Chapter Four

As it turned out, Ian didn’t have to go looking for her. She came looking for him. His brothers had left the library only moments earlier when he, having finished the single dram he allowed himself and was putting the bottle away, heard a light tap on the closed door.

“Enter!” he’d called. He’d asked Maggie earlier to give him a full report on how the day had gone with the Sassenachs, so he supposed it was she. Instead, when he looked up, it was Emily who stood in the doorway.

He blinked, hardly recognizing her. Yesterday, when she’d arrived, she’d been wearing a pelisse and last evening at dinner—no doubt because her trunks hadn’t been taken up to her room—she’d worn her traveling dress, which had buttoned up the front with a high neck, long sleeves, and loose fit, to accommodate the lengthy time spent in a carriage. Her hair had also been pulled back in a tight chignon.

The woman who just entered truly could have been an angel descended from heaven, although Rory probably would have said she was sent from hell to bedevil them. Her golden hair was gathered loosely at the base of her neck, tendrils escaping and framing her face which, after a night’s rest, glowed with health. For the first time, he understood why the English popinjays waxed poetically about a “peaches and cream” complexion. Her eyes were even bluer, near violet, but perhaps that was because of the lavender dress she wore. He remembered that lavender was the color of half mourning that widows wore and wondered if she truly mourned her husband. The man had been decades older than she. From the cut of the dress—just low enough, in spite of its fichu, to offer a suggestion of breast swells—and its much more formfitting design that accentuated a small waist and just the right amount of hip flare, it appeared she was observing proprieties with only the color.

“Please come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs by the hearth. “Can I help ye with something?”

“Actually, yes.” Emily eyed the whisky bottle still in his hand as she sat. “I could use a drink, if you do not mind.”

He blinked again. “I’ll see if I can find some sherry.”

“I would rather have the whisky, if you please.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at her. “This is called uisge-beatha, the ‘breath of life.’ ’Tis quite strong.”

“For a woman, you mean?” She arched one brow. “Or do you caution men not to drink it as well?”

“Nae. Aye. Nae…” Why am I stumbling over words? “I mean, it takes a wee bit of getting used to.”

“Then as soon as you pour it, I can start becoming acquainted.”

“I…” Ian clamped his mouth shut, reached for a whisky glass, and poured a dram into it. He was tempted to pour more, just to prove his point when she sputtered and spit it out, but that would be a waste of good whisky. He handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers.

“Thank you.” She took a healthy sip—near half the dram—closed her eyes while rolling the liquid in her mouth, then swallowed and looked up at him without so much as a twinge. “Excellent.”

He blinked once more, vaguely aware he might be taking on owlish tendencies, and watched as she drained the rest.

“Would ye like some more?”

“No, thank you.” She handed the glass back. “That suited me nicely.”

“Do ye drink often?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Are you asking if I have a problem with spirits?”

“Nae…” Damnation. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “I…just have never seen a woman…enjoy…a dram so quickly.”

“I find, at times, that whisky puts things to rights.” She pointed to the bottle. “Is that distilled here?”

“Aye.” When his father had refused to give up his surname, he’d had to turn the distillery over to Donovan and Broderick. That might be to his advantage now. “My uncles run the distillery.”

“Do they own it?”

He drew his brows together. She was obviously trying to find out if it went with the deed. “Nae completely.”

“Are there shareholders?”

His frown deepened. Women weren’t supposed to know anything about business. “’Tis more of a clan operation.”

“Who reaps the benefits? Apart from consuming the product, I mean.” She rose and walked closer to him. For a moment, he wondered if she were going to try and seduce him…but she only reached past him to pick up the bottle. “I am not familiar with this label. Where do you distribute it?”

He was distracted by the faint floral scent wafting from her hair. She must have washed it in rose water. He had the oddest urge to bend his head and bury his nose in the curls atop her head. Luckily, she set the bottle down and turned away, allowing his good sense to return.

“Mostly just to Glasgow.”

“Well, then. The first thing we will need to do is increase production. I would wager a number of gentlemen’s clubs in London would buy all you have immediately.”

He stared at her. “Do ye have any idea of how long it takes to produce Scotch?” Then he went on before she could answer. “Years.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “All the more reason to increase production now.”

By the devil’s own horns! Was Emily Woodhaven thinking to take over the distilling process? His uncles would be fit to be tied. He needed to change the subject.

“Perhaps we can. However…” He swallowed hard. “I believe I owe ye an apology.”

Her brow lifted again. “For what?”

The woman was going to make him spell it out. “Yesterday’s meeting was a wee bit awkward. We were nae expecting three young women to arrive. Thought was nae given as to which rooms would suit ye best.” When her brow rose slightly higher, he rushed on, not allowing time for her to criticize. “Now that ye’ve seen the rest of the castle, ye can be the best judge of which rooms would suit ye and yer sisters.”

“I told you last night that I liked my room.”

“Aye, but ye had yet to see the rest of the castle. In the light of day, ye must prefer one of the other rooms.”

“Not really. The one I have will make do quite nicely.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. What woman wouldn’t want the luxury the more modern rooms afforded? “I’m sure yer sisters will want ye all to move.”

“If my sisters wish to move, they may do so, but Fiona was kind enough to have a tub delivered to my room, so I will be content.”

“But…” If he couldn’t get her to accept his offer, how was he going to get her to agree to staying quiet about the deed ownership? This wasn’t going the way he planned. “Tell me if ye change your mind, then. Meanwhile, I will have a maid assigned to meet yer needs.”

“That is not necessary. The gowns I brought do not need assistance to don.”

Was the blasted woman not going to accept any of his help? “As a countess, ye must have all sorts of servants to do yer bidding.” An odd expression crossed her face, one he couldn’t read, and it was gone before he could ponder on it. “I am sure a village girl or two would be glad to come here to assist ye.”

She shook her head. “I did not seek you out to discuss servants. What I want to know is when can I tour my—the—holdings? I would like to see what opportunities there may be for me to improve things.”

Ian swallowed his pride at that remark, remembering how he’d deliberately sent in reports that didn’t tell the whole story of just how profitable the lands were. And now, if he were going to convince her that he would be the perfect steward, he’d have to show her. And perhaps that could be an advantage, since offering a better room hadn’t worked.

“I can arrange that in a day or two,” he said, “but mayhap it might be wise nae to divulge that ye have the deed just yet. The clansmen will need a wee bit of time to get used to the idea that an English countess is wanting to ken their business.” He gave her a beguiling smile, one that usually worked. “MacGregors are a bit wary of strangers, given our circumstances.”

Emily tilted her head to one side to consider him. For a long moment she didn’t speak, then she nodded. “I suppose there is a benefit in letting your clansmen get to know me first. To realize I am not a ninnyhammer who needs smelling salts when something goes awry. I agree to withhold the information. For now.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank ye. I am sure ye will nae regret it.”

She smiled as she turned toward the door to leave, but she looked like the cat who’d just discovered the door to the creamery open.

Ian wondered if the imaginary comment he’d thought of Rory making might not be true, after all. That she’d been sent from hell to bedevil him.

…

The whisky had definitely been excellent…and a bit potent. Emily left the library with a rather fuzzy feeling and wished the hallway wasn’t tilting. Uisge-beatha Ian had called it. Water of life. A much better description than the blue devil that Londoner’s commonly called gin. But then, this uisge…oosh-ka.something—she forgot the word—was so much smoother than gin. Why, she had hardly noticed the whisky slide down her throat like liquid silk. No indeed. And it left her all warm and tingly inside. Or maybe she’d felt all warm and tingly when she’d gone to pick up the bottle to check the label. For just a moment, she’d gotten the impression that Ian had moved closer to her, his body heat wrapping around her like a warm blanket. And oddly, she had felt safe.

What a ridiculous notion. Her head was finally clearing as she walked back to her room. She—and her sisters—were hardly welcome guests here. The apology and offer to move to the modern part of the castle had been a ploy, not a change of heart. She was quite adept at recognizing ploys. Albert had used them often when he’d needed something from her—usually a piece of her mother’s jewelry to pawn to pay for his habits—and she’d learned early that his compliments were not sincere. Slowly, she’d built a wall around her heart as she also learned the hurtful consequences when she didn’t acquiesce to his wheedling and cajoling. The fewer feelings she allowed herself, the less pain she felt.

In this case, Ian had wanted her to agree to keep her ownership of the castle quiet. He had not threatened her in any way nor did she think he would. He had simply made his point, albeit with a practiced smile that she was fairly sure worked on a vast majority of women. Not that she would be taken in by such. However, it wouldn’t hurt her to keep the deed under wraps for now, until she learned the things she needed to know. It wasn’t as though King George was going to rescind the title to the lands. She could agree with Ian to bide her time. So, for now, she’d let him think his beguiling smile had worked to persuade her.

Her sisters nearly pounced on her when she entered her bedchamber.

“How did your conversation with Mr. MacGregor fare?” Lorelei asked.

“No need to pussyfoot around.” Juliana gave Emily a direct look. “Did he finally decide the deed was legal? That you own this place? And that you intend to run it as you see fit?”

“Is that all the questions you have?” Emily smiled at Juliana, used to her directness.

“For now.”

“Yes, for now,” Lorelei repeated. “And the answers? Was he rude? Were all the brothers there? How did they react?”

“That’s three more questions. The brothers were gone when I arrived, so—”

“You were alone with Mr. MacGregor?” Lorelei’s eyes grew round. “Did you leave the door open?”

“For pity’s sake,” Juliana said. “Emily’s a widow. She does not need a chaperone.”

Her sister was right, although the emphasis on widow made her feel like she was ancient. She was only four and twenty, although to her young, unmarried sisters that probably seemed like she was doddering on old age. “I closed the door because I did not want our conversation to be heard.” The moment when she’d stood close to him flashed through her mind, but there was no reason to mention it. Or the instant tingle she’d felt when he’d handed her the glass and his fingers had brushed hers. She certainly wasn’t going to admit that easy smile of his had any effect, either. That was very dangerous ground she wouldn’t tread upon. “And, no, Mr. MacGregor was not rude.”

Juliana lifted one brow skeptically.

“In fact,” Emily went on before her sister could remark, “he apologized and offered us accommodations in the newer part of the castle.”

“Thank God,” Lorelei exclaimed. “These rooms are horrid.”

“Agreed,” Juliana said, her voice wary, “but why would he do that?”

Emily grinned. “It was a bribe.”

Lorelei looked puzzled. “A bribe?”

“He asked me not to mention that the deed had been transferred and let his people think we are just on a visit.”

“I knew it was too good to be true!” Juliana snorted. “I hope you set him to rights.”

“Actually, I did not.”

“What? Does that mean we have to stay in these rooms?” Lorelei all but wailed. “I did so love that room all done in blue that Fiona showed us—”

“And you may have it if you wish,” Emily replied. “Or any other of your choosing. Both of you.”

“Why would Mr. MacGregor be so considerate all of a sudden?” Juliana narrowed her eyes in consternation. “What did you do?”

She hoped her sister wasn’t implying that she would act inappropriately or, worse, seduce the man. Lorelei looked at her with wide-eyed innocence, but Juliana had, unfortunately, had firsthand experience with propositions and she knew, more than Lorelei, how Emily had had to act to appease Albert.

“I did not do anything other than agree that it would be wise to give his people some time to get used to us before giving them all the details.”

“But why delay?”

“Is it not better they know why we are here?”

Her sisters often lacked patience. “First, I want to tour the property and ask questions of the crofters and merchants. It will be easier if they do not know I am the new owner. Second, there is a distillery on this estate that makes excellent whisky. The kind that White’s, as well as some of the other gentlemen’s clubs, would love to stock. I gather that two uncles run it. I would like to meet them before I disclose who I am or my plans.”

“And when is all of this going to happen?” Juliana asked.

“Mr. MacGregor is going to arrange a tour tomorrow or the next day,” Emily replied, “and I will ask about the uncles.”

“We do not have to go on the tour, do we?” Lorelei asked. “The weather is cold up here, even if it is summer.”

“Neither of you has to go. In fact, it will be easier for me to get the locals to talk if they are not bombarded with all three of us.”

“I am not sure it is smart to ride out without at least one of us,” Juliana said. “What if the man—or his brothers—decide to do you bodily harm? Maybe even kill you? It could look like an accident and no one would ask questions.”

“Why would anyone want to do such a thing? Especially if they do not know I have the deed?”

“Mr. MacGregor knows. So do his brothers.” Juliana grimaced. “And that Rory… Well, I would not put anything past him.”

“Just because the two of you struck it off on the wrong foot, does not mean he is malicious,” Emily replied. “I will be fine, even if he does ride along.”

But for some odd reason, she hoped he wouldn’t.

…

Ian made himself scarce the next morning. As he rode out shortly after sunrise, letting Paden, his big stallion, have his head and enjoy a full-out gallop, he told himself he wasn’t running away. He wasn’t even avoiding the prospect of taking his Sassenach guest around MacGregor lands. He wasn’t doing either of those two things. He truly wasn’t. He simply needed time to think. And strategize.

His instincts told him that the dowager Countess of Woodhaven—the young dowager Countess of Woodhaven—hadn’t deferred to his request because he was laird, at least to his clan. Nor did he think she’d acquiesced because she thought him wise. He suspected she was formulating some plan that would benefit her. She was a wily one, acting every inch the proper English lady and then downing a full dram of whisky without so much as a sputter. She bore watching.

The problem was, watching her made his male libido spring to life, much as he tried to ignore the fact. He couldn’t help being aware of her alluring feminine curves—breasts that would fit nicely into his palms, a small waist his hands could encircle, a plump bottom that he could cradle against him—to say nothing of the golden halo of hair that suited her angelic-looking face. Angelic? Ian snorted in derision. Angels didn’t drink whisky like she had. If he were a superstitious sort, he’d think the fae had a hand in sending her to Strae Castle.

He reined in the stallion once they were well out of sight from anyone on the battlements—just in case his guest had a notion to climb up on them. He had a more immediate problem to solve, one in which he’d have to reconcile the low profit margins of his reports with the robust crops that promised a good harvest, as well as the obvious abundance of sheep grazing everywhere that wasn’t planted. If only the countess had waited to come north for a couple of months, the fields would be tilled and the animals sheltered in pens for the winter. But then, anyone with a few ounces of common sense would travel north while the weather was good, and Emily Woodhaven had already proven that she didn’t lack intelligence.

Of course, there was the off chance that she had not seen or read any of his reports. They’d been sent to the earl’s man of business. Even as the thought entered his head, he tossed it aside. She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been aware of the reports. His only hope was that he could convince her that several years of too much rain had drowned out crops, but this was a bumper year. And that he was perfectly capable of being the steward for these lands. Then he would pray for an early, harsh winter to set in that would send her and her sisters fleeing to the relative comfort of London.

Ian spent the rest of the morning stopping at different crofters, explaining the earl’s widow was visiting and, when he brought her around, to do their best in rejoicing over the blessing of crops this year. And, since most of his clansmen had taken surnames of Murray or Grant, they could also bear witness to how well he managed the holdings, even when times had been hard. He didn’t have to spell it out for any of them, since once the Sassenach was back on her side of the border, they could resume acting like MacGregors.

By the time Ian returned to the castle he was feeling quite satisfied with himself. The countess would get glowing reports of everything going well and have no need to oversee anything herself long-term. If he were lucky—and persuasive—she might never tell anyone about the deed. And, if his luck held, Lord Mount Stuart and his father, the Earl of Bute, would be successful in returning the MacGregor name and rights to their lands this year. All would be well then.

He felt much more hopeful as he rode through the raised portcullis. The bailey was full of clansmen—also Murrays and Grants—who were headed for the Great Hall for the noonday meal. As he turned his horse toward the stable, an angry shout came from the open front doors as a young man bolted down the steps toward him.

“Tell me ’tis nae true that the damn English king has given away the deed to our castle!”

Ian’s hopes were dashed like a skiff on hard rocks blown by a harsh wind. Dozens of his clansmen had just heard what he wanted to keep secret. He glowered at the man whose eyes glittered back at him, black as coal.

Devon had returned home.