Sarah Gabriel (17 page)

“What is that?” She turned, looked over her shoulder. “I thought I heard a child calling.”

Dougal looked past her, and saw Lucy at the top of the path, running toward them.

“Uncle Dougal!” she cried. “Wait!”

“Lucy!” He kept a hand on Fiona’s arm, his pulsing blood fading to cold as he felt alarm rise up in him. “What is it?”

The little girl ran fast toward them, dark hair flying out behind her, losing its ribbon as she came forward in a panic, waving her arms, spilling to her knees on the path, and scrambling up again. “Uncle!”

He set Fiona aside to run toward his niece, and knew that Fiona was just behind him, as concerned as he was himself. “What is wrong?” Dougal hastened toward her, alarmed.

“I want to go to Annabel’s house,” the girl replied.

Dougal stopped, dumbfounded. Behind him, Fiona chuckled softly.

“I
am going across the glen with Annabel to her house,” Lucy said, coming closer. “I am invited to have supper with her and her mother, and stay the night so that you will not have to come get me or send one of the lads after me.”

“You gave us a scare,” Dougal said, glancing at Fiona, who smiled.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Lucy said. “There is no school.” He saw Fiona nod.

“Very well, then. Go straight there and do not linger along the way,” Dougal said with a warning tone.

“Thank you, sir.” Lucy smiled brightly, her dimpled expression reminding him keenly of his sister, Ellen. “I promised Annabel we would give her mother some of our fairy brew.”

“Did you,” he drawled, with a sidelong glance for Fiona. “Then ask Maisie to fetch down a bottle for you to take to her. Maisie is at the house today, cleaning.”

“I hope she has not put away my paper and pens, and the poem I am writing!”

“Tell her yourself when you go up. Go on, now.” He waved Lucy onward, and she turned to run back to Annabel. The girls joined hands and chattered as they went up the hill.

Dougal turned to walk with Fiona once again, wondering if she thought of that earlier moment as he did. She looked at him, her skin flushed. “Lucy writes poems?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Just now I think she is copying a verse from a book.”

“Interesting,” she said. “You are a fine guardian for that lass. Some men would not have the patience for a child of such spirit, and one who is not their own.”

“She is my ward legally, but I think of her as my own. My sister has been gone three years.” That said more than enough, to his thinking. He would not wax on about his affection for the child. The feelings of protectiveness and love that he felt for his niece were stronger he would admit aloud.

“Is her father gone as well, that she lives with her kinsmen?”

“Gone enough,” he said gruffly. He did not want to discuss what had happened to his sister Ellen, sweet as a sunbeam, yet wooed and deserted, never married to the father of her child—a disgrace for many, particularly in the south, but quietly accepted and absorbed by many Highland families, despite the rigors of the Free Church. “Lucy is my charge
now. My uncles and aunts lend a hand. There are many who care for her—not just myself.”

She nodded. “What is fairy brew?”

He sighed. “A kind of spirit traditionally brewed by some Highlanders.”

“Ah. Not made by fairies?”

“Of course not. It is just a name,” he answered.

“My sister-in-law has a Highland kinsman who makes a type of fairy whisky that the family says possesses genuine magic. They are rather secretive about it.”

“You did mention that your brother married a MacArthur girl,” he said casually, referring to his own cousin. “One of her MacArthur kinsmen may make a whisky by that name. It is a common name for Highland whiskies made to certain old recipes.”

She tipped her head. “Do the recipes contain magical secrets handed down by fairies?”

“The only secret ingredient for any whisky brew is usually something like flowers,” he said, and shrugged as if it were all commonplace.

“Ah, the flowers in whisky lend their flavor,” she said, nodding. “Is it illegal, this so-called fairy brew?”

“No more than most Highland whiskies. It all depends on the quantity produced. Every Highland household is permitted to distill up to five hundred gallons a year. Any amount after that is considered excessive, and therefore taxable and illegal if the excise is not paid.”

“Five hundred gallons seems like quite a lot.”

“Not really. What is made is often stored to allow it to age. The rest is consumed by the household. Whisky can be held for years, to increase its flavor and quality.”

“And value,” she said astutely. “Fairy brew is a lovely name for a whisky, though. So romantic.”

“And you seem such a practical lass, what with the teaching, and the collecting of rocks,” he said in a teasing voice.

“Rocks have a fascinating mystery about them, which is why I am interested in the geology of the primeval earth. As for fairies—I love the legends,” she said softly. “I hope to learn more about local tales here in Glen Kinloch.”

He nodded in silence, aware that one of the most fascinating local fairy stories had to do with Kinloch whisky—but he could not share the tale outside the family.

“Is that a clachan up ahead?” She pointed toward the buildings visible beyond the thicket of bushes and trees, where the path skirted a bend and opened in a clearing.

“It does look like a small village,” he agreed. “But this is part of the Kinloch estate. That’s our distillery.”

“I thought most Highland stills were hidden away to keep them safe from the revenue men.”

“Sometimes. The Kinloch distillery is not as exciting as an illicit still, I admit. But we’ve no need to hide our enterprise here.”

“That’s bold,” she said. “Are there many stills in the area?”

Wary, thinking of her gauger brother, he narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“The night we met,” she said, “the customs man said you would be held accountable for any stills found on Kinloch lands, if the owners were unknown.”

“Ah. That new law is now in place, and it is a devil of a thing to put forth,” he said.

“It does seem unfair,” she replied.

“Along with that provision, the government has also lowered taxes on barley—”

“The tax is on the barley itself?”

“On the wort, actually,” he explained. “The mash that is created from boiling and steaming the barley. The wort becomes the heart of the whisky process. The steam from that simmers in a large copper pot, enters some copper coils, and drips down—and that distillation is collected to make the whisky.”

“So the wort really is key to making a quantity of whisky,” she said.

“Exactly. Any boiled mash that is produced and distilled will be taxed according to how much whisky it might make. We are obligated to report each time a wort is made from barley.”

“I do not see how the government can expect you to do that,” she said, frowning.

“Just so,” he replied. “You see something of the problem now. Highlanders grow the barley themselves, use it for food and sell it as grain. Some is
used to produce whisky, too. But if we grow it for our families and our livelihoods, it is ours, and no part of it is owed to the government—or so most Highlanders feel, I assure you.”

“No wonder there is such tension between the excise officers and the smugglers.”

“True, and with the gaugers making a fee on each bottle confiscated, they are as eager to find it as Highlanders are to hide it. But lowering the tax on the wort may make secretly exporting Highland whisky less profitable, and not worth the effort. Yet despite the newer laws, the king’s men will have a devil of a time enforcing them in the Highlands. Regulations like those make good sense to the Session Court in Edinburgh, but here in the hills they can be impossible to carry out.”

“Are the stills all hidden? They could arrest you for what they find in Glen Kinloch, even if the stills do not belong to you.”

“They could,” he admitted. “More often than not, the pot stills are hidden away, and many have been in place for generations. What my tenants produce is their own concern, not mine. If the law does not agree, we will make sure the government never finds out. Not all of it is illicit, though,” he said. “More legal distilleries are being opened, encouraged by the lowered taxes. The newer laws will help those who wish to make a legitimate living from distilling fine whiskies.”

“But not the smugglers,” she said. “That venture will eventually die out.”

“We shall see.” He gestured onward. “Have you never seen whisky in the making? Let me show you. Come this way.”

Entering the glade beside Dougal, Fiona saw a cluster of whitewashed buildings arranged in tidy fashion, with slate roofs and red doors adding to the quaint air. In the middle of the clearing, the path met a wooden footbridge that crossed the burbling stream. The water sluiced under the bridge to channel far into the glen beyond. The distillery was as picturesque and peaceful as a little clachan, yet she knew now it was not that.

“This is a handsome distillery,” she said, glancing at Dougal. “I thought Highland whisky was made using small hidden copper stills. But you must produce quite a bit here.”

“The private stills serve their purpose. I wanted a larger enterprise at Kinloch.”

Fiona blinked at that, wondering at the volume of Kinloch’s illegal output.

He strolled with her toward the little bridge. “Originally these were outbuildings for Kinloch House, three hundred years ago when there was a castle on the hill, before the tower house was built,” he explained. “The largest building, there, was a stable, and the others were byre, granary, and bakehouse. They were abandoned long ago. My grandfather and father reclaimed them for another purpose.”

“I see,” she said. As they stepped onto the wooden bridge, Fiona paused to look over the rail
ing at the water, which rushed prettily over rocks and channeled out into the glen. Dougal stopped beside her, just as two young men exited the largest building. They waved at Dougal, glanced at Fiona, and then hastened toward another building, entering that doorway. “It does look a flourishing place,” she said.

“We are increasingly busy.” He looked pleased, Fiona thought, his slight smile genuine and private. Her brother had once mentioned hundreds of secret stills and casks moved by stealth, and smugglers bold enough to manufacture and move whisky about openly. Kinloch must be one of the bolder ones, she thought, to have so large and organized an operation.

She remembered, then, the moonlit night when she had stood on a hillside and watched the laird and band of smugglers walk past, leading their ponies.
Fiona, go home
, he had said,
and lock the door.
A shivery thrill went through her once again.

“What a rogue you are, Kinloch,” she said quietly, impulsively.

He tipped his head. “Miss MacCarran?”

“Making whisky here without apology, and smuggling it out of Scotland.”

“I brought you here,” he said, “because I want you to understand that we are not all smugglers and rogues in this glen.”

She stared as revelation struck—she had been wrong in her assumption. Blushing, she shook her head. “Your enterprise here is legal.”

“Just so. This is a licensed distillery.”

“Please forgive me. I thought—”

He held up a hand. “I know. But your vision is quite intriguing, a huge smuggling enterprise out in the open. We could pull it off if we plant more trees to better hide the place. We would need more pack ponies, for we produce more here. What do you think?”

“Oh, stop,” she said, then laughed sheepishly. “The revenue officers would notice something going on, with so much chimney smoke and activity here.”

“They would,” he said amiably. “Rest assured that every square inch has been examined and approved. King George himself could be served Kinloch whisky at court one day.”

“He asked to be served Glenlivet, a favorite of his, when he visited Edinburgh last summer,” she said. “I remember the kerfuffle over it! The king himself requesting illegal spirits, not even aware that what he drank in London was smuggled. People were outraged.”

“The Highlanders who told me that story were very amused,” he said. “Perhaps I ought to send him some of our own Kinloch brew.”

“We have a family friend who could convey a bottle to him, if you mean it. I will ask Sir Walter for you.”

“Sir Walter Scott? You have impressive friends, Miss MacCarran. An earl for a cousin, a viscount for a brother, and now the Bard of the North him
self. I am surprised you are willing to spend weeks teaching in a Highland glen. You must have a busy life at home.”

“Not really. It can be rather dull. Besides, I like your Highland glen.” She waved toward the distillery buildings. “My brother did not mention a legal distillery at Kinloch. He told me only to beware the Kinloch smugglers.”

“Those rascals,” Dougal said wryly. “Your brother is new to his post and perhaps does not know about this place. We were only recently approved by the government.”

“If your tenants get licenses, too, there will be an end to smuggling,” she said.

“So the government hopes, but it is unlikely to happen for a very long time. And Highland whisky is superior to Lowland, being made from malted barley, rather than the cheaper grain whisky of the south. It comes dear here, so prices will always be high. Especially with more excise officers being sent into the Highlands to find the small stills and put an end to them.”

“My brother was given just such a post, after working in Edinburgh as a lawyer. He wanted something with more adventure, and so he came north to Loch Katrine.”

“He will find more than enough adventure here, and may he survive it,” he drawled. “Why would he want to come here? And you, as well?”

“My brother and I must—” She stopped, realizing she could never explain the reason she was
there, and had to stay. “Well, for one reason, our brother James now lives at Struan.”

He nodded, accepting that explanation. “Your brother would make a better living in Edinburgh as an advocate. No one needs this adventure. Customs officers do not last long.”

“I know it is dangerous. Patrick knows, too.”

“The government pays them poorly, but a gauger earns extra coin for every bottle or keg turned over to the government. So they turn sly, and resort to scheming.”

“Patrick would not,” she insisted. “You simply do not care for any sort of revenue man.”

“Gaugers killed my father,” he said curtly. “He died for the price that could be collected from the whisky kegs he carried on two ponies.”

“I did not know,” she murmured.

“He carried whisky made within the limits of the law, not smuggled. They did not care.”

She sighed, shook her head, uncertain what to say. “Was it recently?”

“I was nearly fourteen.”

“Just a boy!” Heart stirring, she looked up to see a guarded expression fleet over his features, and she realized that he would accept neither sympathy nor fuss.