Chapter 14
Hunter couldn’t stop smiling, and when he trotted down the front steps after a big breakfast the following day, the sky seemed to fit his mood. For once, the sun was shining…although from what he remembered about the Hebrides, that could change any second.
The men who greeted him seemed to understand exactly why he was in such a good mood.
“There he is, right spry an’ sparklin’. Wonder what’s put the spring in his step, eh?” The man—about Hunter’s age and arms as thick around as Hunter’s head, tipped his hat and nudged his companion.
The older man grinned hugely and answered, as if Hunter wasn’t standing right there. “Och, man’s finally had hissel’ a reel night wi’ the missus—an’ the noon an’ gloamin’ besides! Place was fair rattlin’ like a peat drum, I’ll tell ye that.”
The first man burst into laughter. “Jammy blighter, so he is. But cannae fault the lad—she’s a braw wee thing an’ they’re daft fer each other, plain as thistle in bloom.”
Hunter was fairly certain he was blushing, but didn’t bother to hide his smile.
The men’s words hadn’t been completely comprehensible, but he held up his palms with an unrepentant grin. “We’ll be certain to close the windows next time!”
“An’ deprive all of Islay o’ its entertainment?” the older man scoffed, then tipped his hat as he backed away and called out, “Best of luck, laddie!”
Oh, for fook’s sake, they’d been that loud? But the knowledge Helena had screamed his name quite a few times had Hunter feeling proud.
Embarrassed, aye, but proud too.
“We’re having a celebration tonight,” he called to the two men. “Invite everyone ye ken, aye?”
The two men called out more ribald suggestions among the laughter, but waved their acknowledgement as they each hefted bricks of peat to bring to the kiln. Hunter felt proud that he knew what the hell the kiln was, frankly.
Today he was going to introduce himself to the malting floor, where the grain germinated.
It was one of the more labor-intensive parts of the process, and he figured his braw shoulders should be good for something around here other than for his pretend wife to cling to, since he was no whisky expert, despite Helena’s claims.
Helena.
Hands in his pockets, Hunter rocked back on his heels not bothering to stop his smile, remembering the way he’d woken her this morning.
Yesterday afternoon, he’d told her his injury precluded any strenuous movement…
but he’d soon proven that claim false. The second time they’d made love had been in the bathtub, and hadn’t it been a delight to learn that Bruadarach had hot running water pumped right to the chambers?
The third time they’d barely made it back to their chamber, the fourth time had been sitting upright at the dressing table, and the fifth time—or had that been the sixth time?
—had been half-dangling out the window. Was it any wonder Hunter was grinning this morning?
He’d awoken her with his tongue, and her whimpers had escalated to desperate screams before he’d claimed her fully.
Perhaps they should shut the windows, even in the summer.
Or risk all of Islay kenning what a robust physical relationship the owners of Bruadarach Distillery have—
Nay.
Hunter’s grin slowly turned to a frown as he hunched his shoulders.
He wasn’t the owner of Bruadarach Distillery. Helena was. He wasn’t her husband; he was just the man who could bring her to ecstasy. He had no claim on this place.
Hunter glanced around, noting the bustle and business of the place. The organization. The brilliance of it all.
After breakfast, he’d escorted Helena to her study and kissed her goodbye.
She—and Wulfie—had settled behind her desk to sort through planting schedules for next spring, her brow swiftly furrowing as she pored over a map and tutted at one of her clerk’s penmanship, and he was amazed, yet again, by how brilliant she was.
It wasn’t fair that he be given credit for her brilliance.
Bruadarach. Dreamer.
Bruadarach Distillery wasn’t his…not in any way. This was, quite literally, Helena’s dream, and she’d brought it to life. The best he could offer was his strong back when it came to the hard work the place required, and a strong tongue when it mattered most.
Get to it, laddie.
With a sigh, Hunter tucked his head and strode toward the malting floor. There Johnny met him and handed over a wooden shovel—shaped more like a heavy paddle than anything else—while gesturing toward the floor, spread with germinating barley.
“It’s been nigh two hours since young Rabbie was at it, so ye’ll want tae start down by the far windows—that’s where the mat starts up quickest. We’re grateful for the hand, truly. Bit o’ grunt work for a gent like you, though.”
Forcing a smile, Hunter took the shovel. “I’m no’ above doing honest labor. I’m the newest employee, after all, makes sense I’d get the hardest job.”
With a mighty laugh, Johnny slapped him on his back, doffed his hat, and strode toward the kilns. Hunter exhaled slowly, breathing in the delicious air, and got to work.
The barley was drying here, the grain spread out inches deep across the stone floor.
After harvesting, it was threshed. Then the grain was soaked, then dried out, then soaked again to trigger the germination, which is when the sugars started to grow.
Or bloom? Or spring magically into existence?
Hunter wasn’t sure the chemistry behind it—though Gabby probably understood it.
But after the soaking, it was spread out here to dry. Hunter knew—from Helena’s instructions—that this was the first step in the malting process, and it was vital to allow the barley to dry evenly and slowly, with a careful eye on the temperatures.
But if it was left alone too long, it would not only germinate, but start to grow.
Life would pound through the stuff and the grain would sprout roots and start to get all matted together, and the whole batch would be ruined.
Hence why, every two hours or so, some poor bastard had to come in here and hand-turn every single inch.
Just like mixing a pot of stew to keep it from burning, he supposed.
With a cheery whistle, Hunter set his back to the job.
While the grains weren’t heavy, there was a fook of a lot of them, and the malting floor was wide. The whistling quickly stopped, and soon after Hunter found himself grunting and leaning over each shovel-load. Perhaps there was a reason they gave the youngest—and shortest—men this task?
It took him close to two hours to complete the task, something he was certain a more experienced man could do in a shorter amount of time. In fact, before he could finish smoothing out the grain, the door opened, and a concerned-looking Angus stepped inside.
“Och, there ye are, laddie—been huntin’ high an’ low for ye! Didnae think I’d find ye still skelpin’ aboot wi’ this lowly graft, nae wi’ yer fine boots an’ all, y’ceannard!”
With a sigh, Hunter leaned on the shovel and ran his hand across his sweaty hair. “Angus, God love ye, I still cannae understand—”
“Och. There. Ye. Are—” the old man started again, and with a weary chuckle, Hunter interrupted him.
“Aye, aye, I got that part.” He hefted the shovel over his shoulder and tromped through the grain toward the door. “But saying it slower and louder willnae help.”
Angus, however, wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was frowning at the floor. At the grain. He glanced up at Hunter, confusion on his face, then dropped to one knee and pressed his hand into the pile of grain.
Into the grain?
With a curse—Hunter didn’t understand it, but he could recognize a curse when one turned the air blue—Angus sprang to his feet, wrenched open the door, and bellowed, “Johnny! Johnny!”
By this time it was clear something was wrong. What had Hunter done? He was already backing away, looking for a safe place to put down the shovel, when Johnny burst into the door.
“Gi’e it a feel, man,” Angus barked. “Tell us if she’s runnin’ taa hot!”
Obligingly, Johnny knelt beside him and shoved his hand into the grain. His face screwed up in concentration. “Aye, it’s a wee bit too warm. Caught it in time, though.”
Hunter stood, weight balanced as well as possible on the shifting pile of barley, the shovel carried in front of him protectively like a shield. “What’s wrong?”
The other men ignored him. Angus jerked his chin toward the wall where the other shovels were lined up, and barked at Johnny, “Haud a spade an’ start flippin’, laddie—I’ll gie ye a hand.”
As the two men leapt for the shovels, Hunter watched warily. “What’s going on?” he asked again, wondering if he ought to pull the magic spoon from his pocket and wave it about, in case that might help.
Johnny pulled down a wooden implement and stopped to explain. “Barley’s too warm, Angus says. Shouldnae be heatin’ like this yet, no at this stage—she’ll sprout if we’re no careful. …och, why’m I tellin’ you this? You ken it better’n us.”
Except he didn’t.
Hunter didn’t know anything other than what Helena had taught him.
And most of that he hadn’t actually understood.
And that ignorance—the men assuming he knew something he didn’t—had clearly caused a problem. Or almost caused a problem; apparently Angus and Johnny were planning on re-doing all his work to save the germinating grains.
When they began to shovel the barley, mixing it as they raked it back and forth, Hunter realized he’d been using a shite technique. All he’d been doing for the last two hours was flipping a shovelful of grains upside down.
Ye dobber. That’s no’ going to keep them from clumping together—or heating as they germinate.
Watching the other men carefully, he did his best to mimic their movements, raking as he shoveled, moving the grain about and breaking it up.
This was, surprisingly, easier work than what he’d been managing originally, and with the three of them working together the whole floor was finished in much faster time.