‘Ye've had a shock, I think.’ His gaze was steady on her face.
She nodded, feeling a helpless sob well in her throat. To her horror, it burst from her lips with a loud shudder and the tears gathering behind her eyes escaped to slide down her face.
He reached out tentatively and touched her cheek, catching a tear on his finger, and stared at it in wonder. Her face crumpled, then the sobs came in earnest, racking from deep in her belly, bunching and aching in her throat, only to burst forth in uncontrollable gasps and sobs.
‘Lord, Morven!’
Without hesitation, he lifted her from the upturned anker and carried her to the fireside, settling her on some blankets as close to the warmth as possible. He placed the anker down beside her and sat on it himself.
‘Warmer now?’
She nodded, not trusting her voice, as another sob wracked its way through her body.
‘Nae yet, I think.’ Leaning over, he placed his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close while she shivered and sobbed.
Her embarrassment seemed complete, yet somehow his tenderness prompted an even greater flood of tears. She tried to twist away, to hide her shame, but he held her tight, pressing her into the linen of his sark.
‘Dinna fight it. I think no less of ye fer yer weeping.’
Unable to stop, she gave herself up to her despair. The sobs came hard, like when she was a child, and there was no stopping them, until, at last, there was nothing left, and she lay limp and spent against him.
‘What must ye think of me?’ She struggled to rise; her nose was running, and she’d left a damp patch on his sark.
He drew her back at once, a hand firm on her shoulder, and used a corner of his plaid to dry her face.
‘Better now?’ he asked, and she nodded, still shivering. ‘Will ye let me warm ye?’
She had scarce a chance to consider the request before he lifted her onto his lap and drew his plaid around them both. She tensed at this further familiarity, but his body seemed to radiate warmth, a balm that soothed and relaxed the rigid lines of her own. Slowly her muscles loosened, and she wound her arms around his waist, soaking up the warmth of him, made almost drowsy with it. He smelled of things she’d never known it possible for a body to smell of. Grass and hay and gorse flowers, peat smoke and a musky salty tang that was his own, mingled with the familiar scent of Rowena’s home. Sniffing, she breathed him in and felt somehow lighter than she’d any right to feel.
Trying to clear her throat, she made a small sound, and he stirred. Then she felt his lips on her cheek and the roughness of his chin as he bent his head and brought his mouth down on hers. His fingers were on the back of her neck, lifting her head, guiding her mouth that it might allow his to fit her own more easily. The shock was exquisite, and her breath caught in her throat. She responded instinctively, returning his kiss, allowing his touch, gentle as it was – almost reverent. Never had she felt more vulnerable, unguarded, yet somehow precious.
His breath left him in a rush, warm against her neck.
‘I care fer ye, Morven. Did ye not guess?’ He drew back a little, studying her face. ‘I know ye dinna … that's all right.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘My da taught me always to be honest. I just wanted ye to ken.’
A welter of emotions assaulted her. Fear at what this meant, confusion at his tricking her, and a bitter shame at her own response. Was this another liberty? One she’d allowed this time? He’d saved her, and so she was beholden. Was this how he’d take his payment?
Yet staring at him, all she could think was that she felt safe, not misused, felt as though the world inside her was moving faster now, somehow leaving her conscious will behind and she was all melted and a-stir.
She swallowed, a painful lump filling her throat while her mouth was dry as an old quern stone, and speech was beyond her.
Taking her silence as a negative response, he blinked and took one of her hands. ‘Enough about me. Can ye tell me what it is that troubles ye? It wasna me, I think?’
She shook her head.
‘Something else, then?’ He looked away, allowing her time to collect herself. ‘If ye'd rather nae speak of it, I'll not press ye, of course, but I've long found it helps to talk.’
Her throat hurt, yet her body was another matter; she felt the blood singing in her veins. But how could she speak of her mam’s condition with a man? With Jamie? The thought of such a conversation, ’twas unthinkable, unseemly, and brought a furious flaming to her cheeks. Father Ranald was the one she should confess the fear and darkness in her soul to, he was the Lord's instrument, had renounced the bonds of manhood. Yet in her heart, she knew ’twas Rowena she would unburden to.
There were certain herbs to be found and a preparation brewed from them that would bring away the child ripening in her mother's belly. The Father would call it a mortal sin she supposed, but she thought it no more so than what her father had done. Yet her mam would have none of it, and Rowena, however loath, would doubtless respect Grace’s wishes. A strong urge to change the subject came over her.
‘We should begin the distilling,’ she croaked. ‘’Tis the most skilled part, so ye'll need to pay close heed.’
He gave in graciously, letting her go, but still watched her as though she were some treasured object that he’d broken.
It was plain the still was like nothing Jamie had seen before. His eyes widened as she drew back the hide covering that protected it and he stooped to peer at the outlandish contraption. It consisted of a sizeable tin pot, complete with elongated pear-shaped head, and with a great length of convoluted copper pipe protruding from its crown.
‘The worm,’ she said, holding up the copper coil. ‘’Tis the most valuable piece o’ the still. When it wears out ye must replace it. Only there’s a way to make the Excise pay fer it.’
‘Why would they do that?’
More comfortable now that she was on familiar ground, Morven allowed a smile to lighten her face. ‘Ye take the worn-out worm to the Resident Officer, and, wearing yer most guileless countenance, tell him ye've discovered an illegal still. Take him to a place as far from yer own bothy as can be, where ye've scattered some malt about the smoorach of a fire. There’s a handsome reward fer discovering an illicit still – five pounds forsooth. Aye,’ she said, seeing his eyes widened. ‘A tidy sum. Once ye have it, ye can pay a wee visit to the nearest coppersmith. Copper's dear, so ye'll not be left wi' much once ye've bought a new worm, but yer real reward will be knowing ’twas treasury money paid fer it and nae yer own hard-won siller.’
Jamie chuckled delightedly.
She was pleased to see him treat her father’s pot-still with the greatest respect. Together they lifted the battered old pot onto the cairn at the fire. ’Twas a snug fit. On a bank of earth to one side, she positioned the cooling cask, then fitted the worm inside, the end protruding from a hole near the base. Once the hole was suitably sealed, she worked at luting the coil back into the head of the still while Jamie filled the still with the wash. Draining directly from the hills of Cromdale, the water of the Lochy burn was ice-cold; perfect for cooling and condensing. Together they used an assortment of wooden containers to fill the cask from the hurtling falls. Once the head was fitted back onto the body of the still, she sealed it in place.
‘We'll need a fair few jars,’ she said, searching through the selection in the cave. ‘Nae everything that comes off is pure whisky. We only take the middle run o’ spirit, the rest is run off separate, and we'll need to re-distil it.’
As the wash inside the still began to heat to near boiling point, the head started to rattle, and the worm emitted a soft hissing sound in the cold water. Jamie looked over at her, clearly fascinated, then gasped as condensed spirit began to run into the earthenware jar.
‘The foreshots,’ she said, dipping a finger into the jar. ‘See how oily it is?’ She pulled her father's tasting cup from the bundle she’d brought with her from home. ‘Ye can taste it if ye want.’ She filled the cup with
the thick clear liquid.
Watching her face, he knew only to take the smallest of sips and screwed his face up at the taste. ‘Lord, it's evil stuff!’
‘Aye, ’twill burn in a cruisie lamp better even than fish oil, but we're nae finished with it yet.’
It was vital to judge the next part of the process correctly. As the oily foreshots continued to run off, she took constant samples testing its scent for impurities and observing how it clung to the sides of the cup. Finally, she tasted the spirit and looked over at Jamie, who appeared to be holding his breath.
‘This is it.’ She swiftly changed the jar for a ten-gallon anker. ‘This is pure spirit. ’Tis still raw mind, and will need time to mature, to develop its own character.’ She handed him a cupful. He whistled softly at the smooth texture, then gasped as the fire of the spirit burned the back of his throat.
‘Devil's brew!’ he gasped. ‘Or maybe devil's fire is a more fitting name.’
‘Mountain dew,’ she said softly and sat back, satisfied with her work. ‘’Twill run off pure spirit fer the next half-hour or so, then the lower alcohol tailings will come through. We'll draw that off separate and mix it wi' the foreshots fer another distillation.’
He nodded, fascinated by the hissing and steaming beast and she knew he’d paid close heed to everything she said. Despite her turmoil, she sat at peace watching the steady run of whisky from the end of the worm and feeling the familiar lulling sensation induced by the vapours and the rhythmic hiss and rattle of the still. Her anger toward her father seemed more distant now, and Jamie’s presence was oddly comforting. She opened the bundle of food and shared cheese, bannocks, and heather ale with him. Her own appetite was feeble, but the ale was a balm to her painful throat.
‘’Tis so beautiful here.’ He looked through the steam and out toward the hills of Cromdale.
‘Oft-times I fancy these bens and braes have tales to tell. Ours is a much-troubled land.’
‘You speak like Rowena,’ he said. ‘She’s been a strong influence in yer life?’
‘Since ever I can mind.’
‘Will ye tell me about it?’ he coaxed.
Her first instinct was to shrink from this intrusive request. It felt too intimate; an unwanted probe into a cherished but private bond. Yet he’d not grown up with his kinswoman as she had done, perhaps ’twas only right to share her with him.
‘My earliest memory is of her story-telling. Of dark winter nights cooried at the firestone listening to her tales of auld.’ Her voice grew husky as the memories crowded back. She could hear again the rippling of the flames, the soft clacking of the spinning wheel, and Rowena's voice, fascinating and persuasive, weaving its spell.
‘’Twas the noble tales of Gaeldom I loved most in those days.’ She’d close her eyes and the other listeners with their weathered faces and shining eyes would simply fade away. Then the mountains would whisper and call to her; they spoke of battles long forgotten, clashes and strife and endless struggles. Even then, no more than the wide-eyed sprout that she was, she knew Rowena would influence the course of her life, in truth had already done so, and she welcomed it. ‘Later, she taught me the value of our Highland customs and something of our story.’ And her father had added his own bitter memories. ‘Such a sorry tale we have.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘My Granda died on Culloden moor wi' a great many of his clan.’
Jamie’s eyes darkened. ‘My father spoke of those days too.’
A deep sense of injustice had grown in her belly. Yet again, it was Rowena that taught her how to channel those feelings, and she’d seen that it was in the guarding of the collective memory that those gone before were truly honoured. Over time, a sense of unity with the past flourished and a greater understanding of herself. The grandeur of her home became a reassurance, a tangible reminder of who she was and where she belonged. Inhospitable to many, the land ensured her culture remained un-subdued, almost untouched by their foreign king and rule.
‘’Tis in the keeping alive o’ the auld customs,’ she said, unconsciously quoting Rowena. ‘That we do the greatest honour to our fathers.’
‘And ye're still learning from her? Her apprentice. Learning to be a healer, of the spirit as well as the body, I think?’
‘I am.’
Then, sensing he shared at least a measure of her fascination with his kinswoman, she relaxed her guard a little and revealed more. ‘When Rowena was no more than a bairn,’ she confided, ‘she met an auld woman, a cailleach she took fer a tinker-woman, but who she soon learned was of the faeryfolk.’ She glanced sidelong at Jamie, conscious he might question this, but there was no sign of mockery in his eyes. ‘The cailleach taught Rowena the things that were once kent by all: which plants heal and which harm, how to gain favour wi’ the men o’ the sìtheans, and how to foretell things from signs around ye. She saw something in Rowena – something rare.’
‘I think I know what she saw.’
Morven’s breathing quickened. ‘I feel it too, it does strike a fire in me!’ she said, blushing. ‘I was fifteen when Rowena saw it in me.’ It was the most momentous day of her life, a turning point from which she measured the rest of her days. ‘And every moment since I’ve given thanks fer it.’
He said nothing, though he watched her closely, and she understood from his silence that she’d somehow moved him. Emboldened, she went on. ‘What she tells me most is to be aware, open to all possibilities, in this realm or any other, nae matter how far from accepted certainties it all might seem.’ She frowned and glanced away, sensing she’d revealed too much.
‘Seems like sound advice,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sometimes ye must trust yer instincts, I believe.’
Clearing her throat, she began testing the whisky for signs of the lower alcohol tailings coming through. The change was a subtle one and required careful monitoring.
‘My mam’s to have another bairn,’ she said abruptly.
‘Well, that’s the grandest news!’ Smiling, he half-shook his head. ‘I’m delighted.’
‘Aye,’ she replied without enthusiasm.
As the middle run of spirit came to an end, she drew his attention to the change in the aroma and consistency of the liquid and was satisfied he could recognise the difference. He removed the anker and replaced it with an earthenware jar to collect the tailings. Looking at her, a little frown creased his brow. He said, ‘Why do I feel it’s nae such grand tidings?’
Her heart began to beat against her breastbone. Clenching her teeth to keep the tears away, she looked at him with venom in her eyes. ‘’Twill likely kill her! ’Tis why the tidings do a-fear me so!’
His eyes sprang wide. ‘Kill her?’
‘Aye, fer the last two stillbirths near did so. ’Tis only thanks to Rowena she still lives. Yet my father,’ she shook her head, breathless with rage. ‘He canna keep his urges to himself. Even knowing ’twill likely be the end of her, even then, he must still be taking his pleasure!’
‘You mean, he knows the dangers of getting yer mother with child again? Yet still he …’
‘Aye, ’tis what I mean.’ Now that she’d said it, she knew she should not have done so. Her da was still her da. And this was an intimate matter. A matter atween her mother and her father, and none other.
Jamie’s expression hardened. ‘The man would beat ye and force himself upon a sick woman, ’tis little wonder Rowena does suspect him of treachery!’
‘Treachery?’ She slanted him a look.
‘Of being in league wi’ McBeath. Party to Duncan’s death.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘Rowena would never say such a thing! And … and what do ye ken of my father to slur him so?’
He blinked and straightened, for he’d been leant toward her with an ardent look on his face, and gentled his voice, ‘Forgive me, but ’tis what Rowena believes.’
He did not touch her, yet she felt as if he’d struck her a mortal blow. ‘Yer a liar! A scoundrel and a liar fer saying such a thing!’
‘I pray yer pa
rdon if I’ve wounded ye, I know not the man. I only know my kinswoman’s fears, though,’ he swallowed, ‘better had I kept them to myself.’
‘Aye, better by far! Ye’re only here, in this most secret place, in that my father did allow it. And he did that to be Christian, to help Rowena. Is that the act o’ someone treacherous?’
She took several ragged breaths to steady herself, glaring at his face, all earnest and sincere, damn him. Narrowing her eyes, she nailed him with a look of blatant hostility. ‘I must show ye how to make whisky, and show ye I will, fer I’ve given Rowena my word. But I’ll hear no more o’ yer lies. My father is a decent man, and loved Duncan as a brother. I’ll thank ye to mind it.’
‘Morven! Are ye there, Morven?’
Beside her, Jamie flinched. Still glaring at him, she canted her head to listen, then turned and stepped out onto the dripping ledge, peering up through the spray. Alone at the top of the gorge, Donald looked small and forlorn.
‘What is it, Donald?’
‘Ye must come,’ he shouted down to her. ‘Rowena needs ye. Ye've to come at once.’
She shrugged off his coat and thrust it at him. ‘I must go.’
He nodded. ‘I'll finish off here, and … and if ye trust me, I'll manage the second run through the still.’
‘Trust ye!’ She snorted.
As she made the climb up the rock-face, she could feel his gaze upon her and stopped to look down. The lines of his body were drawn and contrite but he smiled up at her and raised his hand in a gallant salute. Gritting her teeth, she turned back to her climb.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nearing the top of the gorge, Morven could see Rowena's lad was also waiting. William was an agreeable lad, quiet and deep, and never happier than when the dominie was in the glen. He was fair, like his father, but had Rowena’s dark and impenetrable eyes. He offered her his hand and she scrambled the last few feet, then stood, damp and breathless, eyeing the two boys.
The Blood And The Barley Page 11