Page 68 of Laird of Secrets
“Thomas and Neill add peat from the north glenside when they toast sprouted barley over the fires,” Dougal said. “It adds a fine flavor, to my mind. This batch has simply not aged long enough, I think.”
“Glen Kinloch whisky has a more delicate taste,” Hugh agreed, taking another swig from the flask.
“The flowers,” Dougal explained. “This year, the burnside was thick with primroses before we filtered it through. It should be an excellent whisky in three years’ time, and if we can keep it longer, better yet. Generally I like to take the water from higher up the burn in the late summer, when the heather is blooming. Then it gives the brew a honey flavor, but the spring primroses add a light and subtle taste.”
“The heather whisky—that reminds me. The twelve-year batch. Have you been able to set aside casks for Lord Eldin?”
“I have not yet decided if I will sell to him,” Dougal answered.
“The fellow can be unpleasant to deal with,” Hugh said. “Yet he has basic decency, I suppose, despite his cold manner. The money he is offering could rescue this entire glen from the devastation that has plagued other regions in Scotland.”
“Aye, we could possibly have enough to buy back the deed. But it may not be enough to save Glen Kinloch in the future. I want a guarantee. I want all the deeds back, signed in perpetuity to me and to my heirs. And that will take more than Eldin is offering, I think.”
“A fine dream, Kinloch,” Hugh said. “Do not let go of it.”
“Just so,” Dougal said.
* * *
Fiona sat up, startled out of a dream that felt so dear and intimate that she clung to it, to the swiftly vanishing sense of being in Dougal’s arms, feeling his hands on her like heaven, playing over her body like a harper caressing strings, so that the heat of it lingered even as she woke. Sighing out, she saw that the room had gone dim, and she reached to the table beside her, looking for flint and candle.
Footsteps on the stone stair—that was the sound that had woken her. She glanced up, hoping to see him. Maisie entered, holding a glass in one hand and a lantern in the other.
“I brought you whisky and honey,” the girl said, crossing the room to set the glass on the table beside the chair. She bustled about, set the lantern down, lit two candles, and turned. “Miss, the laird asked me to stay, but my brother has just come. He says our Da is doing poorly.”
“Oh dear, what is it?” Fiona asked.
“Da was helping to fight the fire earlier but was overtaken with smoke, just as you were. I would like to go to him, but I promised Kinloch that I would stay here with you tonight.” As she spoke, one of the dogs padded into the room, curious. “Try the warmed whisky, Miss, do.”
“Thank you. Maisie, certainly you must go to your father.” Fiona picked up the glass to sip the concoction. The warm remedy slid down her throat, its sudden heat spreading. She coughed, but almost instantly felt her chest clear a little as her breathing deepened and opened.
“Helps the lungs and throat, see,” Maisie said approvingly. “It is what my father needs, but my brother is too much of a dimwit to make it for him. My mother is no longer with us, and so I do for them both.”
“Please do not stay here on my account, I am fine,” Fiona said. The dog came to her side and nudged at her hand. She patted the gray head. “I have Sorcha and Mhor to protect me.”
“Mhor is a great coward,” Maisie said wryly. “Sorcha is the braver, though that is not worth much with those two. If all is well with you, then, I think I will leave. Your bath is filled and hot. I set a blanket over it to keep the heat until you are ready.”
“Thank you. I would enjoy a bath.”
“Your room is ready too, as you saw. I keep a clean house here, though the laird and his uncles are a wretched lot to tidy after sometimes,” she went on in her breezy way. “The tub is in the kitchen, Miss. I would not drag buckets of hot water up those wicked steps for anyone, and no offense. Well, I do that for wee Lucy, but the laird helps with the buckets. Not for me, all that sort of work.”
Fiona pinched back a smile. “Is the kitchen private enough for a bath?”
“It is. They are all gone and away ‘til dawn or morning, I am guessing. Set the dogs outside the door for a guard, if you like. For supper, there’s soup and porridge in the kettles,” Maisie went on. “I do not always cook an evening meal, though tonight the lads are away to the fire. But often on other nights they are not here either, making runs until dawn and such, as they do. So I leave them soup or cold meats and cheese before I go home, and—” She stopped, as if realizing she had said too much. “Sorry, Miss. I will go, then, if you truly are fine here.”
“I am.” Fiona stood. If Dougal and the others were planning a run, as Maisie called it, that surely meant smuggling. “Thank you. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I will stay with my Da for a bit. I left a few clean garments for you in your room.” At the door, she turned. “Miss, please do not go out tonight. Much wiser to stay inside when the moon is out, and when the laird is out as well.” She paused as if to say something more, but turned and left, footsteps light on the stairs.
Fiona looked down at Mhor, curled at her feet, resting his head on his paws and contemplating her. “What shall we do, sir?” she asked. “I wonder what your master is up to tonight. Such secrecy,” she murmured. “I do wish he trusted me better.” As if in happy agreement, the dog thumped his tail.
Sitting again, she picked up a book from the side table and read a little by candlelight while she sipped the rest of the whisky. The book was James MacPherson’sOssian, a stirring but controversial collection of ancient Celtic tales. She remembered reading some of it with her brother William. Despite having a physician’s pragmatism, William was fascinated by ancient myths and legends.
Intriguing, she thought, to find this book and so many others in the keeping of a whisky smuggler who claimed little interest in such things.
Chapter 14
After a warm, soothing bath while the dogs kept lazy watch in the outer hall, Fiona dried herself with a linen towel and then pulled on the things that Maisie had left near the tub: a soft, loose nightgown—a man’s shirt, rather large on her—and a dressing gown of red brocade. Her own things needed a good airing, still smelling strongly of smoke. She was glad, too, to have washed the clinging odor out of her hair and off her skin with the very nice lavender soap Maisie had provided.
