The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 25

  Unlike me. The words were not spoken, but hung in the air between them. He was about to ask why she was so angry with him when she pushed the envelope toward him.

  “What’s this?”

  “The photographs of Ravenbeck that I promised. I took them the morning of the explosion and hadn’t a chance to develop them until I came here.”

  Here, she’d said, not home. Something indeed was not right. He was about to ask when a waitress appeared to take their order. Claire ordered tea and he ordered coffee, then, remembering her hearty appetite, he ordered an assortment of confections and tiny sandwiches as well.

  Once the server had left, he leaned forward, resting his arm on the unopened envelope. “English, why are you so angry? Is it because of what we shared? If you recall, I asked—”

  “No. It’s not because of that.”

  He didn’t try to hide his confusion. “Then I dinna understand.”

  ***

  Claire bit her lip, uncertain how to explain the swirling emotions inside of her. There he sat, all handsome and virile and completely unobtainable. “You changed my life,” she finally admitted. “Before I met you, I had a purpose. I had friends. My life was not luxurious or easy, but I was content.”

  “You still have friends,” he said. “I can see them glaring at me every time I look in their direction.”

  “I meant my friends at the Sober Society,” she corrected, glancing down at her hands to avoid his eyes. “They are no longer speaking to me.”

  “Because of the rally,” he said with sympathy.

  “Yes.” She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. “Because I challenged the wisdom of the Sober Society, indeed of the whole Temperance Movement, on a stage, in public. I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t met you!”

  Heads turned their way. She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I’ve lost my identity. I’m not sure who I am anymore. I thought I knew the path to my future, but that’s gone.” She waved her hand to indicate the disappearance of the plump purse that was to have been presented to her at the conclusion of her speech. She’d had so many dreams attached to that purse, and they’d vanished as well.

  “Even London seems colorless and gray after having experienced the lavenders of the heather, the blue of the loch, the rich greens of the forest, and the golden whisky specks . . .” She glanced up and saw them, the golden whisky specks in his eyes. She couldn’t finish. Her mouth dried and she couldn’t continue.

  “You haven’t lost me, English. I’m here.”

  “You’re in Scotland,” she corrected. “With a mother who hates me. In a town that despises me. You’ve enough worries of your own.” Without adding mine, she added silently. Her time with Cameron may have changed her in ways that she’d not anticipated, but he hadn’t changed her pride. She wouldn’t ask for his help.

  Their server appeared with cups and plates, pots of hot liquid, and a three-tiered tray of succulent morsels. Claire leaned back in her chair while the server cluttered the tabletop with porcelain and cutlery.

  She watched Cameron remove the envelope from the table so the plates and pots could be arranged. He settled back in his chair and opened the envelope, silently cycling through the prints while they waited for the server to finish. Would he notice that she hadn’t included the naughty prints they’d made at the waterfall? Just thinking about the naked Scotsmen sprawled among the rocks raised the temperature in her small corner of the room. She’d keep that one for herself. As for the photographs he’d taken of her, she doubted he’d remember.

  He squinted at one print, then pulled it separate from the others. He raised it closer to his eyes and lowered it again. He pulled another out. A wide grin spread across his face and he leapt from his chair. “English, you beautiful, talented woman. You’ve done it!”

  She looked at him, bewildered. “Done what?”

  “You dinna see? Look at this photograph.” He slipped one of the prints she’d taken of the malt house on the morning of the explosion onto her plate. A man stood near the full barley wagon, his hand on the wooden slats.

  She saw nothing out of the ordinary, just as she had seen nothing suspicious the morning she’d taken the shots.

  “Look at his face!” he said exuberantly. “He’s not one of mine, but I know him.”

  Claire wouldn’t have necessarily recognized the man even if he did legitimately work at the distillery. He looked like all the others. She glanced at Cameron, who hovered over her shoulder. “Who is he?”

  “You are brilliant and beautiful, and I love you,” he announced before leaning down to kiss her quickly on the lips. He remained leaning low over her, talking and tapping the print, but she didn’t pay much attention to his words. She was too busy digesting his pronouncement of love.

  “. . . League of Distillers. You’ve captured him in a number of these.”

  “I take multiple frames at various exposure times to get the best print,” she replied methodically. Did he even realize what he’d confessed?

  “And it’s a wise thing that you do. Look at this print.” He shuffled another in front of her.

  “But he’s blurry in this print because he’s moving.” It was not, in her estimation, her best work.

  “Yes. But look at this.” He tapped the print. “You can clearly see the fuse dangling from the dynamite he’d stuffed in the wagon. The fuse wasn’t there in the earlier print where you can see his face. But it’s here when he’s walking away. We’ve got proof as to who set that explosion. With a little physical persuasion, he’ll turn on the bastard who lit the fuse. With these prints, the authorities can lock him up and whoever else is responsible and throw away the key.” He kissed her cheek, then sat back down.

  Truly, every eye in the Crescent was focused on the couple at the back table. Including the table where Lucy Ledbetter and Mrs. Preston sat, near the front. Claire felt her cheeks warm as she saw so many eyes assessing her. She glanced over to Faith, who raised her hands and shrugged. Obviously she had no idea what was going on.

  Cameron sipped from his coffee cup and winced. “This is no way to celebrate.” He fished underneath the flowery tablecloth. “I brought something for you.” He placed a paper bag before her.

  Curious, she peeked inside. Her eyes widened. “You can’t bring that in here. It’s a bottle of whisky!”

  “Not just any whisky.” Cameron pulled the bottle from the bag. “It’s fifteen-year-old single malt Scotch whisky from Ravenbeck.” He beamed. “But that’s not why I brought it to you. Look at the label, English.”

  The label had an image formed from her print of the brook. The one that Cameron had pronounced captured the spirit of Scotland. “It’s one of mine,” she said with reverence.

  “That it is, lass.” He cocked his head. “Did you no wonder why I’m here?”

  She frowned. “This is where I told James I wanted to meet you.”

  “Not this Crescent place, English. I mean why I’m in London.”

  “I assumed you came for my speech,” she said. “I thought I saw you there, briefly.” She didn’t want to admit that it was the sight of him leaving that was partially responsible for her outburst, especially as he hadn’t stayed to hear it.

  He smiled. “I heard it was a bonny speech once you tossed off the shackles of the Sober Society.” He leaned forward. “That’s not why I’m here though. Remember the night I challenged you to drink a glass of whisky?”

  She looked at his lips and bit her own. How could she forget those whisky kisses . . .

  “I promised that I’d speak to Lord Lothian on the behalf of temperance legislation. And I did, but he was no interested in anything related to temperance.” Cameron smiled as if he’d expected that outcome all along. She had to admit, she’d expected that result as well. “But he did mention that if I had ethical and moral objections to making whisky, he knew of a buyer w
ho would give me a fair price for Ravenbeck.”

  “Cameron, you can’t sell your distillery!” she exclaimed. “That’s your family’s heritage; your livelihood. You can’t sell it to strangers.”

  “I can’t keep it either, English. I can’t afford to build a new malt house, and without a malt house, we won’t be able to produce. But that’s no a problem any longer. I came to London to meet with a Mr. Woodcott of Glenwhinny Whiskies. Ravenbeck will continue to produce Scotch whisky that his blender can combine for their blended brands, while a portion of Ravenbeck’s yield will be set aside for the single malt.”

  He smiled and took her hand. “Strangers willna be making the whisky. I’ll still be there, and Adam’s name will be on the product. The money the blender’s paying will pay off the mortgage on Ravenswood Castle. And there should be enough to set up a shelter for the victims of overindulgence. Mr. Woodcott says they’ll pay me a fair wage to run the distillery, unless, of course, you refuse to be the wife of a whisky laird. In that case, we’ll—”

  “Wait.” She held her hand up to stop him. It was too much to take in. “Did you say ‘wife’?”

  He stood, taking the bottle of whisky in his hands, and then knelt down on one knee before her.

  “Claire Starke. I know you believe you’ve lost yourself as a result of meeting the likes of me, but you see, that’s not true. You’ve just discovered that deep in your heart, you belong in Scotland, with a camera, and in the bed of the man who loves everything about you. I offer you this fine bottle of whisky as my pledge to be a faithful and loving husband. Will you marry me?”

  “But your mother despises me,” she said.

  “Not that it matters, but my mother does not despise you. She only wants what’s best for me, and she thought, erroneously, that she knew what that best would be. Plus she prefers this colorless gray town more than she does Scotland. Assuming that I’m properly married and busy producing the continuation of the Macpherson line, she’ll be content to stay in London and visit the bairns on occasion.”

  His gaze lifted beyond her for a moment, then returned. Claire bit her lip. “I’m not certain she’ll agree . . .”

  “English. If you doubt my word, just look toward the entrance. You’ll see my mother standing there with Miss Huddleston. She’s brought the nine yards of Macpherson plaid that is customarily given to a new bride. She’s always desired an English wife for me; she just chose the wrong one.”

  Claire turned in her seat and saw Lady Macpherson with a thick pile of Macpherson plaid, standing near the table where Lucy Ledbetter sat.

  “Look at him proposing with a bottle of whisky,” Lucy spat, the sound carrying through an otherwise silent room. “Have you ever heard of anything more inappropriate?”

  “You’re far more intelligent when silent,” Lady Macpherson said with a haughty glare. “You ridiculous, insufferable little trollop.” She looked back toward Claire with a smile and a simple nod of the head.

  “But the people of Beckmore—?” Claire asked, turning back to Cameron.

  “Love you,” Cameron finished. “And they will even more when we open the Claire Starke shelter for women and children in need. You saw how so many stood up for you. With the proper villain in hand, the others will have no reason not to love you as well.”

  He had eliminated all her objections. And while she was still dismayed by the effects of habitual drunkenness, he had provided a way that she could make a difference for those affected. She loved him. She had known it that day at the waterfall. And she needed him, as she had discovered when she returned to London alone. But she still wasn’t certain she knew how to be Lady Macpherson, with all the responsibilities that would entail. She looked down into his beautiful face and asked, “Why me?”

  “Because I love you, English, and I know you love me. You’re not the sort of woman who would be so . . . giving . . . otherwise. Marry me. Say you will.”

  “Aye,” she replied, and wrapped her arms around his neck for a kiss.

  He stood, lifting her in his arms. The room burst into cheers and applause.

  She leaned close to his ear to whisper amid all the noise, “I love you, Cameron Macpherson. I was afraid to admit it, but I truly do.”

  Her confession earned her another kiss, this one so full of passion and promise that she vowed to never again hesitate to pronounce her love. And every night for the rest of her life, she did just that, in the whisky laird’s bed.

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed The Whisky Laird’s Bed. I love researching my historical novels to bring as much accuracy to my time period as possible. For that reason, I’d like to share with you what’s real and what is not.

  The information regarding the production of whisky is accurate, including the spelling of the word, “whisky.” Americans and the Irish add an “e” to the word, but in Scotland, the proper spelling is whisky. As the majority of The Whisky Laird’s Bed is placed in Scotland, I’ve used the Scottish spelling throughout to maintain consistency. Also in Scotland, the drink itself is referred to as whisky, not Scotch. During my time period, scotch was aged in used sherry wine casks from Spain. For various reasons, after the 1930s, a switch was made to age scotch in used American Bourbon whiskey barrels, and that practice continues today. In 1891, however, this was not the case.

  My fictional town of Beckmore is situated in the central Highlands area of Scotland. My vision of Beckmore was based on the existing towns of Pitlochry and Callander, which I’ve visited as part of my research.

  While fictional, Ravenswoods Castle is based on the floor plan of the Dall Estate which is located on Loch Rannoch in Scotland. Ossian’s Cave is a true folly built as a hermit’s cave in the Hermitage, a park protected by the National Trust of Scotland. Ossian was a legendary Celtic warrior in the third century. A book of poems was published in 1760 attributed to Ossian and “translated” by James Macpherson. It’s generally believed, however, that Macpherson wrote the very popular works and just attributed them to Ossian.

  The temperance movement, Carrie Nation, and hatchet all are true. I did invent some of the slogans, though. W. T. Stead did, in fact, publish an article about white slavery. Certain elements of his research were decried as scandalous, but the existence of women lured to London under false pretenses was viable.

  The late nineteenth century represented exciting times for the photography industry. In 1888, Eastman Kodak introduced a camera that used film instead of the glass plate for negatives. The Kodak brownie camera made photography available to the mass market in 1901. However, the camera that would have been discovered in the attic would predate these events. I’ve used some of my own darkroom experience in describing the process of developing negatives.

  I hope you enjoyed reading The Whisky Laird’s Bed as much as I enjoyed writing and researching it. I love hearing from readers and invite you to contact me at www.DonnaMacMeans.com and on Facebook as Donna MacMeans, Author.

  Donna MacMeans

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I count my blessings, I include:

  My talented plotting partners: Jeanne Adams, Nancy Northcott, and Cassandra Murray. Thank you for making the process of plotting a novel fun and exciting.

  Cori Deyoe, my wonderful agent, for her constant support (and fudge made with Scotch whisky) and Cindy Hwang for her insightful editing and fantastic cover.

  The Romance Bandits for providing a forum from which I can tell the world about my temperance advocate heroine and her whisky-distilling hero.

  And my husband who trudged across Scotland with me, tried haggis, and sampled Scotch—and even purchased a few bottles in case I needed them for research. I love you.

  My sincere and heartfelt thank you to you all.

  Donna MacMeans lives with her family in Ohio. She is the author of six novels, including the Chambers trilogy (The Education of Mrs. Brimley, The Seduction
of a Duke, Redeeming the Rogue), the Rake Patrol series (The Casanova Code, The Whisky Laird’s Bed), and the stand-alone novel The Trouble with Moonlight.