Chapter Twelve

“That damn Campbell is back.” Rory burst into the smaller dining room where Ian, Carr, and Alasdair, along with Emily and her sisters, had gathered to take the noonday meal. Now that harvesting was officially underway, the men and women who normally ate in the Great Hall had taken knapsacks with food so they wouldn’t have to waste time returning to the castle from the fields.

Ian arched a brow. “I’m surprised he has nae shown up sooner. It’s been near a fortnight.”

“Where is he?” Emily rose. “We should not keep him waiting.”

Rory snorted. “It would nae hurt to keep a Campbell waiting.”

Juliana glared at him as she stood, too. “He might have news of our stolen sheep.”

He glared back. “He dinna say anything about sheep.”

Emily sighed as her sister strode out. Juliana and Rory squabbled like children. She was never quite sure which one of them started the arguments, but neither of them ever wanted to give way. Lorelei gave her a helpless shrug as she walked past.

At least Ian’s other brothers were polite. Except for Devon, of course. He was an angry, troubled man, and she was concerned about him. She kept meaning to ask Ian about what had happened while Devon had been a captive, but the timing never seemed right. For now, though, it was probably better that he wasn’t here.

Gavin was seated in the small room across from the Great Hall that would be called a parlor were it in London. She paused for a second before approaching the door, remembering the original battle she’d fought with the housekeeper.

The room had been closed when she’d first arrived and obviously not used, by the amount of dust on everything. She’d asked for the room to be cleaned, the carpets beaten, the furniture uncovered, and the silver candelabra, nearly black with tarnish, polished. Maggie had said it would be put on a list of things to do. When nothing had happened over the course of three days, she’d gone to the housekeeper and asked for a polishing cloth, much to the startled surprise of several maids who were being given orders. Then Emily had marched into the room, taken the covers off the chairs, pulled out the carpet, and had begun polishing the silver. There had been some whispers at the door and scuffling feet. After several minutes, two maids appeared, saying they’d been sent to help. Emily suspected Maggie had done so grudgingly, but she wasn’t about to argue.

Now the room looked as a proper sitting room should. The hearth had been swept clean, the soot removed from the stone. The candlesticks on the mantel gleamed and the wood on the tables had been waxed until it shone. Even the chairs had been brushed until the texture of the seats looked soft and inviting.

Gavin rose from an armchair as the ladies entered. And—to the MacGregors’ annoyance, she was sure—bowed to her sisters, taking their hands and brushing a kiss in the air over each. For once, Juliana looked disconcerted and Emily heard Rory mutter something in Gaelic under his breath. Lorelei dropped a curtsy and batted her lashes, which brought a frown to Alasdair’s face. When Gavin turned to her, Ian stepped between them.

“Have ye news on the sheep?”

For a moment, Gavin seemed to contemplate him, and Emily thought he looked almost amused. Then he took a step back and shook his head.

“I’ve asked about and no one has seen your sheep.”

“Ye doona think someone would admit to reiving, do ye?” Ian asked.

Gavin shrugged. “I’ve ridden to our near pastures myself. I have not seen an increase to any flock.”

“That is so disappointing,” Emily said before the sparring could turn into a full argument. “Whatever do you think could have become of them?”

“My guess is that they were carted off to Loch Awe and shipped out.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “Who told ye they were carted away?”

Emily felt her eyes widen. When he’d been summoned to Strae Castle, no one had said anything about the cart tracks Rory had found. She waited to see what the answer would be.

But Gavin just smiled easily. “It hardly takes a genius to deduce that two dozen sheep cannot just disappear. Either carts or wagons would have been waiting.”

She supposed he had a point, since she knew Ian had directed men to search for the sheep as well.

“Then why are ye here?” Alasdair asked.

Emily winced at the curt tone, but Gavin seemed to take it in stride.

“As I said the last time I was here, I planned to call on Lady Woodhaven.”

Ian took a step closer. “The countess is in mourning and nae receiving such calls.”

Her mouth dropped open and she closed it quickly, not sure if she should be angry that Ian would presume to dictate what she could do or that he was aware of Society’s custom of widow’s weeds. Not that she was wearing them.

Which apparently Gavin had noted as well. “Lady Woodhaven is not wearing black, if I might point that out.”

A soft sound, suspiciously like a growl, came from Ian. “’Tis nae always practical.”

“That is true,” Emily said quickly. “I needed to limit the wardrobe I brought.”

“And I would compliment you on doing so,” Gavin said. “The blue of your gown matches not only your eyes, but also the skies.”

Ian made that sound again. “Do ye want to throw in the loch as well? Her eyes are the same color as it.”

Emily blinked at him. He thought her eyes were blue as Loch Awe?

“Touche, MacGregor. I should have added that,” Gavin said, then gazed around the room. “Actually, I have come at my father’s behest. As a gesture of good will between our clans, he would like to invite all of you to a ball at Kilchurn once the harvest is in.”

“Oh! A ball! That would be lovely!” Lorelei clapped her hands happily and turned to Emily. “We can go, can’t we? Say that we can!”

“Well, I…” She looked at the MacGregor brothers quickly. Perhaps it was better that she make the decision. Not looking at Ian, she answered. “Of course. We would be delighted.”

“Good,” Gavin replied. “Then that is settled.”

But judging from the expressions on the MacGregor faces, which ranged from surprised to surly, she was pretty sure nothing was settled.

…

Over the next two weeks, Emily hardly saw Ian. Or, to be more precise, she saw him as he was leaving each morning. With the harvesting of the barley under way, the brothers and both uncles rode out shortly after the sun rose and didn’t return until well after dusk.

Timing was critical, so they all worked alongside the crofters and clansmen. Emily tried to imagine a single aristocrat she knew who would actually help his groundskeeper at a country estate, let alone get his hands dirty working with the farmers who leased land. Even the “country gentry,” a notch below the aristocracy, weren’t inclined to do more than issue orders. Since she thought of herself as a practical, no-nonsense type of person, she was accumulating a great deal of respect for the independence of Scots.

Of course, no one had been inclined to invite her to accompany them—and she probably would have been more of a hindrance than a help, if she were honest with herself—but that didn’t stop her from following and observing from a distance.

She’d already learned the process of harvesting barley, having dragged the information from Donovan and Broderick. Once the barley turned golden and the peeled kernels hard to indent with a fingernail, the grain was ready to be cut. Then the stalks were arranged in small bundles, with ten bundles tied together to create sheaths that were erected to stand and dry.

For the past week, she had watched from a distance as Ian swung his sickle, cutting cleanly through the fibrous stems as he walked along a row. The work was labor-intensive and the early autumn days unusually warm. It hadn’t taken long for him to remove his shirt, leaving him clad only in doeskin breeches. Watching his back muscles work and his biceps bulge with each swing was endlessly fascinating, even if she did feel a bit like a wanton for enjoying it.

She hadn’t known a man could look so perfectly sculpted, like a Greek statue in motion. Albert had always kept his nightshirt on when he’d come to her bed, although what she could feel of his weight had been soft and pudgy. Luckily, those episodes had been few and quickly over, and she’d been thankful—the Lord forgive her—when he’d passed away and she never had to experience the humiliation again.

Now, watching Ian move with practiced precision, his black hair glistening nearly blue in the sunlight, she was reminded of a black panther she’d once seen in a traveling zoo. The animal had paced his cage with graceful agility, exuding power with every stride.

An odd tingle coursed through her as she wondered what it would be like to have such an animal—the human one—in her bed.

She felt her face heat at the thought, not even knowing where it had come from. As far as she was from her goal of being accepted by the MacGregors, to think—no, to fantasize—about anything more was ludicrous. Keeping that thought firmly in mind, she turned Muirne back to the castle.

As she rode into the bailey, she noticed a carriage parked in the yard. No crest was attached to the door, but it looked well-made, the wood varnished, and the brass lanterns polished.

“Have we a visitor?” she asked Hamish as she entered.

The castellan gave her a dubious look. “A Mr. Everard. He says he’s from White’s, in London.”

“Ah! The procurator! Wonderful,” Emily said. “Is he in the parlor?”

“Aye. I have sent for Broderick.”

“Broderick?” She frowned. “Whatever for?”

He lifted his chin ever so slightly. “He handles the distillery business.”

“But I am the one…” Emily let her voice trail off. There was no use arguing with the castellan. Meanwhile, she would take matters into her own hands. “Please bring a bottle of the MacGregor whisky to the parlor…and two glasses.”

His eyes widened, although she wasn’t sure whether it was because she was requesting whisky in the middle of the afternoon or whether she’d asked for two glasses. For a moment he hesitated and she wondered if he’d refuse—she thought there was a bottle in the library that she could get—but then he gave a terse nod and walked away.

She shook her head at his retreating back before she turned to greet her guest…and, hopefully, new business partner.

“Mr. Everard. I am Lady Woodhaven,” she said as he rose from his chair. “We were not sure when to expect you. Did you have an easy journey?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Traveling a week, over roads that grow increasingly more like a deer trail and as deeply rutted as a dry stream, can hardly be called easy.” He lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “But that is of no significance. I am here to taste the whisky and decide whether it is good enough for White’s.”

“You will soon have a sample and be assured that it is.” Emily smiled and gestured for him to be seated. “I look forward to working with you.”

His look turned condescending. “I was told by the butler that the man in charge of the distillery had been sent for.”

She managed to keep her smile in place, even when Hamish—she didn’t bother to correct his status—came in with a bottle and one glass. If she had excelled in one thing while being Albert’s wife, it was to hide her true feelings.

“Would you be so kind as to pour a dram for our guest?”

Hamish started to smirk at his little victory, but bootsteps were heard in the hall. In a moment, both Broderick and Donovan came through the parlor door. Emily leveled a look at the castellan.

“It seems we will need three more glasses, Hamish.”

“Aye. Three,” Donovan said.

She wasn’t sure if he’d noticed that Mr. Everard already had one or if he was really including her. Whichever it was, Hamish’s mouth tightened, but he nodded and left, soon to return with—thankfully—three glasses.

Emily watched covertly as the procurator took his first sip. She kept her smile hidden at his look of astonishment. “What do you think?”

He swirled the remaining contents gently, inhaled the aroma, and took another sip. He held it on his tongue like a fine wine before he swallowed. Then he smiled. “This is excellent. I think it will be in high demand at White’s.” He turned to the uncles. “Gentlemen. A toast to our future endeavor.”

Broderick and Donovan both grinned, held up their glasses, and in true Scot’s fashion, downed their drams. Emily pushed her irritability out of mind.

“This will truly be a joint adventure,” she said. “As I was about to tell you, I am planning to be a full participant in the distillery business.”

Mr. Everard eyed her. “That is totally unheard of. Women have no head for business.”

She bit back a retort, silently cursing the stupidity of some men. “When my husband was…indisposed, I had no choice but to look into our business matters. I did not find it that difficult to understand profit and loss.” The Lord knew she’d learned all about loss—and debt—in abundance. Thankfully, Albert had not favored White’s, so perhaps the procurator was not aware of how badly off the earldom had been.

“Even so, I prefer to work with the owner of the distillery. It makes things simpler,” Mr. Everard said.

“It certainly does,” Emily agreed. “As it happens, I am the owner.” She would have laughed at the look of bafflement on his face except for the fact that Donovan was frowning and Broderick scowling.

“I was told the owners were Murrays,” he said.

“We are,” Broderick said. “My brother took over the business more than thirty years ago and I joined him two decades past. Ye can count on us.”

Mr. Everard looked relieved. “Good. Then that is settled.”

“Actually…” Emily somehow managed to keep her voice calm. “It is not settled. I have been given title, in my own right, to Strae Castle and its holdings. And, while I agree that the Murrays may see to the daily managing of the distillery, I will be involved with negotiations, as well as any legal matters that arise.” Ignoring the piqued expressions on Donovan’s and Broderick’s faces, as well as the annoyed look on the procurator’s, she set down her glass. “If you do not wish to work with me, I am sure there are several other gentlemen’s clubs in London that would be glad to offer White’s some competition.”

For a moment there was silence. Emily kept her expression impassive, hoping she hadn’t gone too far. She had no idea whether any other London clubs would be willing to work with a woman, either, but she did know that, if she wasn’t firm, she wouldn’t be taken seriously. And she wasn’t about to let that happen.

Finally, Mr. Everard nodded. “It is most unusual, but I agree to your terms.”

Inwardly, Emily wanted to leap and shout with joy. She had won a battle, if not the war. Instead, she offered a slight smile. “I think you will discover you have made a good decision.” She glanced at Broderick and Donovan. “I will count on your help, since your expertise will be invaluable.” She picked up the bottle that Hamish had left and began to pour. “Shall we have another toast? To success?”

As they drank, she was confident the endeavor would work. She just hoped Donovan and Broderick saw it that way as well.

…

The procurator left the following morning. The Murray brothers followed him out of the Great Hall when he was through breaking his fast, leaving Emily behind. She had really wanted to follow his uncles out to ensure there were no “private” arrangements being made with Mr. Everard, but Ian hadn’t come in until very late last night and this morning he’d been irate. If it had to do with her—and it probably did—she needed to find out what it was before he left again for the day. Although Devon had gone, the other three brothers still remained in the room, along with a few older men who weren’t working in the fields, so she would have to wait. A few minutes later she heard Broderick and Donovan return. Whatever had transpired had certainly not taken long. After what seemed like an endless amount of time finishing their plates, Carr, Rory, and Alasdair took their leave as did the others. She looked across the table at Ian.

“Are you not happy with the agreement that was reached?”

He put down the piece of toast he was about to bite. “I have nae seen the contract, but if my uncles thought it solid—”

“They did.” That much was true, at least. After a certain amount of haggling, they had agreed that the money offered was acceptable. “We will turn a tidy profit.”

“Even so, it would be better if ye let Broderick and Donovan handle everything.”

Emily bristled. What is it with men? “I am perfectly capable of understanding the business.”

“I didna say ye could nae understand it.” Ian sighed. “The clansmen doona want ye to be involved.”

She stared at him. “How would they even know?”

“This isna London, but that doesna mean people doona gossip. Besides, ye were seen at the distillery several times.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“Ye were probably overheard talking to my uncles.” Ian shrugged. “However the news got out, it did. I spent hours last night trying to convince the clansmen that the local supply of whisky wouldna be interrupted because we would be shipping to London.”

So that’s why he had not come home. He’d been putting out the proverbial fires…or trying to contain them, at least. “So you are not angry with me?”

He shook his head. “Nae angry. I just think ’twould be better if ye let my uncles handle this.”

She raised her eyes heavenward in exasperation. “You do not think me capable?”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “I have nae doubt ye are.”

“Then why should I not be involved with the business?”

“Because ye have been here a little over a month, and ye are English.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “Ye canna help that, but many older Scots remember Culloden, nae to mention MacGregors still have good reason nae to trust the English.”

She couldn’t argue the point. “I understand that, but if your kinspeople do not see me about, or interact with me, they will never learn to trust that I am not against them.”

“Ye ask a lot.”

“If I am to live here—and I am—it is crucial that I be accepted.” Emily raised her chin defiantly, expecting Ian to rebut, but he remained silent. Something flickered in his eyes, though. “One of the reasons I want to be active with the whisky trade is to prove that I am capable of working hard…that I have earned a part of the profits we will be making.”

Another flicker. It passed so suddenly she didn’t have time to interpret it, but his unusual golden eyes were trained on her like a hawk. Well, she certainly was not going to be a mouse. “Not all Englishwomen are vain, self-indulgent creatures. And,” she added for emphasis, “I do intend to make Strae Castle my home.”

He studied her, the sharpness of his gaze not changing. “Ye have had a chance to see the property and examine the ledgers. The harvest is nearly in. Ye ken we will do well this year.” He paused. “I thought ye’d want to return to London before the weather turns cold. Winters are bitter in the Highlands.”

“You think you can scare me off because of the weather? It will take more than that.” She rose, motioning for him to stay seated. “I am not leaving…except for the moment. I need to remove the sheets from my bed and take them to the laundry.”

He frowned. “Maggie can send a girl up to do that.”

“There is no need.” Emily smiled. “As I said, not all Englishwomen are spoiled. I intend to prove myself to your clan.”

…

Ian watched her leave, mulling over what she’d said. Emily was certainly unlike any English woman he’d met and certainly not like his stepmother. Isobel hadn’t been much older than Emily when his father had married her. The daughter of a dragoon officer, she’d acted like she were a princess, insisting she have a personal maid—one from England, properly trained—as well as expecting his father’s household servants to do her bidding. And his father, infatuated as he’d been with his young, beautiful bride, had quietly commanded them all to obey. It had been a fraught-filled two years before she’d met her demise and the servants had been able to resume their regular routines.

Unfortunately, Emily had the same fair coloring as Isobel. That their appearances were similar was just another reason for the MacGregors who remembered Isobel to dislike Emily. Or, at least, not trust her.

Trust her. That’s what she wanted his clan to do. He grimaced, thinking how unlikely that was to happen, even if she didn’t assume airs and did work hard to prove herself. Even he resented that she held the deed to Strae Castle and the MacGregor lands. It was a barrier that was nigh unsurmountable. Especially more so if their clan name was reinstated, giving them the right to reclaim their lands. As head of the clan, he would have to defend their rights, even if King George did not agree. That possibility was only too real and, with Gavin Campbell sniffing around Emily’s skirts, she would have a ready ally and clan war could very well break out.

Ian rubbed his temple, feeling the onset of a headache. His brothers had not been exaggerating when they’d had their earlier discussion. War with the Campbells who, more often than not, sided with the Crown, could quickly put an end to the MacGregors’ reinstatement. History had proved how many times that had happened before.

The whole thing was a quagmire more treacherous than any peat bog.

But fashing about it would do no good. Emily said she intended to make Strae Castle her home, and he already recognized the tone of her voice when she wasn’t about to be deterred. Somehow, this situation needed to be reconciled, but he had no idea how to do it. Maybe he should…

A female scream rent the air, suddenly halted in mid-screech. Emily? Ian pushed back his chair, knocking it over, and rushed to the door.