Page 186 of The Highlander's English Bride

When he reached the end of the ravine, he climbed up and quickly covered the remaining ground to the back of the shed. He tugged on a sash window. It was locked, but certainly big enough for him to climb through. A quick jab of his elbow broke the glass. He unlocked the window and raised the sash, then pushed aside the burlap curtain and hoisted himself through.

With only one other small window by the door, also covered with burlap, little light seeped in. Impatiently, Graeme dragged aside the other curtain. Sunlight streamed in, falling directly onto several dozen small casks neatly piled up to the ceiling. It didn’t take a genius to deduce what was in them.

He strode across the shed and rapped on a few of the casks. Full, and the scent told him they contained prime Highland whisky, ready to be smuggled. From the marks on the floor, there’d been more casks stacked out to the middle of the room. Having engaged in a bit of illegal brewing himself, he was reluctantly impressed by the size of the operation.

The Barrs seemed to have established a roaring business in their corner of Lochnagar. No wonder they were so fashed by their eviction. This type of rig took years to build and couldn’t be easily moved or replaced.

The shed also served as living quarters, with a bed against one wall and two smaller cots tipped on their ends in a corner. A roughhewn table with benches took up the center of the room, and a small peat stove stood by the door. A set of shelves contained dishes, glassware, and cooking utensils, along with basic foodstuffs like flour, oats, and tea.

The stove, with its neat stacks of peat, was ready to be lit.

Got ye, ye bastards.

Grinning to himself, Graeme continued his search, finding tattered maps of the surrounding lochs and rivers with smuggling routes marked out in pencil. Even more rewarding was a cache of ledgers. He shook his head at all the careful notations of buyers, shipments, and receipts—evidence that the bloody rig had been running for years, carefully recorded for posterity.

He took one of the ledgers and started for the window, but quickly froze, straining to hear.

Hell and damnation.

Oars slapping against water, then the scrape of wood against the pier.

Time to make a run for it.

He all but hurled himself out the window, landing hard on his side. Getting up, he managed only a few steps before someone clamped hands on his back and pulled him down. Graeme and his assailant landed in a sprawl in the dirt.

Rolling over, he lashed out a boot. The man howled and doubled over, clutching a hand to his groin.

Lucky kick.

Graeme started to push up, but another man jumped him from behind. The bastard was bloody heavy, too, all but knocking the breath out of him. Graeme writhed and managed to drive an elbow into the man’s gut.

When the attacker grunted and loosened his grip, Graeme heaved and was able to throw him off. Coming up onto his knees, he drove his fist into the man’s face. With a scream, the big bloke collapsed to the ground, clutching his bloody nose.

Graeme shot to his feet, reaching for the pistol inside his coat.

“Leave off, ye bastard,” snarled another man in a thick Highland brogue, shoving the barrel of a gun to his skull.

Graeme sighed as his own weapon was confiscated.

“And ye two idiots,” barked his captor. “Get yerself out of the dirt before I shoot ye, too.”

“He broke my nose, Jackie,” whined the big fellow.

“And he broke my nuts,” moaned the other one.

“I’ll break yer heads if ye don’t get up. Bloody useless, ye are. Dinna know why I keep ye around.”

The one who’d taken a shot to the groin gingerly climbed to his feet, still cupping himself. He was a tall, skinny lad with a bad complexion, and probably not yet twenty.

“That hurt bad, ye ken,” he said to Graeme in a wounded tone.

Graeme shrugged. “Sorry.”

The heavy-set fellow lumbered unsteadily to his feet. “My mam willna be pleased about my nose, mister. She doesna like me gettin’ hurt, ye ken.”

Graeme barely repressed a snort. “My sincere apologies to your mother.”

“Och, idiots,” came a mutter from behind him. The pistol retreated from Graeme’s skull. “Put up yer hands and turn around.”

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