasonable fashion. Distilleries were so important to the economy of both Scotland and England, and any suggestion that Parliament would willingly forfeit that revenue by closing them was ludicrous. Enforced moderation made far more sense than outlawing liquor. She could have said more, but Mrs. Preston and Mrs. Nation ripped the megaphone from her fingers before forcibly escorting her off the platform amid cheers and jeers from the crowd.

  ***

  “She truly decried the Sober Society?” Cameron asked incredulously.

  “You should have been there,” James said, pouring whisky into two glasses. “There was a bit of a scuffle to remove her from the stage. That crazy American threatened her with a hatchet for supporting the consumption of alcohol—”

  “Miss Starke dinna come to harm?” Cameron interrupted. “You managed to protect her?” James was right. He should have stayed to protect her himself.

  James laughed. “I tried, but she was doing a marvelous job of it herself. She stomped on the American’s foot, then knocked the hatchet from her hand. I was a bit afraid to step between them.”

  “But you did . . .” Bollocks! He would have enjoyed watching his English take on the American.

  “I didn’t have to. Miss Starke left on her own volition, ripping that sash from her shoulders as she did.”

  Conflict raged within him. While he should be pleased that she had separated herself from the temperance movement and from that Sober Society in particular, he knew how proud she was of winning that prize. Indeed, it had meant so much to her that she’d left him in Scotland to return here to collect it.

  “I need to speak with her,” he said.

  “I thought as much,” James said. “Miss Huddleston and I intercepted Miss Starke as she left the rally. Apparently she needs to speak with you as well.”

  That was a surprise. He raised his brows. “So she knows I’m here . . .”

  “She has something to give to you. She said either you or I should meet her tomorrow at some place called the Crescent Coffee Palace.”

  He winced at the name. “I assume no whisky will be present for this meeting.” Which would be a shame. He’d rather enjoyed the effect some rather excellent Scotch had on Miss Starke the last time she’d imbibed.

  “Cameron, you may want to go armed. Miss Starke appears to have a wicked temper, and she was none too pleased to see me. I think she was even less pleased to learn you were in London.”

  She was angry at him? That should not be a surprise. She had most likely just realized the consequences of their actions the night of the fire. Or . . . was it possible that she had discovered she was with child? No, no, enough time hadn’t passed—but she could be concerned about the possibility. At least he was in a better position to discuss such things in a reasonable manner now than before. Of course, “reasonable” and Claire might not go hand in hand.

  Chapter 37

  To one familiar with such things, it was apparent that the Crescent Coffee Palace was once a gin palace. All the signs were there: dark wooden exterior, gilded lettering on the windows, the identifying shingle . . . but once the door was opened, the similarities ended. Not only were there no tipsy gentlemen or inebriated laborers loitering at the large mahogany bar—there were no men. Not a one!

  Except Cameron Macpherson, laird of the clan Macpherson, proud kilted Scotsman and distiller of note, who stood with a long-stemmed rose in one bandaged hand and a slim paper bag in the other.

  The distinctly feminine chatter ceased the moment he passed into the common room, while thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes raked his physique from head to toe. He scanned the stunned crowd of gaily dressed lassies, seeking Miss Starke’s practical black-and-white, but he couldn’t locate her. As conversation returned and the volume increased, one of the apron-wearing servers took pity on him and offered assistance.

  “Oh, Miss Starke! She comes here frequently,” the older woman exclaimed before glancing quickly at the room. “I don’t see that she’s here today, though.”

  “Is there a table she prefers?” he asked, letting his Scottish brogue win her smile. He lifted the rose that he’d bought at the florist next door, so the server might see his intentions. “I’m expecting her shortly, and I’d like her to feel comfortable.”

  “She and her friends usually sit at that table against the back wall.” She gestured with her elbow. “I can tell her when she arrives that you’re here, but then”—the woman blushed—“I imagine she’ll see that right off.”

  Cameron nodded his thanks and wove his way through the tables, with their colorful occupants. As he passed one table in particular, he noticed a mousy woman who seemed vaguely familiar. He stopped, tapping his chin lightly with the delicate rose, trying to remember her name from among those of the many others his mother had lured to Ravenswood.

  “It’s him,” the mouse said, her eyes as round as whisky bottles. “The barbarian I told you about.”

  “Miss Townsend?” He smiled wickedly, then laid on the Scottish brogue so thick as to be cut with the dirk he’d tucked in his kilt hose. “I’ve come to hoist you over my shoulder, lass, and take ye back to Scotland. What say ye?”

  She fainted dead away. He laughed, letting her two friends administer to her as he continued to the back.

  Yes. This would be Claire’s table. Much like James, she preferred the shadows, removing herself from the public eye.
She had no concept of her incredible beauty. The thought made him smile. For a woman so talented in capturing the passion in others, she missed seeing it in herself. If she would allow it, he’d like to change her perception of her attractiveness. Challenge her to see herself as he did—smart, alluring, compassionate, devoted, and beautiful in a wild, restless way.

  As if his thoughts had summoned her, she appeared at the entrance. Their eyes met across the expanse of the room. He smiled. She nodded. So that was the way it was to be. He recalled James’s suggestion to arm himself against her temper, and he had. He’d brought a rose.

  She walked toward the back, pausing briefly at the commotion he’d left behind. That’s when he noticed she was not alone. Miss Huddleston and another lady followed behind her. Claire had brought reinforcements. At the last minute, her friends veered toward a different table. Miss Huddleston avoided his glance, while the other lady blatantly stared. Not a good sign.

  He stood as Claire approached, then bowed and pitched his voice intimately low. “Miss Starke, what a tremendous pleasure to see you again.”

  “I see you received my message,” she said, straight as a board, with fire in her eyes. To say she placed an envelope on the table would be a misnomer; slapped would be more appropriate.

  “I did.” He pulled the chintz-covered chair out for her, then waited till she was seated before he leaned close to her ear. “And I brought you this.” He brought the rose from behind his back and set it before her.

  She smiled tightly, then sniffed at the blossom. “A rose and a personal ad.”

  “Pardon?” he asked, carefully lowering himself onto his fragile, wobbly seat.

  She shook her head. “I was just thinking about someone else whose future was impacted by a rose and a personal ad. However, she had a happy consequence.”