Chapter Eleven #2
On the bridge, Fiona paused beside Dougal and looked down over the railing. Water rushed over rocks to channel away, the sound swift, the moisture in the air refreshing. Two young men exited the largest building and waved at Dougal. They glanced curiously at Fiona and went on their way.
“It looks a flourishing place,” she said.
“Busy enough.” He seemed pleased and proud, Fiona thought, his smile slight but genuine.
Her brother had mentioned that there were hundreds of secret stills to be found in the Highlands, and casks moved by smugglers bold enough to manufacture and move whisky rather openly.
The laird of Kinloch must be one of the bolder ones, she thought, to oversee such an organized business that included both smuggled and legitimate whisky.
She thought of the moonlit night when she had stood on a hillside watching Kinloch and a band of smugglers walk past with their ponies. Fiona, go home, he had said, and lock your door. A shiver went through her at the memory.
“What a rogue you are, Kinloch,” she said quietly.
“Am I?” He tilted his head to look at her.
“Making whisky without apology, and smuggling it out of Scotland when you could make it legitimately.”
He paused. “I brought you here to show you that I am not just a smuggler and a rogue. That I have dreams.”
Revelation struck. She had been wrong. “Oh! I apologize. I thought you were combining your ventures to make large quantities here in the open, while smuggling it out. This is a licensed venture.”
“Fully licensed.” He chuckled. “But what a bold ambition—an enormous smuggling enterprise that we pretend is legal. We could plant more trees to hide the place.”
She laughed ruefully. “The revenue officers would notice too much chimney smoke and activity here. You would have to show them the documents.”
“Rest assured, every square inch here has been examined and approved. King George himself might be served Glen Kinloch whisky at court one day.”
“The king asked for his favorite whisky when he visited Edinburgh last summer. There was quite a kerfuffle over it—he did not even realize he was asking for illegal spirits, and he seemed unaware his favorite brew came to London through smuggling. Some people were outraged. Others were amused.”
“I heard about that. My cousin, Ronan MacGregor, is responsible for Glenbrae whisky, the king’s favorite brew.
A very fine whisky, I admit. It was originally delivered to the king in London, and he asked to meet Ronan in Edinburgh.
There were—curious circumstances, from what we heard, but Ronan is a good man and it worked out well. ”
“Ronan MacGregor is Viscount Darrach now—he is your cousin? I saw him at one of the royal assemblies in Edinburgh. A very handsome fellow, all done up in Highland kit, looking like a true warrior. He put some of the other Highlanders to shame. Tartan peacocks, some said, but he was called handsome and beautiful.”
He grinned. “We are a handsome lot, we MacGregors.”
She smiled. “You are.”
“And I have no doubt he looked the perfect Highlander, tall and strong and notable. But outshining others is never his intent. He is a quiet sort, is Ronan. A lawyer, bent on defending others in trouble. Then he was put upon himself. Arrested for smuggling, and nearly hanged for it.”
“I heard some rumor of that. I do hope he came away unscathed. He was with a very pretty young lady, the daughter of a government official, they said.”
“Truly! I wish them well. I must send word to say I am thinking of him. He suggested that I send some Kinloch brew to King Geordie in London for a gift. The king loves Highland whisky, which gives the Scots a good laugh. He does not seem to realize that every drop of his Highland whisky may have been smuggled to London.”
“Do let me know if you have news of your cousin. I would like to know he fared well after the king’s visit. As for your whisky, we have a family friend who could convey a bottle to the king if you like. He meets with him now and then.”
“It would be difficult for anyone to reach King George with a new bottle of whisky, I would imagine.”
“Not for Sir Walter Scott. I would be glad to ask for you.”
“Indeed?” He cocked a brow. “You have impressive friends and kinsmen, Miss MacCarran. I am surprised you agreed to come to our wee Highland glen. You must be very busy in Edinburgh.”
“I would rather be in this wee glen than anywhere, I think.” She smiled, took in a breath.
“Such fresh air, beautiful hills, and welcoming people.” She waved toward the distillery buildings.
“My brother told me to beware the laird of Kinloch, but perhaps he did not know you have a legal enterprise.” And perhaps she was wrong about his other activities.
“My distillery was only recently approved by the government. It is possible he did not know about it.”
“If your tenants also obtain licenses, that would put an end to smuggling.” She would like to see danger removed for Kinloch and his glen. Not long ago, she had not known or cared. Now she did, very much.
“That would not happen quickly. Highland whisky is more expensive than Lowland whiskies and takes longer to make, as we produce it from malted barley, a longer and more careful process. It is superior to the cheaper grain whisky made in the south, which is more easily made. We must move our whisky out of Scotland to earn enough income to sustain the folk who make it. Many are losing their other means of livelihood, thanks to the clearings in the glens, when land is bought up and people dispossessed.”
“I know. It is very sad.” She shook her head. “And since Highlanders use the best ingredients in a careful process, the price will always be higher than the grain stuff.”
“Aye. And it will come even dearer with more excise officers being sent up to the Highlands to find and destroy small stills and enterprises.”
“And my brother among them. I feel I should apologize.” She sighed. The more she knew about Kinloch, the glen, and the whisky enterprise, the more she understood his dedication. And the more he cared, the more she cared, too, now.
He looked at her for a long moment. “No need.”
“Patrick worked in Edinburgh as a lawyer,” she explained, “but he wanted adventure. So he accepted a post as an excise officer.”
“He will find enough adventure here, and may he survive it. Why did you both come to this part of the Highlands?”
“My brother and I need to—” She stopped. She could hardly explain her grandmother’s will and her true reason for coming here. “My brother James owns the Struan estate now, and we thought it would be nice to be close by.”
“I wish someone had told Patrick he would do better in Edinburgh as an advocate. His adventure could come at a heavy price.”
“It is dangerous, I know. And it worries me.”
“I am sorry, lass. But these men can be a sorry bunch. The government pays them poorly but pays extra coin for every bottle and keg a gauger captures. So they scheme to betray Highlanders even when we follow the law, so long as they can confiscate bottles and barrels to put coin in their own pockets.”
“You do not care much for revenuers.”
“Gaugers killed my father,” he said curtly. “He died for the price of the small kegs he carried on two ponies.”
“I am sorry. Truly I am,” she murmured, setting a hand to her chest, sensing in his quiet but brusque tone a hint of the sorrow and bitterness he must feel.
“The whisky he carried was legally made, not smuggled. They did not care.”
She shook her head sadly. “Was it recently?”
“I was thirteen.”
“Just a boy!” She saw his guarded expression alter for a moment, saw the vulnerable boy—then it shuttered closed. He wanted no sympathy or fuss, she realized. But she wanted him to know that she understood. “I lost my parents when I was young. I know how that feels.”
He nodded. “I became laird of Kinloch that day. Since then, I have learned much. Most of it outside the schoolroom,” he added wryly.
“You left schooling behind because of so many responsibilities,” she said.
“I went to the glen school, and then to university for two years. My father wanted that. But I was needed here and came home. Come this way, Miss MacCarran.” He took her arm to guide her over the bridge, their footsteps thudding over the planking. “We’ve lingered too long. The sun will set soon.”
“I should like to see the distillery, if you will show me.”
He gestured for her to precede him. “We spent last year repairing and expanding the place. We planned to rebuild the schoolhouse this spring as well. But the Lowland teacher arrived sooner than expected.”
“So she did. I have not fit your plans from the start.”
“You have not,” he murmured.
She lifted her head as she detected a sharp, strong odor in the air, wafting from one of the nearby buildings. “That smell! It reminds me of the beer the servants made when we lived in Perthshire when I was a girl.” The odor was distinct, like wet hay. She wrinkled her nose.
“The processes of making whisky and beer are the same, to a point,” Kinloch answered.
“What you smell now is the hot barley mash, being boiled down to produce the wort, from which the whisky will be distilled. It’s not a pleasant smell.
First the barley must sprout, so it is turned for days with shovels, then dried over peat fires, which will give the whisky a smoky flavor.
Then the sprouted barley is boiled down to the wort, distilled and collected, and mixed with water from burns and streams. Finally it is set in casks to age. I will show you if you have time.”
“I do. I mean to stay in Glen Kinloch a long while.”
“So I gather.” He tilted a brow, smiled. To one side as they walked, the water of the burn rushed and frothed, setting up a screen of sound. Fiona felt so drawn to the man, and so entranced by the place, that she sighed, wishing she could stay for a very long while.
But that reverie was broken when she heard a man shouting. She spun to look, as did Kinloch. Hamish MacGregor ran toward them, waving his arms.
“What is it?” Kinloch called.
“Fire!” Hamish shouted. “At Tom MacDonald’s!”
Dougal MacGregor began to run. Fiona picked up her skirts and followed.