Page 20 of Lyon of Scotland
“Aye. He pushed it on all of us. Not nearly the equivalent of a good Highland barley brew. But I would not tell Dove that. He’s proud of English make.”
“Grain makes a cheaper drink, and they do not age it very long, which means they can produce and sell in quantity. We nurture ours, age it, then have to smuggle it out,” Dare said. “New laws are being proposed that may help Scottish distilleries, with luck.”
“The smuggling will not stop soon, no matter the changes. There’s cheese and bread over there if you need to soak it up.”
“I might.” His stomach was not good and a bitter taste lingered on his tongue.
A woman came to the door of the large gaming room. Dressed all in black with a translucent dark veil over her face, she stood in the threshold as if gauging the progress of the evening’s activities—table games, darts, chats, drinking contests, even arm wrestling—something was happening in each corner of the room and its center, too. The noise was terrific. Narrowing his eyes against lamplight and candlelight, he scowled.
“Who is that charming spectre in the doorway?” he asked. “She looks like a haunt. I need to swear off drinking.” He had taken two drams, no, three. Not enough for this result. Cheap English brew, he decided.
“Proprietress,” Lockhart said. “She owns the place. I did not catch her name, but Dove said she is his cousin and gives him the run of the place whenever he likes.”
“I doubt that. She looks a stern taskmistress. Dove brought just four or five guests. Hardly taking over.”
Laughter burst out at a gaming table, then shouts as one fellow launched across the table at another, spilling cards, wine glasses, and a brown liquor bottle. Some jumped back in theirseats, while Oliver Huntly stood to hold the offending fellow by the arms, trying to calm the dispute, whatever it was. The woman slipped into the shadows.
“Good lad,” Dare said, watching Oliver negotiate between two men. “I like him.”
“And you like his bonny cousin very well, Scott says.” Lockhart tilted a brow.
“Your father-in-law is a blithe romantic,” Dare drawled. “Though I admit,” he said, lifting his glass to swirl it, “I am intrigued by Miss Gordon. That is all I will say.”
“I wish you both luck. I am off for the dartboard and then taking Huntly with me. Are you sure you will not come with us?”
“I will make my way back soon.” He wanted to let his head clear a bit, then he would get a hackney. He had seen two or three outside, waiting for late stragglers.
Alone again, he put the glass to his lips without thought, found it empty, set it down. Then looked up as a man loomed over him.
“Let me fill that again.” Dove held a brown glass bottle in his hand and poured a fresh dram into Dare’s glass. “This is another sort. Family brew. You must try it.”
“I have had enough,” Dare said with a narrow glance as the man sat beside him.
“Try it. My father’s make.”
“Made it in his cellar?” Dare asked as Dove shoved it in his hand.
“He had a distillery in northern England. I grew up making this stuff. Tell me what you think. To my father!” Dove raised his own glass, half full.
Dare sipped. “Good. But enough,” he said, as Dove filled the glass higher.
“One more, don’t be so proper. You are a Scot after all. This is as good as your stuff, and Lord knows you Scots know strong drink. Your friends are leaving,” he added.
Dare looked up, saw Lockhart and Huntly headed for the door. For a moment, he nearly stood to go with them. They waved, but he shook his head and waved them on. He would not leave until he knew something about Dove’s issue with Hannah Gordon. Here was his chance.
Dare sipped. He did not mean to take more, but Dove knocked his elbow and apologized as the stuff washed down his throat. Stifling a cough, he set the glass aside.
“Why do you hate the Scots?” he asked bluntly when the burn cleared. Dove blinked, drank, shrugged.
“I dislike them as much as any Englishman. Perhaps a little more. We English have a long memory. Centuries long, eh?” He poked Dare’s arm.
“Do that again and regret it,” Dare said. “The Scottish memory is long too.”
“Spoken like a Highland savage! Drink up. My father made his whiskey from grain he grew himself, then boiled, mashed, fermented, brewed, and bottled it himself, do you hear? I was raised to be a distiller.” Dove took a long swallow. “It was a good business. Profitable. Much in demand. Then it collapsed.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Dare said.
“To aqua vitae!” Dove raised his glass, waved at Dare. “What is it you Scotch call it? Ooshkey-vah?”
