Although, to be honest, he spent more time imagining watching her, gauging her reaction to this vital part of himself, wondering what she’d think of it all. He’d been so distracted by it, in fact, that his stillman had been forced twice to ask him to come check one of the hydrometers. In the end, he’d extended the invitation for her to come by tonight, telling himself that until he did that and figured out this next step with her, he’d be useless.
Now that she was here, showing her around the distillery was the last way he wanted to spend the rest of the evening ... and night. And to think he’d always prided himself on his patience. If Brodie could only see him now, antsy like a schoolboy readying himself for his first dance, he’d have a fine laugh indeed.
“This way,” he blurted out, perhaps a bit more gruffly than intended, a wee bit embarrassed at realizing he’d been standing there like a dullwit, silently contemplating her for too long a moment. “To really understand the process, we should start outside. I wanted to take you out and show you the burn—pure spring water is a crucial part of distilling, and the water used matters in the end result. We’ve been distilling with water from that spring and brook for over two hundred years, long before this was a law-abiding enterprise. But it’s too dark, so perhaps another time.” He was essentially babbling. He never babbled.
“Another time,” she agreed, and he could have sworn he heard an amused tone in her voice.
He opened the door at the end of the hall and took her elbow, guiding her around a corner, then through a large set of double doors. “It starts with barley. We malt our own.” He glanced down at her, but quickly looked away. If he had any hope of keeping even a semblance of continuity and coherence, he had to keep his eyes, and hands—he realized he was gripping her elbow now and let it go—off of her. “Malted barley is barley that has been soaked in water—”
“From the burn, I take it.”
There was that amused tone again. He slowed a step. “Aye. We soak it until the germination stage, then dry it slowly. The starch in the barley turns to sugar, which is the first stage of turning it to alcohol.” He entered a large room and turned on the overhead lights. “Here we grind the barley into grist, then mix again with water. Our mashman—”
“Mashman?”
“Aye. He rules this particular domain. The temperature must be carefully controlled. The grist is put in the mash tun—” He gestured to the large vats lining the room. “And the end result is called worts.”
“Worts.” She looked up at him. “I really should be taking notes. There isn’t going to be a quiz on this later, is there?”
Her smile eased a lot of the surprising tension and nerves he felt, but jacked up a few other internal reactions. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. But not to worry—we can go over all this again.”
“Tonight?”
She held his gaze intently. But before he could decide what, if anything, to do about it, she slipped from his side and walked over to one of the vats. “How long does the whole process take? From here to the bottle? I know it ages from that point, but—”
“Actually, it ages in huge oak casks. The kind of oak used is very important as it affects the final taste as well. We make our own casks.”
Her eyes widened. “Impressive. Actually, all of this is impressive, and I know we’ve barely begun.” She crossed the room toward him. “So tell me more about how it all began. You said something about using water from the burn even before it was a legal operation?”
He nodded. “Initially, two centuries past, there were over a dozen stills in this general area, all tucked away between burn and glen, amongst the rocks and such. And all run illicitly, as there was no way to pay the heavy taxes levied by the government. Young ladies from the village used to come up to the hills here and hide tin pots of whisky beneath their skirts and spirit them back into town.”
Daisy laughed at that. “I’ve long agreed that ingenuity is the mother of invention.”
“Aye, that it is.” He found himself smiling as well. “Early in the nineteenth century, the heavy duties were lifted and Glenbuie obtained legal license to distill, as did a few others. However, ours was the only one that survived to become a legitimate concern. I’d like to believe it’s because we’ve always strived to maintain the original methods, as much as one can, to maintain the quality even as we increased the quantity. We guard quite fiercely the specifics of our processes, not that there are any left in this area that care. We’re quite on the outskirts of the more popular and larger concerns and definitely out of the tourist loop, as I’ve said. But we’ve remained a family-held business and I’ve no plans to change that fact in order to improve our bottom line. Finney and all the rest of my ancestors would collectively roll in their graves, right before leaving them to come haunt me.”
She had gone off to stroll the length of the room, walking along the row of mash tuns, but grinned at that last remark as she wound her way back to him now. “I know this is everything to you, and I think it’s all fascinating. Romantic, even, in some ways.”
He gave her a look of disbelief, but she held up her hands. “I’m being quite sincere. I know the process itself is technical and dry, but there is a lot of the process that can’t be defined or specifically spelled out. There is a magic in that.”
“I agree. I suppose I was just a bit surprised that you see that, too.”
“You talk of the burn and the land being part of all this, land that’s been in your family’s hands for hundreds of years. Do you realize how few people can really fathom such a thing? Around here, perhaps, but think bigger, broaden your horizons. Or let me. If I can get the process detailed in layman’s terms, along with the historical background of how it all began, and I’ll need photos of all of it, including whatever you might have from the past. Also, pictures of the building now, the surrounding land, all so picturesque and beautiful, the village, too, as the distillery plays such a big part in its success, I—well, my mind is already spinning with the things I can do with this.”
His mind was spinning, too. And it had absolutely nothing to do with something as banal as an Internet Web site. Her eyes were shining and her speech had picked up pace, along with the animated hand gestures and body language. She captivated and commanded his full attention.
“What?” she asked, a bemused smile curving her lips as she noticed he was staring. “Am I sounding like a hopeless optimist here? Because I am very much one in this case. It’s a slam dunk, Reese, trust me. I know these things.”
He wasn’t quite certain what a slam dunk was, but assumed it was a good thing. “I was just thinking that you have as much natural enthusiasm for your job as I do mine. I find that ... intoxicating.”
She flushed a little, but her smile widened. “Good. Then maybe you’re beginning to trust my judgment a little.” Their gazes caught, and held a little longer. Then she cleared her throat and made a vague gesture to the room behind her. “So, what is the next step? The casks?”
He shook his head, but made no move to continue the tour. “That stage comes later. Much later.” He, on the other hand, wanted to come a great deal sooner. Bloody hell, but starting this up with her tonight of all nights, after the afternoon they’d shared, had been a daft idea.
It was important to build the right foundation, handle these new feelings with care, and not to go blundering in, all rampaging libido and lustful urges. Perhaps he should have given himself a wee bit longer to cool off.
He should have headed home hours ago, taken a long shower—or a quick dip in the icy cold burn—and crawled into bed with some ponderous historical treatise or other. Anything to get his mind off of Daisy MacDonnell for a long enough stretch that his rampaging ... well, rampaging lots of things ... calmed down.
But he hadn’t gone home, had he? He’d invited her here instead. So now not only had she invaded his thoughts, she’d invaded his personal space as well. The space most important to him, anyway. He’d never be rid of her now—she’d linger
on in his thoughts ad infinitum. He’d picture her smiling face, hear her laughter echoing through the cavernous room, for some time to come, wouldn’t he now?
“Lead on,” she said brightly.
Eyes dancing, mouth curved ever deliciously so ... he didn’t want to be rid of her. In fact, he found himself craving quite the opposite.
“Is something the matter?”
“Loaded question, that,” he said, the words barely more than a murmur.
She moved closer, so she could look up into his eyes. “I know this is a personal part of you and it means a lot to me that you’re sharing it with me. I’m just having a hard time switching off the other part.” She grinned. “Big shock, I know. But don’t think I don’t appreciate it on both levels—I do. I won’t burden you with the dozens of questions popping about in my head, honest. I’ll let you lead and just absorb as much as I can, but I’ll want to come back when I can spend more time, maybe talk to the people who work here, get a few testimonials, maybe from the locals, too, and—” She cut herself off and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m stopping, right now. Promise.” She made a gesture as if she was zipping her lips. Which made his body twitch hard with the need to taste them again.
She was so animated, so certain of herself. Of him. He grinned.
“Wow,” she told him. “You should do that more often.”
He frowned. “Do what?”
“Grin. Flash those white teeth. It’s ...” She merely blew out a breath and shook her head. “Lethal is the word that comes to mind.”
“I smile. Don’t I?”
She gave him a rather pitying look. “You’re quite serious, actually. But it’s part of your edge.” When he continued to frown, she bumped his elbow with hers. “Come on now, I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious about it. You smile, yes. But that grin ...” She shook her hand as if to say “shew.” Then she reached up and pushed at the corners of his mouth with her fingertips. “It’s no’ so hard now, is it?” she said.
His lips twitched.
“See?” she said, in obvious delight.
He impulsively captured her fingers before she could pull her hands away. “You’ve a horrible Scots accent, you know.”
“Have I no’?” she said, proving his point, then laughing at herself.
“I used to be better at that,” he said.
“Well, yours might be a bit more on the proper side, but—”
“There’s that word again.” He shook his head. “I’ve no doubt you’re right. But that’s no’ what I meant. I meant laughing at myself. You’re right—somewhere along the way I’ve allowed myself to become far too serious a man.”
“Maybe you’ve had to be. I can’t claim to understand what it would be like to have the burden of my entire ancestry on my shoulders. I’ve only had to handle my own, and I didn’t do so well. Brodie has told me some of what you all face with your property and the family holdings.” She shook her head a little. “So I shouldn’t tease you like that, but that’s all it was, you know. Teasing.” She smiled a little, even as he held her fingers still in his grasp. “Something about you provokes me.”
He smiled then, and lifted her fingers to his lips. “You’re like some kind of russet-haired pied piper, you know. You even have me believing in this modern virtual world. And I don’t care a bloody whit about it.”
Stung slightly, she pulled back.
“No,” he said instantly, tightening his grip, pulling her closer. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He hated that he’d dampened even a flicker of the excitement that lit up her face. “I meant that if you can make even a doubter like me think that the arduous process of distilling malted barley into whisky can be made to sound like some kind of magical and fascinating subject to anyone other than a Chisholm, so that someone would willingly spend their free time reading about it, then I have no doubts of your ability to convince these supposed flocks of Internet wanderers as well.”
She stilled, even as the energy emanating from her very being seemed to crackle in the air between them. “So, you’re saying you’ll let me do it then?”
He nodded. “Aye.” His hands were already on her, having tugged her close by the elbows. “I’ll allow you your access. You can hound my mashman and badger my still manager with your eager questions.” He was certain they’d find her intrusion into their busy schedule as charming and undeniably appealing as he did. And if they didn’t, well, they could answer to him.
“Oh, Reese.” She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you. For trusting me.”
He wrapped her in his arms, and couldn’t recall a moment in his life when he’d felt so ... weightless. An odd word, but it was the one that floated through his mind. As if the worries of the world were lifted and all was right and in balance, at least for that space in time when she was beaming at him as she was now.
“You won’t regret it,” she vowed. “I promise you that. We can sign a contingency contract based on traffic and hits-per-month, then—”
He silenced her excited chatter with a kiss. It was well beyond him then to stop. She’d have to be the one to tell him he’d crossed a boundary, that she wanted their liaison to be a professional one only. Because he’d discovered in the past fortnight, and most definitely in the span of the last hour, that he wanted far, far more where Daisy was concerned.
And though he’d certainly honor her wishes were that the case, he discovered something else about himself in that moment. All the parts of him that he’d invested in making Glenbuie whisky continue to be a success, for both family and the villagers, the drive he felt, the determination to succeed ... was now being channeled in a wider direction, with some of it circling back to him, to his needs, his wants. He wanted Daisy MacDonnell. And by damned he was going to fight for this with the same energy he’d bring to bear on anything else that mattered to him. And she already mattered.
He wove his fingers through that glorious russet waterfall of hair and shifted her mouth so he could plunder it fully. She accepted him, allowed him in, with a satisfied groan that only served to wind him up further. “Daisy,” he murmured against her lips, breathing heavily as he ran the edges of his teeth along her jaw. The very taste of her made him voracious with hunger and need.
“I know,” she said, her own breath coming in short gasps as her fingertips dug into his shoulders. “It’s crazy. But I don’t want to stop this. It’s different here. My whole life is different here. For the first time I feel like I do have a life. And—well, I want you in it. And not just as a client. I’d—I’d even give up the whole Web site idea if—”
“Nonsense. And maybe you need to think about this a different way. Things are different here. We can make time if we want to. But honestly? I dinnae want only one part of you. Who you are in here—” He tapped her forehead. “Your brilliant business mind, all that creativity, spark, and boundless energy for doing what you love, is also a part of who you are here.” He pressed two fingers over her heart. “I wouldn’t cheat myself by only wanting half of you.”
Her eyes went a little glassy at that. “I never thought of it that way. I would have to say the same. About you. I can’t imagine only knowing you away from this. It’s the heart and soul of you.”
He grabbed her fingers and kissed their tips. “I think perhaps I have a wee bit of room left over there.”
She grinned again, and sniffled. “Yeah? Well, it’s quite possible I might as well.” She turned his hands and kissed his knuckles. “Maybe this balancing life stuff isn’t so hard as I’ve been making it out to be. Maybe I was trying too hard to separate it so completely. I don’t guess that would have really worked out.” She grinned. “I’m a complete package. All or nothing.”
“I want all.” Then he swung her up in his arms, eliciting a squeal from her.
“We’ll just have to make time away from our business parts.”
He grinned. “Not a problem. I have a real thing for your personal parts, if ye havena’ no
ticed.”
She giggled. “Well ... it’s closing in on midnight, and here we stand, doing business. We’re a hopeless lot, the two of us, aren’t we?”
“At the time, it seemed the only way I could have any part of you, so I selfishly took it. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have you here after hours because it was the only way I might get you all to myself again, even as nothing more than a business associate.” He was already striding from the room, kicking at the double doors and swinging them both through them.
“I rather hope you don’t carry your other associates around like this. Or kiss them breathless, either.”
That made him smile. “I make you breathless?”
She laughed. “I know, the way I chatter on, that’s quite a feat.” She tightened her hold on his neck. “But yes,” she said more quietly, “yes, you do. And it’s bloomin’ wonderful.”
She toyed with the edges of his hair, sending increasing ripples of arousal through him that threatened to undermine his ability to get her out of this building and off to where he wanted her most. In his bed. Beneath him.
“I could walk, you know.”
“I rather like having you in my arms,” he said, moving down the short hall now to the employees’ exit. “I feel as if I’ve waited centuries to get my hands on you, and I’d like as no’ to keep them on you as much as possible, if you dinnae mind.”
Bad Boys In Kilts Page 18