The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 3

  She grabbed her journal to make a note. She might be able to fashion a temperance slogan with that image. Slogans, she’d decided on the train ride north, would be the key to winning the prize purse. Lucy Ledbetter would never be so creative. She doubted Lucy could even find a rhyme for cow.

  “The draff is the barley mash. No whisky there.” The boy laughed. “You don’t know about whisky, do ya, miss?”

  Claire settled deep into her coat, embarrassed that her lack of knowledge was evident to so young a boy. “I know enough. You just mind the road.”

  The boy flicked the reins to urge the pony faster. “Ravenswood is ahead. I’ll leave you at the gate. You just follow the lane to reach the castle.”

  “Castle?” Her eyes widened. “He lives in a castle?”

  The boy laughed. “He’s the laird. He owns all this.” The boy spread his arm out to encompass the sheep pastures, the forest, the pretty stone bridge crossing the stream. “Where else would he live?”

  ***

  Cameron stood before the mirror in his kilt, waistcoat, shirt and jacket, then draped a ratty, damaged wolf pelt across his shoulder. Clumps of fur were missing—probably lining some vermin’s nest—while something akin to a dried mold dotted the underside of the pelt. As wolves had been hunted to extinction long ago, the pelt was a surprising discovery in an abandoned crofter’s cabin, but the poor condition of the relic rendered it of little value . . . until tonight. He splashed whisky liberally on the pelt, letting the warm, spicy notes fill the air. Damn waste of good Scotch, that, but if the generous application did the job, it would be worth it.

  Peat, a wee bit shy of three feet tall, pulled himself off the floor to investigate the furry addition. However, his attention was quickly diverted to the bedroom door. His soft whine began a moment before the knock sounded.

  “I don’t know why you need this,” a familiar voice called. Cameron swung the oak door wide and took great pleasure in the shock on his ghillie’s face. “But I brought what you asked for.”

  Peat became more animated, excited by the glass canning jar in James’s hands. Cameron took the jar, squinting at the innocuous bit of brown fur inside. “What is this?”

  “The tarsal gland from the hind leg of a deer.” James rubbed the end of the scar that bisected half of his face, then scowled at the wolf hide over Cameron’s shoulder. “Where did you find that disgusting thing?”

  “Don’t you remember? We cleared out that abandoned crofter’s cabin last year.” Cameron gestured for him to come into the room. “I hadn’t thought I’d ever need it.”

  “You should have left it in the cabin.” He sniffed at the air. “Jesus, Cameron. Is it you or the hide that’s been drinking?”

  “Relax.” Cameron grinned. “I’ve devised a plan to convince my mother to halt her matchmaking ways. She’s ignored my earlier requests, so now I’m taking action. If she’s suitably embarrassed, she’s likely to forget about advertising for a wife.” He unscrewed the jar lid.

  “Cameron—wait!”

  James’s warning came too late. Cameron had plucked the bit of fur and had barely managed to smear it across the wolf hide before his eyes began to tear from the vile odor it unleashed of urine, musk, sweat, and rot. Peat, normally a quiet dog, barked excitedly. His long tail whipped like a weapon as he raised to his hind legs and pushed on Cameron’s chest. The dog’s five-stone weight nearly knocked him over.

  “Good God in Heaven, man,” Cameron said, tossing the fur piece back in the jar, then re-screwed the lid. “Does this attract something more than dogs and flies?”

  “It does if you’re a buck in rut.” James pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose. “A little travels a long way. It’s a good thing it’s not rutting season. Still, I’ll warn you to be hesitant to venture outside.”

  “If this smell chases those frail little lassies back to England, it will have done its work. My mother will be suitably embarrassed and will abandon those ridiculous ads.” Cameron stretched his neck to put as much distance as possible between his nose and the smelly pelt, but it wasn’t nearly enough. “Shall we get this over with?”

  “Let me put Peat in one of the bedrooms.” James reached for the dog’s collar. “He’s too attracted to the scent to sit quietly in a corner.”

  James returned a few moments later without the dog and paused in the doorway as if to say something. Instead, he shook his head and headed down the stairs. As per tradition, he entered the parlor before Cameron.

  “Ladies, may I present the much honored Cameron Macpherson, laird of clan Macpherson and master of Ravenswood Castle.” James stepped aside.

  Cameron stepped to the door, a proud Highlander. His lips formed a grim line, his hands fisted on his kilted hips, while his eyes fought back the sting of the pungent aroma. Heads turned in his direction, feathers and finery bobbing like fishing lures. One of the ladies, a classic beauty in a soft blue gown, wrinkled her brow, then plucked a rose from a vase of flowers, holding the bud near her nose.

  “Good Lord, Cameron, what is that terrible stench?” his mother asked as he strode into the room. All three women swiftly set their fans in motion.

  James stood near the newcomers. As sensitive as he was about that scar, Cameron suspected that only the overwhelming odor could drive him so close to feminine strangers.

  A mousy brunette in a green gown turned a pasty gray, a testament to her lack of substance. Such a fragile lass would never stand up to a Scotland winter. Why they rushed to Scotland in answer to a stranger’s advertisement, he’d never know.

  Accusation glared from his mother. As evidenced by the hard set of her jaw, she knew what he was about. Good. Later, when they talked about these two husband-hunters, he would announce that the wolf hide would reappear should she bring other marriage-minded lasses to Ravenswood. That should put an end to this charade, and he could turn his attentions to more important matters, like the future of the distillery.

  The heavy front door swung open with a sound akin to a gunshot. Cameron turned toward the welcome rush of fresh air to discover a dripping young woman, clasping luggage and dressed in black.

  “Not another one,” he groused. He’d hoped to frighten the women away, not attract new ones. Though based on the murderous intent in her eyes, he doubted she had marriage on her mind. Interesting.

  “Claire!” the blonde beauty behind him called.

  In that instant, the stranger’s face softened and brightened, a fascinating transformation. Unfortunately, she chose that moment to sample the air. Her eyes widened. She dropped her bag, then covered her nose.

  “Don’t breathe, don’t breathe!” she shouted. “It’s a noxious vapor to render you unconscious!”

  A thud behind him gave proof to her words. He glanced over his shoulder to see the mouse had collapsed to the carpet. Good God, he’d only meant to embarrass his mother, not kill an invited guest.

  James and the beauty immediately attended the poor woman. The newcomer in black swooped past him like some predatory bird, urging her more colorfully attired peers to escape before it was too late.

  His mother merely turned her face toward him and arched an eyebrow. “And I thought this evening might be frightfully dull.”

  Chapter 4

  When no one rushed for the door or reacted to her impassioned cries to flee, Claire realized to her extreme embarrassment that the logic that had prompted her flight to Scotland may have been a bit flawed.

  The supposed captives were not huddled in distress, but rather were dressed to the nines, as if for a party. Instead of bustling the fallen Miss Townsend to a secret, locked chamber, a man with a long scar carefully placed her in a comfortable chair. The matron present produced a vial of smelling salts that Faith waved beneath her friend’s nose. Finally, the startlingly handsome man she suspected was the laird did not restrain her in any way. In fact, he ignored her as he s
trode past her into the night, giving his guests the liberty to remain or leave. These were not indications of men intent on snaring innocent women for nefarious purposes.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the annoyance reflected in Faith’s glare confirmed Claire’s suspicions that she’d made a serious error in judgment.

  “What are you doing here?” Faith fumed. “You’re supposed to be in London.”

  “I thought you were in danger.” Claire stiffened her back. Her intentions were honorable, even if her presumptions were not. “I thought I’d find you held captive to a white slaver.”

  “The laird? A white slaver?” The man with the scar chuckled. “He’s been called many things, but that’s a new one.”

  Miss Townsend stirred and opened her eyes, causing fresh administrations from Faith and the scarred man. Even the matron who had stood outside the circle joined the press of bodies to tend to Miss Townsend’s needs.

  Feeling foolish and excluded, Claire slowly backed from the group. Perhaps she had overreacted, even though she had valid reasons for her supposition. She had felt certain that Faith and Miss Townsend had walked blindly into a trap. Hadn’t the boy on the pony cart confirmed those very suspicions when he talked about the many women who came here?

  She glanced toward the doorway, where she’d dropped her carpetbag. Would they notice if she left? She’d brought sufficient funds for a return fare, but how would she get to the train stop? Maybe she could—

  Her backside registered something immobile. A wall? But then a wall didn’t have two powerful hands that gripped her elbows and held her in place.

  “A white slaver, lass?”

  His Scottish burr slipped in her ear and set her bones to tingling. Flushed with embarrassment, she pulled from his hold, then turned. That was a mistake. She stood face-to-face with the laird himself. His dark brown hair was wild and free, so unlike the short, well-ordered styles in London. His eyes sparked with intelligence and assessment. The vibration that had started with his words shifted downward. A handsome devil if ever she’d thought to see one. The ad had been honest in that.

  “Why?” Humor crinkled his eyes, not anger. Some of her tension dissipated, but certainly not all. Her body recognized the feral nature of the beast, barely attired in a shirt and kilt, and responded with an undeniable attraction. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. Past experience had proven that virile men such as the one before her had no interest in practical women such as herself, though the reverse certainly wasn’t true.

  He was a man accustomed to hard labor, if his firm grip and the solid nature of his chest were indications. Her gaze shifted in that direction, noting the wide shoulders devoid of jacket, waistcoat, and . . .

  “The pelt?” The vile odor she’d noted earlier had dissipated, for the most part. Only a faint musk tainted the air . . . and spice. She’d not noticed that earlier, but she could sense it now.

  “I tossed it in the bushes. ’Tis enough harm for an evening.” He cocked his head, sending that uninhibited hair skittering along his cheekbones. “Why did you think I was a white slaver?”

  The very substantial grounds for her suspicions suddenly seemed less so. She fumbled for words. “You placed ads luring women to Scotland. Several ads, I understand.”

  He turned, then took a few steps toward a long table against the wall, picked up a decanter full of amber liquid, and poured some in a glass. Whisky! She knew the scent. That’s right. The boy had said this man was a distiller, a whisky laird. The thought thickened the marrow in her bones and returned substance to her spine. She straightened, on her guard.

  “I did not,” he stated in clear, confident tones.

  Her mouth opened in disbelief. She supposed a Scotch whisky distiller would be an accomplished liar. How else could they convince themselves that they weren’t doing the Devil’s work?

  “I saw the ad,” she insisted, then pointed across the room to the crowd attending the swooning Miss Townsend. “Those two came in response to it.”

  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I dinna say the ad dinna exist. I said I dinna place it.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  He carried the glass of whisky to the singular man in the gathering of women. “This should help.”

  “For me or the lass?” the scarred man said tightly. He seemed to consider the former before he held the glass to Miss Townsend’s lips.

  “Drink that,” the laird commanded. “Slow, now.”

  Miss Townsend’s eyes widened with something akin to fear, but she accepted the glass. Claire couldn’t blame her. The laird’s voice had a ring of authority that would be difficult to refuse.

  She sipped, then sputtered and coughed. Color flushed her face as she gasped for breath.

  The laird nodded, a satisfied grin on his face. Then, much to Claire’s surprise, he returned to her side. She was both flattered and annoyed. How frustrating to feel attraction for the very man she should despise!

  “I suppose whisky is your solution to everything,” she mocked, determined to keep her distance from him.

  His gaze slipped slowly over her, challenging her bravado. His lips tilted in a knowing smile, as if he had taken her measure and recognized her inner struggle.

  “Whisky has been an effective medicine throughout time.” He selected two more glasses from the long table, then proceeded to pour whisky in each. His head tilted toward Miss Townsend. “Look at her.”

  Though hesitant to take her eyes off the devil, she reluctantly turned toward the group. Miss Townsend’s face had darkened to a deep red.

  “Her color is improving,” the laird observed. “Earlier she looked to have a foot in the grave.”

  Claire bit back her gasp, recognizing her own pronouncement in his words.

  “I believe Miss Townsend would benefit from something to eat,” the matron announced. She looked pointedly at Claire. “May I assume that it’s your intention to join us, Miss . . . ?”

  “Starke,” Claire replied, feeling the sting of the matron’s disdainful tone. Believing an educated woman had no need for the finer graces, Claire had never practiced them. She regretted that now. While she attempted an awkward curtsy, even that failed to soften the woman’s expression.

  Outside, the sounds of animal snarls penetrated the parlor, complete with the hissing and snapping of jaws.

  The scarred man glanced toward the laird. “The pelt. No one should be outside while they fight over that thing.”

  “Very well,” the matron said with resignation. “We’ll make room at the table for one more.” She sighed. “It’s too early in the season for a corpse on the doorstep.”

  Claire stared after her as she walked away. A corpse on the doorstep? What sort of lunacy reigned here?

  The woman nodded to a servant, then called over her shoulder, “Please remove your coat and hat, Miss Starke, unless you intend to leave in the hurried manner of your arrival.”

  The crunch of a bone and a high-pitched yelp outside accentuated the absurdity of that option.

  “Cameron.” The matron looked to the laird. “Will you lead us into the dining room?”

  He handed one of the glasses to the scarred man, then offered his free arm to the matron.

  Claire stood in her practical black skirt and white blouse, an obvious misfit in the colorful party. She slipped in step behind Faith, who, along with the scarred man, was helping Miss Townsend along.

  Miss Townsend rolled her head toward Faith. “That smell . . . he’s a barbarian.”

  “It was the hide, not the man,” Claire grumbled from behind them. “He smells more of whisky, which, I suppose, is a slight improvement.”

  Faith glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow.

  “But he’s still a barbarian,” Claire insisted, lest Faith have misconceptions.

  They filed into the wood-paneled dining roo
m, a cavernous space with an unsettling display high on the walls of four mounted deer heads, the head of a zebra, a ram, and one frightening trophy head that she thought might be a wild boar. Even higher on the wall stretched the bare antlers from at least a dozen poor beasts. Incongruous with the rustic character of the room, a delicate Queen Anne’s table designed to seat twenty had been set with a delicate china pattern for six.

  As introductions had been interrupted earlier, the matron, whom Claire deduced by her appearance and manner must be the laird’s mother, completed the process in the dining room as she directed each to their respective seats. Faith was placed to the laird’s right, across from the dour-faced matron and next to the scar-faced man, who was introduced as “James, the ghillie.”

  Remembering the boy’s proclamation, I’m going to be a ghillie when I’m older, Claire smiled. So this was the man who held the young boy’s admiration. He patiently waited by the seat next to his own to offer Claire assistance. He obviously had manners befitting his English accent. Something about that tugged at her memory, as if she should recognize him, but she wasn’t certain why. Had she encountered him in a tavern? That couldn’t be. This was her first trip to Scotland. She’d have had no occasion to meet—

  “Miss Starke,” the laird’s voice boomed down the table while a broth was ladled into the bowls. “You dinna answer my question. I’d like to know why you suspect my mother to be a white slaver?”

  A silence settled on the room, broken only by the sound of a soup spoon striking a bowl. The matron glared daggers at Claire before turning to her son. “Cameron. I don’t think—”

  “She is, after all, the one who placed the ad that brought these two fine ladies to Scotland,” he continued, his face all innocence, with barely suppressed humor.

  “Your mother placed the personal ad?” Faith twisted toward the laird. “Not you?”

  Macpherson held Claire’s gaze as if they were the only two at the table. “My mother believes I’m incapable of finding a suitable wife on my own.”