Chapter Ten
Dougal sat alone at a table in the front room of the small inn kept by Rob MacIan.
The only other patrons were three of his own tenants gathered at another table, discussing when they would send their cattle into the higher slopes to graze on the sweet hill grass there.
The winter had been harsher than usual, they were saying, and the cattle were thin still, though it was nearly May.
His own cattle were also in need of the better nutrition of the higher slopes, where sunlight and clear mountain streams fed the grasses and flowers, and livestock could grow healthy after a long winter and a wet spring.
The Highlands of Scotland did not produce good hay for cattle, though toward harvest time there would be good oats and barley crops to feed them.
Soon enough, glen families would herd their cattle up the slopes to the shieling huts, simple cottages used in spring and summer by those tending the cattle for weeks at a time.
Once the hills were more populated during the shieling time, moving whisky about without attracting attention would be more difficult.
When the tenants invited Dougal to join them, he declined with a smile.
He was waiting to meet someone, sipping ale in silence, watching through the small window near his shadowed seat in a corner.
Along the road, he saw a black coach—not the shabby beast Hamish drove, but a sleek barouche and four.
The coach drew up in front of the inn, and as the tenants craned to look out the window with curiosity, Rob MacIan strode through the room.
Like his nephew, the reverend, the innkeeper was a tall, fair sort, gone big and ruddy with age and ale.
He went to the door and stepped out into the yard to call to one of his sons to see to coach, horses, and driver. Rob then greeted the passenger.
Taking another sip of ale, Dougal appreciated the fine, fresh brew. He could usually tell by the flavor which household in the glen had produced it. Turning the pewter cup on the tabletop, he waited patiently.
A tall man, lean and dark haired in a black frock coat, neat gray trousers, and high black boots entered the tavern.
He removed his black hat, ducking his head slightly beneath the lintel.
Though he carried a cane, he seemed to have no real need of it, given the agility and athleticism in his form and motion.
The tenants glanced at each other, then at Dougal, frowning.
Perhaps they assumed that the newcomer was a government officer.
The handsome fellow was clearly privileged, Dougal noticed, which would not identify him as a government official at first sight.
Most of the gaugers he had ever known, in fact, were a shabby lot.
The man’s piercing eyes seemed to assess everything and everyone in the room with a swift glance.
Seeing Dougal raise a hand, he came toward him.
“MacGregor of Kinloch, I presume.”
“Lord Eldin,” Dougal said in greeting, rising to his feet, as Eldin seemed to expect a more formal greeting. He offered his bare hand, gripping the earl’s gloved fingers and strong handshake.
Sitting on the opposite bench, Eldin set his hat gingerly on the table, sweeping the table surface first. Rob MacIan came toward them. “Sir, you must be thirsty after your journey,” he said, setting down a tankard of ale.
“From Auchnashee to here is not far,” Eldin said, looking at the tankard with mild disdain. “I will have a dram of whisky, if you please. That local brew you recommended once before to me—Kinloch whisky. Among the finest brews in the Highlands, so I hear.”
Dougal tipped his head as Rob hurried away. “My thanks, sir.”
“I am not flattering you. If your brew is that good, I am merely stating a fact.”
“Indeed,” Dougal said, and sipped his ale.
Eldin lifted his own tankard, tasted, set it down. “That is more than passable stuff for a local ale.”
“A cousin of mine, Helen MacDonald, makes it.”
The earl swallowed again. “Light and delicate for an ale. Refreshing. I have never had the like. What makes the difference in the brew?”
“Heather flowers, I believe. She uses an old recipe known to the family.”
“Heather ale? I’ve heard of it. Excellent. Does she sell it?”
“She does not produce enough quantity for that. And of course her price would be high for a larger amount.”
“I will seek out the woman and order her ale for my hotel.”
“I will ask her,” Dougal said firmly, “and send her answer to you.”
Rob returned with a dark bottle and two glasses, which he poured out, the liquid golden, its familiar fragrance wafting to Dougal’s nostrils.
“Sláinte,” Dougal said, lifting his glass as Eldin lifted his.
As the earl sipped, Dougal studied him: wealth and elegant lifestyle were apparent in the smallest immaculate details, from the man’s snowy linen neckcloth and precisely cut woolen coat to the polished beaver hat set on the table, and the gold-headed cane leaned beside it.
Almost unconsciously, Dougal straightened his shoulders, his jacket the plain woolen one he wore often, his plaid old, in the MacGregor hues of burgundy and green, his linen shirt with a simple open collar and no neckcloth.
His hair was unkempt, too long, his beard unshaven.
Lord Eldin was a man of obvious means and sophistication, probably raised with luxury and ease, and Dougal felt the differences keenly.
He thought of Fiona MacCarran and knew she would be more used to men like Eldin. He wondered which sort she preferred.
Yet he felt no lack within himself. He was satisfied with his solid, reliable nature, good manners, and simple Highland gear.
He suspected Eldin was not as content as the expensive garments and black barouche made him appear.
He saw shadows beneath the man’s eyes, a sour set to the mouth.
Eldin downed the whisky quickly, reaching for the bottle to pour another inch into his glass, offering Dougal some. He declined with a shake of his head.
“Excellent stuff,” Eldin said. “This is from your distillery?”
“It is.”
“Legal or illicit?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“You requested we meet. What is on your mind?”
Eldin turned the small, thick glass in his hand. “This is a small coaching inn,” he said, glancing about. “Does it do much trade?”
“The MacIans have run this inn for generations. Most days the patrons are local men. Occasionally, a coach comes by with tourists who want to see Loch Katrine and the surrounding hills because of the poems they have read about it.”
“And they are treated to this fine whisky?”
“Provided Rob MacIan has it in store, and provided the guests want something more than ale or the French wines he keeps in his stock,” Dougal said.
“Other local whiskies are available too. The MacDonald family in this region make a very fine whisky, as do the Lamonts. Rob MacIan produces a few hundred gallons of his own whisky per year, according to his allotment. An inn is permitted to produce more than a household.”
“Everyone in this glen makes whisky, it seems. And most of it illicit?”
Dougal leaned back, regarded the earl. “And what is it you want of me?”
“You are the laird of this glen.”
“I am.”
“So you know all that goes on here.”
“At times. Why?”
“I have a hotel at Auchnashee, ready to open to tourists and travelers. By summer I expect a good deal of patronage. I want to obtain the best whisky for my establishment.”
“There is plenty of good whisky to be had here. If it is Glen Kinloch brew you want, made by the MacGregors, tell me what quantities you have in mind. We may be able to bargain.”
Eldin sipped again, considered the glass, nodded. “What is the finest brew you have available? The very finest,” he added.
Dougal tapped his fingers on the table. This gentleman was Fiona’s cousin, he reminded himself.
He narrowed his eyes, looking for a resemblance, seeing it in the finely cut features, the dark glossy hair, the direct and intelligent gaze, and the stubbornness in the lean, firm jaw.
But what he saw in this fellow’s eyes he had never seen in Fiona—cunning, calculating thought behind the polish of courtesy.
Eldin might be a decent sort, yet Dougal did not trust him.
He sensed a secretive nature that set his hackles to rise.
“The finest whisky we have,” Dougal said, “depends on what price is offered.”
“A handsome one,” Eldin said. “Name it.”
“I have a batch that has been stored three years in oak casks,” Dougal said, and stated a price that was rather high. Eldin did not look surprised.
“Is it legal, this brew?”
“From a licensed still.” His distillery had only recently obtained a license, a detail he did not bother to add.
Eldin waved his fingers dismissively. “What else do you have? I expected something more valuable. Something unique, otherwise unobtainable.”
“Something illicit?” Dougal cocked one brow.
Eldin leaned forward. “Sir, understand me. I do not care a whit about the law. If the whisky is the very finest you have, its origins are unimportant,” he said low.
“We do have something else,” Dougal said, making a quick decision.
“Twelve years if it is a day, made with barley grown in our own fields, and brewed with clear Highland water passed through heather blooms. Proofed to perfection, stored in sherry casks that have been turned regularly. The richness of the old Spanish shiraz that was in those casks, turned over the years, has mellowed the whisky to an exquisite degree. We have not bottled it, and so it continues to age.”
“And?” Eldin waited.
“And it would be expensive.” Dipping a finger in the whisky, Dougal wrote a considerable number on the table surface with a fingertip.
Eldin shrugged. “Is the revenue paid?”
“What do you think?”
“I see. Too good for the government, I think. Do they even know it exists? Ah, your silence answers that. How many casks?”
“Seven are available.” Dougal had more, but would not let on.