Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Lachann rode down to the pier, then turned up the village lane and made his way to the distillery, where he dismounted and tied his horse.
A well-dressed older gentleman came out of the building and greeted Lachann. He spoke loudly, to be heard over the sound of the waterfall. “I’m Geordie Kincaid. I’ve been hoping ye’d soon visit us here.”
Lachann remembered hearing the name of the chief distiller, who, by all accounts, had run the place successfully for years. Lachann walked alongside him, breathing in the scent of the peat fires that dried the fermenting barley. He took note of the river that flowed past the distillery and on into the sea.
“The isle has more than one freshwater spring,” Lachann said, nodding toward the steep mountain behind the village. He’d seen the spring on one of his earlier rides, so he knew where the source of the river was. And he’d seen yet another spring in the hills on the southern rim of the island.
“Aye. Sweetest water in th’ western isles,” Kincaid said, though he seemed distracted as he led Lachann into the huge building.
They made no whiskey at Braemore, so Lachann’s knowledge of the distilling process was limited. But he knew the freshwater as well as the waterfall had to be an advantage. As they walked past two men who were at work shoveling a large stack of peat into what appeared to be an oven, Lachann took in the vast space on the ground floor, which was filled with barrels stacked as high as they could go.
“Is that the kiln?” he asked Kincaid.
“Aye. We’ve just laid out our last batch of mashed barley until the new harvest. We’ll dry it with the peat fires for a day or so, then clear the floor for the new crop.”
Lachann heard footsteps on the wooden floor above. “You’ve got men up there in all that smoke?”
Kincaid nodded. “Aye, but only fer a few minutes. We’ll let the fires die while they turn the barley as it dries.”
They came to a large, old, well-used table, with sheaves of paper stacked neatly upon it, along with an ink bottle and quill. A small, unlit lamp stood on its corner.
“What’s this?”
“My office,” Kincaid said with a frown.
Lachann glanced to the right, where a stout door stood closed. “What’s in there?”
“Ah. That was my office for the past twenty years,” he said. “I am now forbidden access to it.”
“By whom?” Lachann asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
“Cullen Macauley,” Kincaid replied, his temper simmering just below his surface. “He has installed himself as the manager of the distillery.”
Lachann tried the door and found it locked. “Macauley has the only key?”
A satisfied look came over Kincaid’s face when he drew a set of keys from a fold of his plaid. “Ach, no. He does’na know it, but I enter as often as I must.”
“Open it, Kincaid.”
The man did so, and they went into the small office. Lachann found it sparsely furnished with a desk and two chairs. Papers were scattered about the desk, and Kincaid clucked his tongue as he looked at the jumble of ledgers and correspondence.
“Ye can’na run the business this way,” he said. “Look a’ this mess.”
Aye, the desk was untidy, and so was the top of an ancient, locked chest that stood against the opposite wall. There were several empty whiskey bottles lying upon it, exactly like the ones Lachann had seen at the castle, full of the laird’s thirty-year malt.
“Does Macauley actually handle any business?”
Kincaid gave a nod. “Tradin’ ships have come in, and they’ve dealt with him.”
“You were cut out of the transaction?”
“Aye. I have no idea whether he’s gettin’ a fair price or if he’s givin’ it away. I’ve seen naught written in these ledgers.”
Lachann knew the whiskey trade was rarely a simple business with cash in and whiskey out. The whole system was far too complex for an outsider—an inexperienced outsider—to come in and take over.
“I hope ye can do somethin’ about that bastard—beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Kincaid said. “He’s takin’ all our best whiskey an’ wastin’ it on Laird MacDuffie, who would’na know a thirty-year malt from a three-year barrel. He can’na read a ledger to save his soul, and”—Kincaid unlocked the safe behind the desk—“he’s kept naught to pay the farmers.”
Lachann picked up a few of the empty bottles. “Why are these here?”
“Exactly the point!” Kincaid said in a tight, angry voice. The color rose to his cheeks as he spoke. “I do’na keep bottles in my office ... and aye, this is my office, not his!”
“I understand your predicament, Kincaid,” Lachann said, “and I will do what I can. For now, though—”
“Catrìona can’na marry that rogue,” Kincaid cut in. “He’s a bloody weasel, and full of secrets. He is up to no good, I can tell ye.”
Lachann already knew that. “What do you think he’s—”
“I do’na know, MacMillan!” Kincaid shoved his fingers through his graying hair. “But, I tell ye ’tis most irksome to know there’s a plan afoot with my distillery, and yet not know what it is.”
Kincaid’s hands were balled into tight fists. “We all see his plan is to win Laird MacDuffie’s favor by fillin’ him with our best whiskey. He keeps the old man fully jaked and barely sensible, and one o’ these fine days, the bloody dobber will wrest the laird’s consent to marry his daughter. Unless you can do somethin’, ’twill be only a matter of time before there’s a Macauley laird in MacDuffie’s place.”
Aye, Lachann suspected the same. He needed to get rid of Macauley as soon as possible.
“The ship in the harbor,” Lachann said. “Is its business with the distillery concluded?”
Kincaid shook his head. “No money has exchanged hands yet, if that’s what yer askin’.”
“Good. I’ll go talk to her captain,” Lachann said. “And I’ll put a stop to Macauley’s access here.”
“I thank ye, MacMillan. Fer all ye can do.”
Lachann left the distillery, leading his horse toward the pier. He had a plan for keeping Macauley out of the distillery, but he’d yet to come up with a way to eject him from Kilgorra without causing offence to the laird and his daughter.
But he would think of something.
Anna felt more than a little shaken by what had happened in Gudrun’s cottage. She needed Ky now.
She took the path up to her friend’s cottage. She guessed Birk was still lying about in one of the caves on the beach, imbibing excessively, as was his wont these days.
“What’s wrong?” Kyla asked as Anna came into the cottage and took Douglas from her friend’s arms.
“Naught.”
“Anna ...”
“Have you seen Birk?” Anna could not speak of what had just happened in the cottage. Not even to Kyla.
Kyla crossed her arms over her chest, and her questioning gaze made Anna turn ’round and bounce Douglas in her arms.
“I’ve not seen him yet today.”
Anna’s feelings were so very raw that she did not know what to say. That her heart was in jeopardy? That Catrìona did not deserve a man like Lachann MacMillan? That she would consider breaking her vow of perpetual maidenhood for him ... ?
If ’twas not already broken by their actions in the cottage.
“I got you a weapon,” Anna said. She sat down and reached under her skirt for the dirk strapped at her knee. “Hide it in this garter, and when Birk tries—”
“Anna, no.”
“Aye. You must protect yourself.”
Kyla sat down across from Anna. The bruise ’round her eye was mostly green now. Fading.
“Next time he goes for you, knock him hard between the legs. Use your knee, or your fist if you must.”
“I-I do not think I can.”
“Aye. You can and you must,” Anna said, deadly serious. “If he grabs you so you cannot damage his privates, then go for his nose. Use the heel of your hand, or your knuckles.”
Kyla looked askance at Anna. “How do you know all this?”
Anna shrugged. “I asked someone.”
“Who?”
“It does not matter who,” she said. “He gave me good advice, and now I’m passing it on to you.”
“He? Lachann MacMillan, aye?”
“What if it was?”
Kyla observed Anna’s face, which she struggled to keep composed. She reached across the table and took Anna’s hand. “He cannot marry Catrìona.”
“Aye? Well, he must,” Anna retorted, feeling perilously close to tears. “Kilgorra does not deserve a laird like the one we have. Or Cullen Macauley in his place.”
Kyla did not disagree, and Anna’s sense that her friend was quietly assessing her was confirmed by her next question. “What happened when you asked MacMillan for the dirk?”
“He gave me a lesson on how to defend myself.”
“Is that all?”
Anna felt her face flush to the roots of her hair. “Of course.”
“Mayhap you can lie to yourself, Anna MacIver,” Kyla said. “But I know you too well.”
Anna blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes. “Naught can happen between Lachann and me, Kyla. Absolutely naught.”
The look of pure disgust Catrìona had seen in Lachann MacMillan’s eyes worried her. Aye, she supposed it had been foolish for Cullen to shoot off his pistol so close to the courtyard where someone might walk by. But MacMillan took too much authority upon himself. Chastising Mungo after that stupid boy had been hurt, berating Cullen...
Catrìona had not yet consented to wed him, and he was not yet laird.
He might never be. A controlling husband was not what Catrìona wanted, though his wealth was said to be immense. Far more substantial even than that of the Duke of Argyll.
She thought about what she might do with such riches. She could have a house on the mainland, at Inverness, perhaps. Or Fort William, where hundreds of men were garrisoned. She could socialize with others of her status. The wee wren could choose far more sophisticated lovers than the ones available to her on Kilgorra.
With MacMillan’s money, Catrìona’s wardrobe would be the finest anyone could order from France, not these homely gowns Anna sewed for her. Ha! Which would require a trip to Paris, she thought with glee, something Catrìona had never before thought possible.
Cullen was not a poor man, and he was far less controlling, far more amenable than Lachann MacMillan. Catrìona did not think he would mind if she went off to Inverness for a few months. Or spent time socializing in Paris with exciting, fashionable friends. As long as he had lairdship of the isle, he would be content.
She watched him sleep on the narrow bed in the chapel room and decided he was far easier to manage than MacMillan would ever be. But did he have the funds she wanted for this new life she envisioned?
If she wed Lachann MacMillan, would he ever agree that she could live the life she wanted while he stayed behind and built Kilgorra into the military bastion he wanted?
’Twas something she needed to find out before she made her decision.
Lachann settled the issues of payment with the captain of the Saoibhreas, then returned to the castle to handle the problem of Macauley and the distillery. He strode into the courtyard and signaled for Kieran to join him. “Come with me to the blacksmith’s shop.”
“You have business with that simpleton, Lachann?”
Lachann nodded. “I just discovered to what extent Macauley has been interfering at the distillery. I’m going to lock him out of the place as soon as the blacksmith can make a new lock.”
“Aye? You think Ramsay has the skill to do it?”
“I’m going to assume so. I want you to stay with him while he fashions it and installs it. Make sure there are only two keys. One is to go to Geordie Kincaid. You keep the other.”
“I foresee Catrìona objecting to this, Lachann.”
“Aye, she might,” Lachann said simply. But he did not care. “After I talk to Ramsay, I want you to stay on him until he completes the task.”
They continued in silence to the blacksmith’s shop, where they found Ramsay, digging for something on one of the deep shelves in his workshop.
“Ramsay.”
He turned and made a deep growl, glaring at Lachann as though he had some grievance.
“I want you to put a new lock on the door at the distillery,” Lachann said.
“Ach, aye? And why should I do that?” The man crossed his beefy arms over his chest.
Lachann walked up to the man and stood directly in front of him. Ramsay was a few years older than Lachann, but they were both of a size, though Lachann would bet every barrel of whiskey stored at the distillery that the blacksmith could not best him in agility. Ramsay hadn’t gained his brawn by moving swiftly in battle, as Lachann had.
“I thought I made myself clear yesterday.” Lachann spoke quietly and evenly.
Ramsay leaned slightly forward at the waist so that his face came close to Lachann’s. Clearly, the man was accustomed to using intimidation to accomplish his ends.
The man narrowed his eyes. “And if I’m too busy to get to it?”
“My cousin Kieran will help you make sure the new locks are a priority.”
Kieran leaned back casually against the doorjamb, as though the blacksmith’s decision to cooperate was of no concern. But Lachann was sure Ramsay had seen him in the courtyard, practicing with sword and pistol, as well as hand to hand. Ramsay would be a fool to tangle with him.
“Do it now,” Lachann added without blinking. He waited for a sign, and when the man swallowed heavily, Lachann knew he’d won. Mayhap the burly blacksmith had learned his lesson yesterday.