The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 21

  “Och, Claire. Forget about the camera. Just enjoy the water and the trees.” Taking his own advice, he settled down on a slab of rock wide enough to support the dining hall table. “Sit with me.” He patted the hard surface.

  She cast a glance to the nearby patch of solid ground where Cameron had set the camera and supplies. Assured they were safe, she obliged, feeling the heat of the sunbaked rock filter through her skirt. While a breeze lifted the leaves on the surrounding trees, the sun seemed particularly hot on this ancient surface.

  He reached over and picked up her hand. “I wanted to speak with you about last night. I know you weren’t expecting to wake in my bed.” He studied her face. “How are you feeling? Does your head still ache?”

  She slowly shook her head, without the painful repercussions that she’d experienced earlier.

  “Good. I’m sorry our wager ended the way it did, but I’m no sorry you saw for yourself that drinking whisky doesn’t turn you into an evil person. It just frees you to be more of the person you already are. A kind person is more kind.” He ran his fingertips down the sensitive inside of her arm, awakening a trail of tingling sensation. “A passionate person becomes even more passionate.”

  “And what was I?” she asked.

  “You don’t remember?” he asked incredulously.

  “I don’t remember much except waking undressed in your bed while you slept in a chair.”

  “Believe me, it was not easy being a model of restraint. Do you remember how you asked me to feed you whisky?”

  No. She honestly didn’t.

  “You sat on my lap and challenged me to draw whisky from your glass and deliver it to you with a kiss like this.” His lips captured hers. His tongue pressed against the seam of her mouth and she opened for him. Yes. She remembered this—the dizzying feeling of a man wanting to taste her, all of her.

  His groan rumbled through her. Shifting his position, he gently pushed her back against the rock. Her boater hat toppled off her head and most likely was drifting away in the water, but she didn’t care.

  His chest pressed against her; such a glorious feeling. Her arms wrapped around his back, holding him close.

  He lifted his head. “Och, English. You’re intoxicating, even without the whisky.” Then he rolled over to his back, his hand squeezing hers. “I do not wish you to go. You could stay here and save me from a life of ruin.” His eyebrows lifted in question.

  “You just said that whisky alone doesn’t cause one’s ruin.” She smiled.

  “That’s true, but I think you’ll be taking my heart when you return to England, and a man without a heart isna much of a man.”

  “Then it’s true.” She looked at him, surprised. “You slept in the chair out of respect.”

  “Why did you think I stayed in the chair?” he asked, confused.

  “I thought you weren’t attracted to me,” she confessed. “That you didn’t find me pretty. My nose . . .”

  “What’s wrong with your nose?”

  “It’s too large for my face,” she explained.

  “English.” He sighed. “That is one of the most dull-witted, feebleminded, utterly ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. Yours is a face of character, and this nose”—he kissed the tip of it—“fits perfectly in it.” Sitting up, he pulled his shirt over his head. “Come on. Let’s go swimming.”

  “Swimming!” She sat straight up. “I’m not wearing a bathing dress.”

  He tossed his shirt to hang on some bushes. “Only the English need clothes for swimming.” He took off his shoes and pulled off those long socks. “Do you remember when your appearance interrupted my morning swim when you first arrived?”

  How could she forget? The mental image of him standing on the sand, shirtless, with scars ravaging his shoulder and arm, had played in her dreams every night since that day.

  “Had you come just a few minutes later, this is how you would have found me.” He grinned and unfastened his kilt. She was so shocked by his actions that she didn’t see all that she wanted before he made a shallow dive into the water. A moment later, a dark streak flew by. Peat had landed in the water as well.

  “Come on, English. The water is perfect.”

  “I can’t swim!” she shouted back, laughing at the antics of dog and man.

  “You don’t have to. The water is shallow enough to stand, and I’m no about to let you drown. See? I’m standing in the deepest part now.”

  Indeed, the water skimmed below his shoulders. She fingered the buttons of her blouse. Did she dare?

  “It’s no as if I haven’t seen you naked before, English. Who do you think undressed you last night?”

  “Lower your voice!” she scolded. “Someone might hear!”

  “No one is near. Come on, Claire. You don’t want to leave the Highlands without experiencing this part of her.”

  His use of the word “experience” resonated. Once she returned to London, her opportunities for new experiences would be few and rare. She’d be alone in her rented room, reliving her time in the Highlands through her memories again and again.

  Her fingers worked the buttons on her blouse, and soon she was placing it and her shawl on a rock out of reach of the water. She turned her back toward him so she couldn’t see him watch, but the sounds of splashing and Peat’s barking made her think he was affording her some privacy. The rest of her clothes joined the pile on the rock until she stood in her long chemise. Once that was removed, she’d be completely naked. In her memory, she’d never been completely naked in front of another person before.

  “It’ll be too wet to wear beneath your clothes if you don’t take it off,” he called.

  She spun about. “Turn around,” she insisted. “I can’t do this if you’re watching me.”

  “But I’ve—”

  “Turn around.” She fisted her hands on her hips, and he reluctantly complied. Once she was certain he wasn’t watching, she lifted the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, then tossed it to join her other articles of clothing. She made her way to the spot where Cameron had dived into the water. She sat on the edge and eased in.

  The cold water rose steadily on her body, forcing gooseflesh on her arms. But she couldn’t very well back out now. She almost shouted from the cold when the water reached her breasts, but that discomfort passed once her shoulders were submerged.

  “I’m here,” she said, finding a bit of comfort that only her neck and head were visible. “I’m freezing, but I’m here.”

  “I can take care of that.” Cameron slipped close and pulled her into his arms. “Body heat,” he murmured into her ear, as he pressed her tight against his chest.

  Dear God in Heaven! How to explain the glorious feeling of a man’s naked body pressed tight against one’s own! Even his thigh that had slipped between her legs and pressed against the mysterious juncture of her legs sent peals of titillation up her rib cage and down to her toes.

  “Warmer?” he asked. “I know I am.”

  She held tight to his shoulders while he swirled her about and pulled her along in the water. His hands slipped to her waist, exploring that inward curve before sliding over her hips. Meanwhile, that part of him that she’d only seen briefly slid along the cleft of her bottom, hidden by her dark curls.

  She was flirting with danger, she knew. On one hand, she wanted to experience what married women had, what Edwina had, what even Lucy Ledbetter had. And she wanted the teacher of such worldly experiences to be this man. But what of the consequences?

  “Wrap your legs around my waist,” Cameron said. “Lean back. I’ve got your waist. Nothing will happen to you.”

  She did as he instructed, then saw her nipples break through the water. With his firm grasp on her body, she felt confident enough to ease her head back in the water. She closed her eyes and arched her back ever so slightly. The sun b
ore down on her breasts while Cameron pulled her along in the water.

  “So beautiful,” he said. And in that moment, she truly believed she was.

  ***

  Cameron cast a glance at the sky. “I wish we could stay here longer, but we should think about drying off, we’ll need to return to Ravenswood before we’re missed.”

  “But there are no towels.”

  “We can lie on the flat rock. The sun will dry us.” He launched from the water, and, using the strength of his arms, he twisted himself to a sitting position on the edge, sending water droplets flying. “Give me your arms and I’ll pull you up.”

  She hesitated a moment. Their play had made her less conscious of her nudity, but once she left the water, she’d be naked to the world. Still, she took a deep breath and raised her arms for Cameron’s assistance.

  A light breeze swept across her skin as she lay alongside Cameron, basking in the sun.

  “Good,” he said. “The breeze will keep the wee midges away.” Peat jumped out of the pool, then shook himself dry, splattering them with fresh, cold water.

  She should be embarrassed, but it felt so right to be surrounded by nature and open to the sun. Cameron seemed more at ease here as well. This is how she wanted to remember him. A part of the country he loved in his most elemental form. She stared, trying to burn his image into her memory, but then she remembered the camera.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I want to take your photograph,” she said, walking over to where he’d left the equipment. She almost laughed. Earlier she wouldn’t remove her chemise in front of him, but now she walked naked. She was not the same woman who’d arrived from London just three weeks ago. “I have a few negative frames left. I want a print to remember you.”

  “You won’t remember me otherwise?” A sad note had slipped into his voice.

  She stopped twisting the lock to secure the box camera to the tripod for a moment and looked back at him with all the love and respect that she held in her heart for this man. “I’ll always remember you.” Then she smiled mischievously and locked down the camera. “But I still want this photograph.”

  He stretched out on his side, facing her. From her vantage point, she could see the waterfall behind him. The sun wove a path through the leaves and the rocks, highlighting a spot here, casting another spot in shadow. The composition was perfect. Too bad no one would ever see it but her. She stepped away from the cloth in the back.

  “Ready?” He nodded. She removed the lens cap and counted.

  “Now, it’s my turn,” he said once she’d replaced the cap.

  Her eyes widened. “To what?”

  “To take your photograph. I’ll need something to remember this day as well.”

  It seemed fair . . . especially as she’d be the one with the negative. She set a new glass plate in the camera, then sat on the rock so her feet would dangle in the water. From this distance, she knew he wouldn’t capture many details, but she hadn’t bargained on him lifting the camera and placing it much closer to her position.

  “Now turn toward me,” he said. “Arch your back a little, and hold . . .” He stepped out from behind the cloth and removed the lens cap. “I forgot to ask you how long to keep this open.”

  She couldn’t answer, but by her estimation he did a reasonable job. He replaced the cap.

  “We need to get back,” she said. “Could you help me dismantle the camera?”

  They’d gotten dressed and were in the process of securing the equipment when a loud boom sounded, followed by two short explosions. Claire looked to the clear sky.

  “That can’t be lightning striking a tree.”

  Cameron looked toward a distant plume of smoke. “No. That’s the distillery.”

  Chapter 33

  Cameron mounted Buaidh and raced to the distillery, cursing himself the whole way. After finding that stick of dynamite, he’d increased the night guard. He hadn’t anticipated that they’d strike during daylight. He looked at the sky. The shift wouldn’t have ended. He should have been at Ravenbeck rather than minding some silly hunting party planned by his mother. He should have been at Ravenbeck rather than dallying with a feisty supporter of temperance.

  A troubling thought interceded. Would she be pleased by the damage to the distillery? Would she celebrate the loss of income to so many of the residents of Beckmore? He knew in his heart that his compassionate Claire would aid the villagers in any way she could, but he wasn’t sure if her concern would extend to whisky production as well. From the day she’d arrived, she’d been consistent about the evils of whisky. Like a fool, he’d introduced her to the power of a good whisky last night. What were her thoughts now?

  He swung into the yard, then dismounted behind the people gathering to watch the flames. His arm and shoulder tingled as if it remembered that similar fire, seven years ago. This one roared, feeding on the empty oak casks. Memories of death, agony, and incredible loss flashed in his mind. He shook them off as he pushed through the crowd of women and children. A bucket line had formed from the burn. Cameron rolled up his sleeves and joined the line behind Hamish.

  “Was anyone inside?” he shouted.

  Hamish gripped his arm and held his stare. “There’s no you can do. All are out that are coming out.”

  Cameron’s chest tightened. There were dead, then. Most likely blackened beyond recognition. They’d be identified by the widows who still would be waiting when all the others had reunited. He continued to pass along the buckets.

  “Burned?”

  “Only one, but not as bad as yourself. We were lucky there. The doc is working on him.”

  “What happened?”

  “A wagon near the malt house exploded. The fire took down the malt house, then spread to the casks in the yard. We’ve kept the flames from the stills so far. Some of these buckets are keeping those walls of the still house wet.”

  “What about the warehouse?” While he had rebuilt the warehouse with bricks so as not to repeat the inferno of years past, the shelves that held the casks were wood, and the casks themselves were white oak. Of course, a spark from a fire like this could enter through one of the ventilation windows and catch on a whisky-filled cask.

  Hamish stopped then used his sleeve to wipe the smoke residue from his face. “It’s good that you moved the warehouse further away from the still room. It’s upwind, so it should be safe. We rolled the filled casks on the rail track up to the warehouse to get them out of the way, but our supply of seasoned casks are gone.”

  Whisky was never aged in new casks. Like most distilleries, Ravenbeck bought old casks used to age sherry wine, then reused them through multiple fillings of whisky. Each time the cask was used, the lid was painted a different color. Naturally, the whisky residue would make them highly flammable, as well as the painted lids. The saboteur knew what they were doing. Set an explosion outside the malt house and the empty casks would fuel the inferno.

  “A wagon doesn’t explode on its own.” Especially when he’d received threats of violent reprisals from the League of Distillers. “Did anyone see anything?”

  Hamish pulled him out of the bucket line, then walked a few steps away, where they would have privacy. “The only person anyone noticed near the malt house was Miss Starke.” He hesitated a moment. “I’m sorry, Mac.”

  Cameron tried to pull away, but Hamish held his arm. Cameron shook his head. “It couldna have been Miss Starke.”

  “She’s one of those temperance people,” Hamish said, disgust in his voice. “She’s probably celebrating this very minute.”

  Anger flashed at the inference. “She’s been with me all day,” Cameron said harshly. “It’s no Miss Starke.”

  The pity in Hamish’s eyes expressed his disbelief. “She was seen in the yard, Mac. She could have placed the dynamite for someone else,” he said quietly. “She dinna need
to light the match.”

  Cameron’s jaw dropped. “You think she’s working with the League of Distillers?” He shook his head. “I’d think even a temperance woman would think twice about conspiring with those addle-brained thugs.”

  “All I know is many people saw her, and the men . . . well . . . it’s said that she’s writing newspaper articles that make Beckmore look foolish.” His lips formed a tight, thin line. “She’s no liked verra much.”

  Newspaper articles? Where did such nonsense come from?

  “The village doesn’t know her like I do,” Cameron grumbled. He didn’t need to defend Claire. She’d manage on her own, given the opportunity. Of course, with her returning to London, the opportunity needed to be right now. “I’ll find out who’s responsible, but I know it’s no Miss Starke.”

  He set off to see the injured, leaving Hamish and the bucket brigade behind. The malt house had burned quickly. Remains of a wall crashed into the growing pile of sodden ash at its base, sending up a flurry of airborne sparks that quickly returned to the pile. Water from the bucket line continued to douse the ashes, eliminating the threats of a wind fueled spark.

  He’d find whoever did this. He’d hound him to the gallows if need be. But in the midst of his rage over the loss of life and destruction, Hamish’s suspicion of Claire intruded. She was nervous when he found her on the road. But then, she thought she’d been shot at. Could she have a part in this? Lord, he hoped not.

  ***

  A crowd had already gathered by the time Claire arrived with Peat. A water brigade had begun. Mothers and wives searched for their loved ones along the line. She tried unsuccessfully to find Cameron, then she spotted Mrs. Docherty in obvious distress. She hurried over to offer assistance if she could.

  “My son! My son!” the woman cried. “I canna find Ian!”

  Claire recalled Cameron had given her oldest a job to help feed the family. “We’ll find him,” Claire reassured the mother. “It’s so chaotic here . . . Did you check the bucket line?”