Page 50 of Laird of Secrets
“I will ask her,” Dougal said firmly, “and send her answer to you.”
Rob returned with a dark bottle and two glasses, which he poured out, the liquid golden, its familiar fragrance wafting to Dougal’s nostrils.
“Sláinte,” Dougal said, lifting his glass as Eldin lifted his. As the earl sipped, Dougal studied him: wealth and elegant lifestyle were apparent in the smallest immaculate details, from the man’s snowy linen neckcloth and precisely cut woolen coat to the polished beaver hat set on the table, and the gold-headed cane leaned beside it.
Almost unconsciously, Dougal straightened his shoulders, his jacket the plain woolen one he wore often, his plaid old, in the MacGregor hues of burgundy and green, his linen shirt with a simple open collar and no neckcloth. His hair was unkempt, too long, his beard unshaven. Lord Eldin was a man of obvious means and sophistication, probably raised with luxury and ease, and suddenly Dougal felt the differences keenly. He thought, unaccountably, of Fiona MacCarran, and knew she would be more used to men like Eldin. He wondered which sort she preferred.
Yet he felt no lack within himself. He was satisfied with his solid, reliable nature, his good manners and simple Highland gear. He suspected Eldin was not as content as the expensive garments and black barouche made him appear. He saw shadows beneath the man’s eyes, a sour set to the mouth. Eldin downed the whisky quickly, reaching for the bottle to pour another inch into his glass, offering Dougal some. He declined with a shake of his head.
“Excellent stuff,” Eldin said. “This is from your own distillery?”
“It is.”
“Legal or illicit?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might,” Eldin answered.
“Your message requested that I meet you here. What is on your mind?”
Eldin turned the small, thick glass in his hand. “This is a small coaching inn,” he said, glancing about. “Does it do much trade?”
“The MacIans have run this inn for generations. Most days its patrons are local men. Occasionally a coach comes by with tourists who want to see Loch Katrine and the surrounding hills because of the poems they have read about it.”
“And they are treated to this fine whisky?”
“Provided Rob MacIan has it in store, and provided the guests want something more than ale or the French wines he keeps in his stock,” Dougal said. “Other local whiskies are available too. The MacDonald family in this region make a very fine whisky, as do the Lamonts. Rob MacIan produces a few hundred gallons of his own whisky per year, according to his allotment. An inn is permitted to produce more than a household.”
“Everyone in this glen makes whisky, it seems. And most of it illicit?”
Dougal leaned back, regarded the earl. “And what is it you want of me?”
“You are the laird of this glen.”
“I am.”
“So you know all that goes on here.”
“At times. Why?”
“I have a hotel at Auchnashee, ready to open to tourists and travelers. By summer I expect a good deal of patronage. I want to obtain the best whisky for my establishment.”
“There is plenty of good whisky to be had here. If it is Glen Kinloch brew you want, made by the MacGregors, tell me what quantities you have in mind. We may be able to bargain.”
Eldin sipped again, considered the glass, nodded to himself. “What is the finest brew you have available? The very finest,” he added.
Dougal tapped his fingers on the table. This gentleman was Fiona’s cousin, he reminded himself. He narrowed his eyes, looking for a resemblance, seeing it in the finely cut features, the dark glossy hair, the direct and intelligent gaze, and the stubbornness in the lean, firm jaw. But what he saw in this fellow’s eyes he had never seen in Fiona—cunning, calculating thought behind the polish of courtesy. Eldin might be a decent sort, yet Dougal did not trust him. He sensed a secretive nature that set his hackles to rise.
“The finest whisky we have,” Dougal said, “depends on what price is offered.”
“A handsome one,” Eldin said. “Name it.”
“I have a batch that has been stored three years in oak casks,” Dougal said, and stated a price that was rather high. Eldin did not look surprised.
“Is it legal, this brew?”
“From a licensed still.” His distillery had only recently obtained a license, a detail he did not bother to add.
