Page 51 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“It is.”
“Legal or illicit?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“You requested we meet. 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 the 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. “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.
Eldin waved his fingers dismissively. “What else do you have? I expected something more valuable. Something unique, otherwise unobtainable.”
“Something illicit?” Dougal cocked one brow.
Eldin leaned forward. “Sir, understand me. I do not care a whit about the law. If the whisky is the very finest you have, its origins are unimportant,” he said low.
“We do have something else,” Dougal said, making a quick decision. “Twelve years if it is a day, made with barley grown in our own fields, and brewed with clear Highland water passed through heather blooms. Proofed to perfection, stored in sherry casks that have been turned regularly. The richness of the old Spanish shiraz that was in those casks, turned over the years, has mellowed the whisky to an exquisite degree. We have not bottled it, and so it continues to age.”
“And?” Eldin waited.
“And it would be expensive.” Dipping a finger in the whisky, Dougal wrote a considerable number on the table surface with a fingertip.
