Page 58 of Laird of Secrets
“I have no doubt of it, for he is quite the Highlander, tall and strong and even more notable for the strength of his intellect. He is—well, let me tell you outshining others would never have been his intent. He is a quiet sort, is Ronan. I understand he had narrowly escaped with his life just before that event. Arrested for smuggling, and nearly hung for it.”
“There was talk of that, aye, but I never heard the outcome. I do hope he came away unscathed. When I saw him, he was with a pretty young lady—the daughter of a government official, I heard it said.”
Kinloch frowned. “A government official? With luck, the young lady urged mercy for Ronan.” He shook his head. “I must ask around—I have not heard from the lad myself for a while. Last I saw him was before news of his arrest. He suggested to me that I send some of our Kinloch brew as a gift down to King Geordie in London. Said the king quite liked smuggled whisky. We had a good laugh over it. His own Glenbrae whisky—well, it may be the only one that challenges Glen Kinloch for remarkable quailty.” He smiled.
Remembering the tall, stunning Highlander called Ronan MacGregor, she could easily see the resemblance. And that both were engaged it whisky trade of one sort or another—well, it was hardly surprising. And, she thought, rather intriguing. “Please, do let me know if you have news of your cousin. I would like to know that he fared well after the king’s visit. As for your own legitimate whisky, we have a family friend who could convey a bottle to the king if you like.”
“It would be difficult for anyone but the inner circle to reach King George to offer a bottle of Highland whisky, no matter how it was obtained.”
“Not for Sir Walter Scott. I would be glad to ask him for you.”
“Indeed?” He cocked a brow. “Scott organized the king’s visit. You do have impressive friends and kinsmen, Miss MacCarran. I am surprised you agreed to come to our wee Highland glen to teach. You must be very busy in Edinburgh.”
“I would far rather be in your wee glen than in the city, to be honest. The fresh air, the beauty of the hills, the welcoming people.” She paused, and when he did not comment, she waved toward the distillery buildings. “My brother told me to beware the laird of Kinloch, but perhaps he does not know that you have a legal enterprise here.” Perhaps she was wrong, after all, about more unlawful activities.
“Your brother is new to the area. The distillery was only recently approved by the government. It is possible he did not know that at the time he told you to be wary of Kinloch the laird.” He looked amused.
“If your tenants obtain licenses too, that will put an end to smuggling.” She hoped so—it would remove a direct threat to the laird of Kinloch and his glen. Not long ago she might not have known or cared. But now she did, very much so.
“Aye, but it would not happen quickly. Highland whisky is more expensive than Lowland whiskies, and takes longer to make, as we produce it from malted barley, a longer and more careful process. It is superior to the cheaper grain whisky made in the south, but that is more easily made and easier to obtain. Yet we must move our whisky out of Scotland to make enough income to sustain those who depend on it. Many are losing their other means of livelihood, thanks to the clearings.”
“Highlanders use the best ingredients and a careful process, so the price will always be higher than the grain stuff.”
“Aye. And it will come even dearer with more and more excise officers being sent up to the Highlands to find and destroy small stills and enterprises.”
“And my brother is one of them. I feel as if I should apologize.” She sighed. The more she knew about Kinloch, his glen, and his whisky enterprise, the more she understood his dedication and how much he cared, the more she cared, too.
He looked at her for a long moment, then away. “No need.”
“Patrick worked in Edinburgh as a lawyer,” she explained, “but he wanted adventure. So he accepted a post as an excise officer.”
“He will find more than enough adventure here, and may he survive it. Why did you both want to come to this part of the Highlands?”
“My brother and I need to—” She stopped. She could hardly explain about her grandmother’s will and her true reason for coming here. “My brother James owns the Struan estate now, and we thought it would be nice to be close by.”
“I see. I wish someone had told your brother Patrick that he would do better in Edinburgh as an advocate. His adventure could come at a heavy price.”
“It is dangerous, I know. And it worries me.”
“I am sorry, lass. But these men can be a sorry bunch. The government pays them poorly but pays extra coin for every bottle and keg a gauger captures. So they scheme to betray Highlanders even when we follow the law, so long as they can confiscate bottles and barrels to put coin in their own pockets.”
“You do not care much for revenuers.”
“Gaugers killed my father,” he said curtly. “He died for the price of the small kegs he carried on two ponies.”
“I am sorry. Truly I am,” she murmured, setting a hand to her chest, sensing in his quiet but brusque tone a hint of the sorrow and bitterness he must feel.
“The whisky he carried was legally made, not smuggled. They did not care.”
She shook her head sadly. “Was it recently?”
“I was thirteen.”
“Just a boy!” She saw his guarded expression alter for a moment, saw the vulnerable boy—then it shuttered closed. He wanted no sympathy or fuss, she realized. But she wanted him to know that she understood. “I lost my parents when I was young. I know how that feels.”
He nodded. “I became laird of Kinloch that day. Since then, I have learned much. Most of it outside the schoolroom,” he added wryly.
“You left schooling behind because of so many responsibilities,” she said.
