The Taming of a Highlander Page 17

  “Might as well be years!”

  Kate managed to swallow her horrified amusement long enough to make her escape from the kitchen. For the next half-hour, as she traveled the winding lane down through the wooded foothills to the main road, she marveled that Broderick’s passion had not been a product of Mrs. MacBean’s herbal intervention. It had been real. Just him and her and whatever lay between them.

  Suffused with warm tingles, she imagined what he would say when she saw him again. Something gruff and growly, perhaps. A compliment on her hair. A request for ongoing wifeliness. Would he say anything at all? Perhaps he would simply lift her and kiss her senseless.

  She sighed, dug out her roll and lamb, assembled her meal, and chewed thoughtfully. She would like that best, she decided. No words. Only kissing.

  She’d finished her meal and dusted her crumbs by the time she passed through the outskirts of the village to take the long, rising distillery road. Kate’s first glimpse of the MacPherson Distillery came after she passed an old farmer driving a flock of sheep down the hill. The buildings were the same gray stone as those in the village. But these structures were longer, stretching dozens of feet. One of them, a massive rectangle with white stucco over stone, had sizable windows lining the top story. Offices, perhaps? There were more than twenty buildings clustered in the embrace of the surrounding hills. At the center, a towering spire rose high above the other rooftops. It breathed smoke.

  “If it isnae my bonnie new sister, Kate.”

  She grinned at the tall, handsome charmer emerging from a nearby cottage. “Rannoch. How lovely to see you.”

  His eyes warmed and crinkled as he approached. “What brings ye here?”

  “I was hoping to speak with my husband. Is he about?”

  Rannoch hesitated. “Aye.” He glanced toward the white stuccoed building. “He’s meetin’ with somebody. Shouldnae be long.” Another smile filled with persuasive charm. “Will I do for a wee while?”

  She chuckled and looped her arm through his. “Of course. Perhaps you could show me round. I’ve never explored a distillery before.”

  For the next hour, he showed her the barley being steeped and spread out in a cavernous malt barn, the grain turned by ten red-faced men with wooden shovels. He took her to the adjacent kiln—the smoking spire at the center of the distillery complex—where green malt was dried with peat fire. Next, he showed her where the milled barley combined with heated water in a process called mashing.

  “The water is piped into the boilers and used to fill the mash tuns, as ye see.”

  She gazed in wonder at the fire-heated copper boilers and enormous vats supplied by a series of pipes and valves. “Piped from where?”

  “Three burns run down through these hills. Purest water to be found for two hundred miles. We divert a wee bit of it for our own purposes. That’s why the distillery sits here, lass. The water is plentiful. Do ye ken this place started as a brewery? Middlin’ beer, fine ale, and superior cider. That’s all we made.” He grinned and winked. “At least, that’s the tale we told the excisemen.”

  She examined the man beside her. His features were strong and even, his hair thick, his eyes dark and flashing with MacPherson pride. Annie had mentioned once that Broderick’s face had been similar to Rannoch’s before his imprisonment. She’d also said Broderick had been even handsomer. Kate marveled that such a thing was possible, but immediately decided it didn’t matter. To her, Broderick’s attractiveness had little to do with his face. It was his strength and competence she found compelling. The uncomplaining resilience. The protectiveness in every gesture, every word.

  In her belly, impatience to see her husband began heating like malted barley.

  But Rannoch insisted on showing her the rest of the distilling process—the pinewood washbacks where fermentation occurred and the copper stills where the resulting wash magically became whisky. By the time he offered to show her the cottages for the distillery’s workers, Kate felt quite certain he was stalling.

  She halted outside near a row of wagons. “Rannoch MacPherson, you are purposely delaying.”

  He flashed her a guilty wince. “Mayhap a wee bit.”

  “Why?”

  He crossed his arms and lowered his brows. In that moment, he looked so much like Broderick when Broderick was being obstinate, she blinked.

  Suspicion tickled the back of her mind. “Who is he meeting?”

  “Naebody ye need fash about.”

  She narrowed her eyes. By heaven, she had seen that look before—stubborn protectiveness and manly resolve. “Rannoch, take me to my husband. Now.”

  “Have patience, lass.”

  “Never mind. I shall find him myself.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the white building. She’d wager all those windows were for offices. And she’d wager Broderick was inside one of them, meeting with God knew which woman. A former paramour? A heartsick lass lamenting his marriage and offering “comfort”?

  Her stomach burned like peat fire. He wouldn’t accept, would he? Not after last night.

  Rannoch caught up to her just before she reached the entrance. “Kate, ’tis nae for ye to—”

  She glared. “My husband. Take me to him now.” She ground her teeth and recalled her manners. “If you please. I should like to see him, Rannoch.”

  He sighed, opened the door, and waved her through. “Aye, well. If he asks, grant me a boon and tell him I tried, eh?”

  Moments later, outside a door on the mezzanine above an enormous warehouse filled with casks, Kate took a deep breath. Rannoch knocked twice and opened the door at Broderick’s impatient, “Aye!”

  Inside, Kate’s husband stood with his legs braced and arms folded across his chest—a dominating, challenging posture rendered deadlier by his black glare. The person across from him wasn’t a paramour. Nor a tart. Nor even a woman.

  Her eyes widened. “Sergeant Munro?”

  The constable turned and frowned in her direction. “Didnae expect to see ye here, m’lady.”

  She raised her chin. “It is Mrs. MacPherson, if you please. And I see nothing unexpected in visiting my husband at his legitimate, properly licensed distillery.”

  Broderick’s glower had gone thunderous the moment she entered, but initially, it focused on Rannoch. “Brother, ye’ll be explainin’ yerself later.”

  “Aye, I ken.” Rannoch sighed, nodded his farewell to Kate, and left.

  Broderick’s eye flashed to her bodice and throat. His greeting was a low rumble. “Kate.”

  Ignoring the heated thrill that ran up her spine, she crossed to stand at his side, facing Munro. The constable appeared frustrated. A good sign. “I fear you must be neglecting your duties, Sergeant, what with your many hours traveling between here and Inverness. Would not your time be better spent at your post?”

  “’Tis my first duty to locate an escaped prisoner, Mrs. MacPherson. I suspect yer husband kens pertinent facts he refuses to share.” Munro’s sharp gaze focused upon her. “As do ye.”

  “Yer business is with me.” Broderick’s warning came low and hard. “Approach my wife again, and ye’ll discover how I survived six months in the Bridewell.”

  The other man’s whiskers twitched. “Is that a threat?”

  Alarmed at the escalation, Kate intervened. “No!” She clasped Broderick’s elbow and stroked his upper arm. “No, no, no. Merely a suggestion.”

  Broderick frowned as though she’d lost her mind.

  “I believe what my husband would prefer is that you focus your efforts where they will produce the greatest benefit.” She cleared her throat as soon as her voice started rising—though she could do nothing about her flush. “Have you even considered the possibility that Lord Lockhart escaped on his own accord and that he is, even now, fleeing the punishment he so richly deserves whilst you remain here, accosting innocent, legitimate whisky producers and their devoted wives for crimes they have certainly not committed, n
or have any intention of committing—”

  “Kate.”

  “—including such scurrilous charges as murder and fraud and illicit distribution of untaxed liquor—”

  “Kate.” A growl, this time.

  “—before you have bothered to verify whether the scapegrace in question remains corporeal on this earth, or indeed, has been assisted in his flight from justice by his sister, who may have rented rooms in a house mere minutes from the jail which you claim—”

  Suddenly, her nape was in Broderick’s hand and her lips were captured by Broderick’s mouth and nothing mattered except Broderick’s kiss.

  Oh, heavens. His hard, thorough, plunging kiss.

  She might have whimpered. She certainly clung. Her knees turned to water and her belly went hot. By the time he finished with her, they could have poured her into a still and turned her into whisky.

  “Kate,” he hissed against her mouth.

  “Hmm?” She opened her eyes and melted more. God, he smelled delicious.

  “Haud yer wheesht.”

  Dizzy and dazed, she couldn’t quite recall what the phrase meant. Still, she could see he wanted a response, so she nodded. When he straightened, she blinked, realizing Munro was still there. Still staring at them.

  Her smile trembled. “We are … very affectionate.”

  The constable raised a skeptical brow. “Is that so?”

  Broderick banded an arm around her waist and hugged her quite forcefully against his side. She assumed he meant to reinforce her point and demonstrate the properness of their marriage for Munro, so she played along, patting his ribs and stroking his chest in little circles. “Oh, yes. My husband is exceedingly demonstrative. Why, only last night—”

  “Kate.” This time, her name was accompanied by a light squeeze of her backside. It distracted her momentarily as she tried to determine how she was meant to respond.

  She decided to return the gesture. Broderick’s reaction was to tighten every muscle, including the ones she was patting.

  “Munro,” he said, his voice a bit more graveled than before. “Ye’ve asked yer bluidy questions for the hundredth bluidy time. I didnae kill Lockhart. I dinnae ken where he is. Now, either leave off or ye’ll be findin’ yerself a new post—and not the one ye’re hopin’ my arrest will earn ye.”

  Munro’s eyes turned icy. His nose flared. His whiskers twitched.

  What was this? John and Annie had hinted that Munro was ambitious. Apparently, he believed apprehending Broderick for Lockhart’s disappearance would be the feather in his cap he needed to attain a loftier position. Was that why he’d been so persistent and vexing? Or was it worse?

  Was he working for Lockhart?

  Kate’s head lifted off her shoulders. Dear God. Was Munro a much bigger threat than she’d supposed?

  The sergeant glared between the two of them. Then, he clenched his jaw, turned on his heel, and strode away.

  She waited until she heard the footsteps echoing down the mezzanine stairs before she rounded on Broderick. “You didn’t tell me he might be working for Lockhart.”

  He stared at her oddly—with a great deal of heat and consternation and a faint whiff of … she didn’t know. Amusement, perhaps. “Kate,” he murmured. “What are ye doin’ here, lass?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Anybody could be workin’ for Lockhart. That’s why ye must do as I tell ye.”

  “But, do you know for certain—”

  “Nah.”

  “We must find out.”

  “Woman, ye’re tryin’ my patience. First, ye show up in my office bein’ squired about by Rannoch. Then, ye start bletherin’ away to Munro like an uncorked bottle.”

  She nibbled her lip and patted his chest. “I did warn you. It’s a bit of a problem.”

  His gaze suddenly went dark. Cold. Then so hot, she thought he might actually combust. “Ye do fancy Rannoch, then.”

  “What? No!” She shook her head. “I was referring to my tendency to ramble when I’m nervous. And Munro makes me dreadfully nervous.”

  The tension in his neck and forehead eased. “Is that why ye wouldnae be quiet when I told ye to? Or why ye kept touchin’ and provokin’ me past the point of reason?”

  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “What part of haud yer wheesht is confusin’, lass?”

  “The whole thing, really.” She lifted her chin. “You kissed me. How was I to think sensibly, let alone translate your nonsense Scottish commands into English?” She sniffed. “When you consider everything that transpired, it was entirely your fault.”

  More consternated amusement. “Pure rubbish.”

  “Kiss me again, if you don’t believe me.”

  He shook his head. A smile tugged at the unscarred corner of his mouth. “I dinnae think that’s wise.”

  “Go on. I shall prove my point.”

  “Did ye ride or walk here?”

  “Why should that signify?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I walked.”

  He loomed closer, his heat and scent dizzying. “There ye have it.” His gaze roved from her bonnet to her boots then back to her bosom and, finally, her lips. His nose flared as he drew a shuddering breath. “Kissin’ is unwise.”

  “I don’t underst—”

  “If I kiss ye right now, lass—if I even touch ye—ye’ll nae be leavin’ this room without bein’ tupped. And I’d wager yer wee body cannae handle me this soon. So, no. We willnae be doin’ any more kissin’ for another day or two.”

  “A day or two?”

  “’Tis all the time I can give ye.”

  She frowned and moved into him. When she slid her hands up his chest, he groaned. “That is much too long, Broderick. No, no, we must continue to build a proper marriage.”

  “After the way I treated ye last night, I already feel like the arse end of a donkey.”

  “Oh, that’s only because of Mrs. MacBean’s formula. It was the wrong vial. She assures me you’ll be much improved by supper.”

  Silence.

  She petted his chest and played with the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “What vial?”

  “Hmm?”

  His voice was harder this time. “What vial, Kate?”

  Realizing he might be displeased, she rushed to explain. “Mrs. MacBean gave me a tonic to invigorate your stoat. She may have mistaken your tonic for that of Mr. McInnes, who suffers from two rather humbling complaints. His age, I assume. In any case, I may have added Mr. McInnes’s tonic to your whisky last night, unaware that the vials had been switched or that your stoat needed no such invigorating. Really, the dear creature is far more robust and determined than Mrs. MacBean led me to believe.”

  A long silence settled between them. Briefly, she considered apologizing. Then, she decided it might make matters worse.

  “Broderick? That vein in your forehead cannot be a good sign. Do you suppose horse chestnut causes apoplexy? Perhaps you should lie down.”

  “By God, woman. I dinnae need. Any help. With my STOAT!”

  “There is no cause for shouting.” She raised a brow. “If anyone understands how vigorous you are, it is I.”

  A few heaving breaths passed before the thunder quieted. He nodded. Then, he bracketed her waist and gently squeezed. “Kate,” he rasped. “I regret how I handled ye last night.” He drew her closer until proof of her earlier statement pressed against her belly. His jaw flickered as he lowered his face near hers. “I was … ye were … Bugger all, I’ve never treated a woman so roughly. How can ye nae be furious with me?”

  Her heart broke open, and she cupped his jaw, drawing him down for a soft kiss. “Furious? I’m elated, darling man. As we speak, I’m devising clever schemes to lure you into debauchery.”

  He released a sharp crack of laughter, rusty and surprised.

  The sound delighted her so much, she joined in, giggling helple
ssly.

  “God, I love yer laugh.” His gaze roved her face. His fingers looped through her curls. “I love yer scent.”

  Aching with a tide of melting heat, she murmured, “Tuberose and jasmine, bergamot and clary sage.”

  A puzzled frown tugged.

  “My soap.”

  “Ah.” A small, devastatingly sensual quirk of his lips nearly had her begging him to take her. “’Tis a fine soap, indeed.”

  “Broderick?”

  “Aye.”

  “Must we wait?”

  He sighed. “Aye, lass.”

  “We are alone, now. Would it not behoove us to solidify the properness of our marriage at every opportunity?”

  “When ye’ve recovered, and not until.”

  “But I came all this way.”

  His brows crashed into a glower. “Aye, ye did. And where’s yer escort?”

  She blinked. “I came alone.”

  “Precisely. Kate, ye mustn’t leave the house without an able man by yer side, preferably armed. Ye could be attacked, abducted. Killed.” His gaze roiled with darkness, his voice thrumming. “Lockhart might still be lickin’ his wounds, but none of the damage he did was by his own hands. He’ll hire men. He’ll target ye because ye’re mine. Do ye ken what I’m sayin’ to ye? Bluidy tell me ye understand. Never leave the house alone. Not ever again.”

  By the time he’d finished, she worried about the vein in his temple and the strain in the hand that braced her lower back. His eye was filled with such ferocious intensity, she wanted only to hold him. Ease him.

  “Of course,” she soothed. “I shall never leave the house alone again. I promise.”

  “A male. Armed.”

  “Yes. An armed male. I understand.”

  He seemed to relax the slightest bit. “Ye do?”

  “I’m very reasonable.” She patted his chest. “Now, which male would you prefer? Patrick, perhaps?”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Too young.”

  “What of Connor?”

  “Bluidy hell, he couldnae defend a pint of ale from a determined barmaid.”

  “Hmm. Mr. McInnes?”

  He snorted.

  Her fingers began plucking open his waistcoat buttons. “Well, you cannot possibly expect me to remain ensconced inside the house—lovely though it is—for the duration.”