The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 6

  “There you are!” The affection in the laird’s deep voice set her cheeks to warm, even as she swiveled toward the entrance. Peat eagerly trotted to his master, toppling anything unattached to a solid base in the process.

  Claire swiped a tear that had begun a trek down her cheek, then rallied a thin veneer of courage to hide her maudlin thoughts. “I beg your pardon, sir. Were you addressing me or your dog?”

  “Sir?” One side of his mouth twisted upward while he dodged the dog’s affectionate tongue.

  His loving attention to the animal answered her query as no words could. What silliness on her part to think a man would address her in such warm tones. She discretely swiped another tear while the laird was distracted by the dog.

  “There’s no need to call me sir . . .” He lifted his head, squinting in her direction. “What’s that on your head?”

  The bonnet! She’d forgotten that the silly concoction remained perched above her face. What a ridiculous sight she must present. A plain woman dressed in practical black with a rainbow tied to her head. Her hands quickly reached for the ribbons.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just something I found in a chest.”

  Bother! The blasted strings tightened in a knot, further securing the proof of her foolishness. Frustration increased her embarrassment.

  “Your mother sent me to look for clothes,” she explained. “I wasn’t prying.”

  Bother. Bother. Bother!

  “Clothes?” His eyebrows dove into a scowl. “You appear adequately dressed. Why do you need clothes?”

  His sullen expression effectively banished her embarrassment. Did he not realize that she intended to stay as an uninvited houseguest? She stopped fidgeting with the ribbons and fisted her hands on her hips. “I won’t leave Faith.”

  “Why not? The mewling mouse did.” He rose from his crouched position.

  “I’m no mewling mouse,” she declared, though a part of her felt small indeed compared to his towering mass. The sooner she extricated herself from this room, the better. She renewed her efforts on the wretched ribbons. The fancy bonnet slipped off her head in protest and dangled off the back of her neck like a bucket begging for rain.

  “That much I can see.” He stepped forward. She hastily stepped back.

  “Be still, English,” he commanded. “You’re bound to trip and break your neck.”

  Given the hazards strewn about, she had to concede his point. She’d had enough difficulty dodging the chests while moving forward, much less back.

  “I canna have two female invalids in the house at the same time.” He approached until he was a breath away, then bent close, staring at the knot at her throat. “What would people say of me then?”

  She heard laughter in his voice, though for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what he found humorous. She herself was far from laughter; mortification, perhaps.

  He raised a brow while his fingers worked the knot. “I’d be branded a white slaver for certain.”

  Would he never forgive her for that misunderstanding? She wanted to apologize, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. His fingertips brushed her skin, robbing her of words. Only harsh squeaks would likely result if she tried.

  Instead, she studied the wild, unruly brown hair that curled and flowed unbridled and free on his forehead, a fashion vastly unsuitable for the polite society of London, yet appropriate here in this unchecked wilderness. It suited him, she thought. It must suit her as well, as her fingers longed to touch it, brush it aside. Brush it away from those intense, golden-flecked brown eyes. She closed her own. Even his eyes defied the ordinary.

  “If it’s clothes you’re needing, you won’t be finding them in these musty old trucks,” he said.

  He was so close, his scent—warm with a hint of smoke, sweet with a touch of spice—made her a bit giddy. She quietly breathed in his warm richness, letting it fill her lungs. She had never expected that one who brewed the demon spirit could smell so downright delectable.

  The tops of his knuckles slid across the sensitive underside of her chin, setting off tingling reverberations around her jaw and throat that reached deep to her rib cage. Her breath caught, her knees weakened. No man had ever touched her there. How was she to know even an accidental touch had such physical ramifications? What if he were to touch her elsewhere? Her cheeks warmed, and her corset squeezed much too tight.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing here, English. Nothing but sad memories.”

  She opened her eyes to mere slits, peering at him from beneath her lids. How could he know of her earlier thoughts? However, he wasn’t looking at her; just at the knot. His melancholy must be his own, she realized, and wondered what kind of memories would bring that despondent tone.

  Suddenly, a glint of victory lit his eyes. He lifted the bonnet from its awkward position.

  “Nothing but sad memories and old hats.” He smiled down at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, already mourning the loss of his intimate posturing.

  He held the frilly bonnet aloft like a prize. “Where did you find this ridiculous piece of fluff?” He laughed. “And why in the name of all that’s holy would you be wearing it?”

  Her back stiffened. Any lingering sentiments related to his ravishing scent and seductive touch vanished beneath his mockery. He saw her practical blouse and her practical skirt and deemed her not worthy of a little bit of frothy lace, of a little bit of feminine frivolity? He was no different than any other man in this. She snatched the bonnet from his hand, then carefully rewrapped it in the tissue paper. “Did you come here for some purpose other than ridicule, Mr. Macpherson?”

  “Ridicule?” His eyes widened. “That wasn’t . . .”

  She glared at him over her shoulder as she placed the bonnet back in the wooden chest.

  “I was searching for Peat,” he stated in a huff. “He’s usually right by my side, but lately”—she felt the heat of his narrowed gaze on her back—“he’s deserted me in favor of you. Why is that, English?”

  She wasn’t certain how to answer. To be honest, she didn’t understand the attraction animals had for her. How could she explain it to him?

  “There are two Englishwomen in the house,” she said, deciding to focus instead on the nature of his address. Another form of mockery, she supposed.

  “Three,” he corrected. “There are three Englishwomen here. My mother is English, don’t forget.” He picked up a piece of dusty pottery, examining it as if it were some great artifact. “She believes the English are superior to the Scots.” He lifted his gaze to her. “Do you?”

  “I don’t think I know Scots . . .” Claire began, but quickly realized she was headed down the wrong path. “I think this is a question to be addressed on an individual basis. We share the same government, so on that broad spectrum, we are equals. It’s the individual that varies.”

  He studied her a moment, then sat the pottery piece back where he found it. “One of the housemaids said she heard noises overhead. She was afraid it was a rat—”

  “Not a ghost?” she interrupted with a smile.

  He looked shocked for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. “I came to investigate. I certainly didn’t expect to find you rummaging through these relics.”

  “Children and animals have extraordinarily keen senses,” she lectured, hoping to mask her hurt feelings. Obviously he hadn’t felt she was worthy of the contents of the chests. Carefully rearranging the fabric in the chest allowed her to avoid his face and thus the confirmation of his disapproval. “They generally prefer sober company. Men with a proclivity toward alcohol”—she lifted the stack of clothes she’d deemed usable into her arms—“can be unmindfully cruel and—”

  His hand grabbed her forearm, jerking her gaze toward his. A fierce scowl had transformed his face, stealing her words.

  “What are you doing?” His voice threat
ened more than inquired.

  She glanced down at the clothes, then back to him. “I thought I mentioned that I would need something to wear while I’m here. I hadn’t packed for an extended stay. While these aren’t necessarily women’s—”

  “Put them back,” he growled. “You have no right!” Even Peat whimpered at his master’s sudden fury.

  Claire’s gaze shifted from the fuming laird to the distressed dog, then back to the laird. She wasn’t certain what she had done to generate this response, but she had obviously trespassed where she shouldn’t.

  “My apologies,” she said slowly and carefully, focusing on the hand tightly gripping her arm. Calm, careful words had always worked best when her father was deep in his cups. She employed that hard-fought lesson now. “I must have misunderstood your mother’s direction.”

  He released her arm as if it had become poker hot. She slowly crouched to the chest where she had placed the bonnet and with one hand lifted the lid. “I’ll just put these here.”

  “Not with my mother’s clothes,” he thundered. “Put them back where you found them.”

  “Oh,” she said, bewildered. The two remaining wooden trunks looked the same. She moved to the closest one and opened it. Recognizing the contents, she immediately positioned the items she’d removed on the top of the other fabric. “Is that better?”

  The retreating stomp on the floorboards served as his reply. Peat trotted behind him leaving swirling dust motes in the space they had occupied moments before.

  Claire sighed, then sunk to her knees beside the open trunk, hoping her heart would slow its pounding. What had just transpired? She hadn’t meant to offend . . . well, maybe a little with her observation about children and animals, but only because he’d mocked her. Still, she doubted her words had upset him. Was he one of those dowdy old men who felt women shouldn’t wear masculine clothes? The London papers had been full of editorials moaning about the trend of modern women rejecting traditional ways. Then again, obeisance to society’s dictates didn’t appear to suit him either.

  Oh, bother. How was she to survive the length of Faith’s convalescence with no clothes to wear and an unpredictable Devil’s spawn in residence?

  Placing her hand on the chest lid to lower it, she noted a sepia print about the size of a carte de visite wedged in the corner.

  Producing carte de visite prints at one point had been her father’s stock in trade. Most likely this print had been taken with the camera Peat had so recently uncovered.

  Two boys, similar enough to be brothers, stood before the loch. Both boys—one a little taller and thinner than the other—stared solemnly at the camera lenses. “Two peas in a pod,” she commented idly. She stood, taking the photograph toward the shaft of light admitted by the high set window.

  Even in their youth, one could readily see the potential for these two boys to become strong, handsome Scotsmen. Pride beamed from the eyes of one. A bit of defiance blazed in the gaze of the other. Such handsome young lads, such . . . Her breath caught. She’d seen those defiant eyes before—most recently as they studied the knot at her throat.

  She thought she had her hands full with one demon distiller, but apparently, there were two.

  Chapter 8

  The dank, smoky shadows near the tavern’s peat fire suited his mood. It would suit him even better if that noisy lot gathered round the wide mahogany bar would go congregate somewhere else. Cameron scowled in their direction to keep them at bay.

  He rattled the neck of a whisky bottle against the inside of his glass. The pour was less than elegant, but who the hell cared? Tonight, the fine aroma of the blended whisky was wasted on him. He didn’t attempt to separate the flavors on his tongue. He didn’t take the time to appreciate the whisky’s rich color or evaluate its legs. He simply tilted the glass to let liquid salvation burn a path down his throat, the faster the better.

  “Cailleach thought I’d find you here.”

  Deep in his thoughts, he startled at the unexpected voice, then kicked the chair to his right in invitation. “Good Lord, man, you move as silent as a blasted kelpie.” James ignored the offered chair, but settled in one opposite, deeper in the shadows. Cameron signaled for another glass, then turned back with a half-smile. “Except fairies aren’t known to visit London brothels.”

  “You didn’t believe my explanation to your mother?”

  Cameron snorted. “You’re a man, James, with a man’s desires. I wouldn’t have expected less.”

  Noval McKinley, one of the more boisterous patrons, delivered the requested glass.

  “Macpherson. My boy tells me you’ve brought another Sassenach to Ravenswood. Are ye building one of them Persian harems?” McKinley shook his hips, sending the pleats of his kilt flying and bringing cheers and encouragement from his friends by the fire. “That’s three women! Och, what are ye doing, man?”

  “Three English women,” another near the bar yelled. “I’m no surprised they’ve driven him from hearth and home.” More laughter. Cameron fumed.

  “There are only two,” a quiet voice interceded, quieting the commotion. The glass delivered, McKinley returned to his friends. James glanced at Cameron. “One left by train this morning.”

  “I heard.” Cameron poured whisky from his depleted bottle into James’s glass. “The mousy one that started the parade in the first place.”

  “She said the commotion last night was too much. She asked to be taken to the train first thing this morning.” James paused in lifting the glass to his lips. “That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

  Did he have a plan? So much had happened he wasn’t certain. “Why did you come?”

  “Cailleach expected you to dine with your guests. When you didn’t appear, she sent me to find you.”

  Cameron snorted. In many ways, his housekeeper and cook knew him better than his English mother. “They’re my mother’s guests, not mine.”

  The look on James’s face suggested he didn’t believe the offered explanation. Cameron reconsidered.

  “Besides, one of them wouldn’t want to see the likes of me.”

  “Go on,” James encouraged.

  Cameron told of his earlier confrontation with Miss Starke. “You should’ve seen her, James. Straight as a pole, all no-nonsense, black-and-white”—he circled his fingers idly about his head—“with a silly fluffy bonnet, looking all to-the-manor-born.” He didn’t mention her trembling lip when he untied the bow, or the delicate vanilla scent of her hair, or her shocked expression when he accused her of Lord knows what. What had he accused her of?

  “Your mother’s castoffs,” James’s soft voice issued from the dark shadows. “Was that what sparked your temper?”

  Cameron almost choked on his Scotch, his bark of laughter at odds with the process of swallowing. “My mother has more castoffs than Ben Nevis has stones. Nay. That’s not it.”

  “Then it’s Adam.”

  “Adam,” Cameron repeated with a thickened tongue. His right shoulder ached, and a light chill rattled his bones, as if the specter of the man himself had joined them at the table.

  “Did you tell her?” James prodded.

  “I couldna verra well with her face all crumbled.” He squinted into the shadows, remembering the shock in her eyes that had replaced earlier trusting vulnerability. His brusque dismissal had hurt. Had that been his intention? He tried to finesse a few more drops from the empty bottle. “She wouldna understand.”

  “There are others besides Miss Starke,” James said. “I’m certain Miss Huddleston would enjoy your company.”

  Huddleston? His eyes narrowed. The whisky had dulled his wits. Huddleston must be the name of the beauty, the one with the ankle injury. Cameron leaned back in his chair. “And of what would we talk? Laces and fashion?” he scoffed. “My mother was conspiring with Miss Huddleston earlier. She’s no suffering for company.”

&
nbsp; “Now, here’s a man in need of a whisky!” A full bottle thudded onto the middle of the table. Even Peat, who had stretched out behind his master’s chair, raised his head at the interruption.

  Frowning, Cameron followed the arm attached to the bottle to the grinning face of a stranger with an English accent. Sometimes a man drank in celebration. Sometimes a man preferred solitude. Anyone who couldn’t tell the difference between the two was a horse’s arse, and he was looking at one now. He nodded his chin to the loud group on the opposite side of the room. “You’ll be more welcome over—”

  “You’re Cameron Macpherson, the whisky laird?” the man asked.

  Cameron tried to place the man’s face, but came up wanting. “Who’s asking?”

  “Duncan Miles.” The man lowered himself into the chair next to Cameron, then opened the bottle of whisky. “I hear that soon it’ll be your own bottle we’ll be sharing.”

  While he hadn’t kept his intent to launch a single malt a secret, neither had he shared it with many. Every year for the last fifteen years, a few select casks had been removed for private storage. The rest were sold for combination with other whiskies. The result would be a blended product under another distillery’s name. Cameron had been patiently waiting for his single malt to mature. For a stranger to know that he was close to realizing Adam’s dream of launching a branded Scotch whisky meant this stranger was familiar with the contents of both his warehouse and his private collection.

  Cameron shared a pointed look with James before he turned to Miles, who shifted his gaze between the two.

  “It’s business I would talk of,” Miles said, setting his own glass on the table. “Should we talk alone?”

  “He stays,” Cameron replied, glad that James was present to hear what his own whisky-muddled brain might miss. What had Miss Starke said about poor judgment? He imagined she would gloat if she saw him now.