by Cathy MacRae
“Sandy has been shuffling numbers for some time now. You know, so many barrels in the warehouse, but a few extra here and there for private sale.”
Allison’s eyebrows arched upward. “I suppose those ‘private sales’ never made it to the ledger?”
“No. But I found it.” Robert’s tone bordered on boastful. Malcolm sent him a severe look and he crumpled. “Sandy was going to cut me in, but then Grandpa died and Sandy said he’d still get me my share when I was a director. You know. Under the table.” He slid Allison a resentful look.
“But Grandpa left it all to you. I got nothing. Sandy said you didn’t really want it, but when he argued with you, you fired him. And we were left with nothing.”
Malcolm risked a look at Allison.
Twin spots of color flashed high on her cheeks, her skin deathly white. Her eyes flashed. “He told me I didn’t have the guts or experience to run the distillery. I thought that rather presumptuous of him, seeing as I pretty much grew up here and can all but tell the state of the whisky with my eyes closed. But his arrogance sealed the deal. His attitude has no place here.”
Muscles worked in her jaw as she clenched her teeth and squared her shoulders. That’s my girl, Malcolm approved, then checked. My girl? Warmth stole through him and he hazarded a smile. Even though she was a Sutherland, she had spunk, and had she been born in a different century, he might have risked his father’s wrath to court her.
Had he met her in different circumstances, he would certainly risk it. As it was, Soni—and fate—had other ideas. The taste in his mouth turned sour.
Allison narrowed her eyes at Robert. “So you planned to poison the water? We would lose countless barrels. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps forcing us to close the distillery. Thankfully, nothing is processed without tasting it. Your stunt would have destroyed our inventory and taken us years to recover.”
“It wasn’t a stunt!” Robert protested. “An entire batch of whisky that tasted off would have proved to everyone you don’t have what it takes to run the distillery. It would have come to me.” He frowned. “But, I told you. I decided not to go through with it.” His sulky voice returned.
Long shadows fell across Allison’s face, lining it with disbelief, weariness and despair. Something pulled at Malcolm’s heart. Something tender and caring. She deserved to be looked after, and he was the Scotsman to do it.
“Lass, the afternoon is passing. We should get off this mountain before dark. See about getting that liquid investigated.”
For a moment, he thought she hadn’t heard him, but she flinched and inhaled a deep breath. She stared for a long moment at the vial in her hand before slipping it into her shirt pocket. “I doubt it is poisonous. Iron or sulphur would destroy the flavor of the whisky without causing lasting harm. There’s no law against carrying liquid iron in a test tube.”
“Nae, though putting it in the distillery’s water source would be a dastardly deed, worthy of punishment,” Malcolm countered. Robert grimaced as Malcolm scowled at him, contemplating a suitable penance.
Allison sighed. “Come on, then. I still have a lot to do.” Giving Robert a stern look, she added, “and you’re going to help me.”
They made their way down the steep trail, slipping and sliding and finding the rocks beneath the leaves more than once across their backsides when they lost their footing. Malcolm fared better than the others in his sturdy boots, and he trudged on, keeping Robert always in his sight.
Allison’s knee twisted beneath her and she sagged sharply. A quick grab to her elbow steadied her. She flashed Malcom a grateful look.
“Take my arm, lass,” he urged quietly.
“I can …” she caught his look. “Thank you,” she amended, wrapping her fingers around his upper arm.
Wonder flooded Malcolm as he registered her touch. Since Soni had sent him here, he had known the calming of wee Fergus’ touch and the rush of warmth of Allison’s hand. Too many years had passed since he’d known ought but the coldness of the moor and his disturbing thoughts. It was suddenly good to be alive.
They reached the ATV and climbed aboard as before, though Robert slouched in his seat, braced as though he only needed one good dose of courage to leap from the vehicle and take off to parts unknown. Malcolm grasped the overhead bar as Fergus bounded across the back of the ATV with obvious pleasure. Malcolm grinned at the grimy furry feet and bits of leaf debris stuck to Fergus’ coat. For a small white dog, he certainly didn’t act pampered. In fact, he seemed to relish his romp outdoors.
As Allison braked the ATV next to the distillery, Robert darted from his seat. He cornered the warehouse and was immediately out of sight. Malcolm leapt to the ground, murderous intent to pound the sniveling worm roaring through him.
“Let him go,” Allison said.
“You’d let him escape?” Malcolm wondered, coming to a halt. “After what he did? Almost did,” he corrected.
She shook her head. “He won’t go far. And if he does, good riddance. If I see him again, I’m likely to call the police.”
“And ye should. He nearly cost ye dear.”
“But he is my cousin and rightfully should have garnered some bit of inheritance from Grandfather. Partnership in the distillery perhaps isn’t a good idea, but I’m sure he expected something.”
“Yer cousin almost lost ye a year or more of whisky. Yer reputation. And ye would defend him?”
“For the memories I have, yes. I will not deny his actions, but I will not condemn him, either.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I dinnae know what to think, lass. Ye have an honor many do not. I would have been proud …” to call ye my wife, he meant to say, but it would help no one to voice the heartfelt words.
Allison stepped from the vehicle, slowly closing the distance between them. “So, what do you do now?”
Malcolm cocked his head, questioning. “What do ye mean, lass?”
She smiled faintly. “You’ve done your heroic deed here, saving the distillery’s water. So, where will you go now?”
There was a wistful quality to her voice and her tiny smile remained. “My leaving pleases ye?” Malcolm asked, a hollow quality in his chest.
Instantly the smile vanished. “No! Of course not.” Something Malcolm could only define as regret touched her face. “I will miss you. I suppose I’ve gotten used to hearing you call me lass.”
Malcolm’s composure slipped a notch. The urge to do battle with her deceitful cousin vanished. He stepped toward her then stopped, one hand to the back of his neck as he attempted to rub the unfamiliar sensation of confusion. And longing? Ridiculous. He was a ghost. Soni had been perfectly clear what his time limits were. But St. Andrew help him, he wanted more. He wanted her.
“I dinnae know what happens next. I had thought I would be snatched up and sent on the next part of my journey once I finished my task. But I dinnae know why I’m still here.” Curiosity plagued him. How much longer before Soni noticed he’d saved the distillery?
Understanding dawned. “Except I haven’t,” he murmured. He straightened, energy sparking through him. “I dinnae save the distillery. Yer bloody cousin dropped the vial, we saw him, and he either dinnae get his chance, or truly decided not to go through with his act.”
“More likely, he didn’t have the guts to stand up to us and do it anyway,” Allison noted. “He could have dumped the contents into the water right in front of us—we were too far away to stop him. Though I don’t know how he would have ensured it went into the springs instead of flowing away down the creek.” She paused, giving him a thoughtful look. “And you weren’t afraid of the water. Don’t you have to face your fears?”
Malcolm almost laughed, startling himself before the sound was more than a faint rumble in his chest. But the sensation was heady, giving him courage and a strange lightness of heart. “Lass, a wee burn cannae frighten me. My darkest dreams are of the loch and being unable to reach the surface.” As my friends died around me.
“Are you tru
ly a ghost?” She asked, wonder in her voice.
A dose of reality dampened Malcolm’s spirits. His hand drifted upward to finger the hole in his jacket over his chest, the exact spot where his heart lay beating again. He shrugged his left shoulder from the coat, baring the wound. It didn’t look so bad. The torn cloth of his shirt sagged downward, covering the hole in his skin, and only minimal blood soaked the fabric. The bayonet had done its damage on the inside—he’d felt it instantly, and the heavy, clenching sensation around his heart as the blade had withdrawn. He’d been dead almost before he hit the ground.
Allison pointed to the wound as the edges of cloth fluttered in the light evening breeze. “This?” she asked.
Malcolm nodded. “Aye. An English bayonet pierced my heart. But I took six government soldiers that day before I fell.”
Her gaze jerked to his face, green eyes dark with concern—confusion?
“That’s not make-up, then?”
“I dinnae make it up, if that’s what ye mean,” he ventured.
“And you didn’t snap after some traumatic event and wake up convinced you’re an eighteenth century ghost?”
“I woke after the battle at Culloden and realized I am a ghost.”
Allison sighed. “We’ll go with that, then. I don’t know how to make myself believe this. I know you’ve been traumatized. Even Fergus knows that. And you are very kind to help me.”
“I am honored to help, lass, bargain or no’. Ye are a remarkable woman.” There, he’d said something from his heart. Its beat increased, kicking up a happy dance in his chest.
“You seem to be the only one who thinks so,” she rejoined wryly. “Both my cousin and the master distiller want me out of the way.” She gave Malcolm a wondering look. “I really do appreciate your help. I don’t know what I would have done had you not stepped in. It is hard to believe Robert would do such a thing. Thank you again for seeing this through with me.”
“As I am still here, I would help ye discover the stillman’s perfidy. How do ye wish to start?”
She frowned. “I’d thought about burning the midnight oil going over the books to see if I could spot the discrepancies. But my training is as a nurse, not an accountant, and I doubt I’d see it even if the misleading entries were highlighted in bright pink and jumped off the page.”
Burning. Oil. “Lass, did yer cousin not say the stillman had been selling barrels of whisky on the side?”
“Yes,” she ventured, drawing the word out as though she wasn’t quite following him.
Burning. Barrels. Whisky. He already is.
“I think we should check the storehouses.” Urgency built. “I think we should check them now.” He glanced about, not seeing other buildings that would hold the barrels. In his memory a white truck trudged up the narrow road behind the distillery. “Where are they?” He jogged to the back of the building and spotted the track as it wound up the hillside into the forest. “There?” He pointed up the hill.
For an answer, Allison leapt into the ATV and cranked it to life. It skidded to a halt beside Malcolm and he slid into the passenger seat. He pounded the back of the vehicle with a fist. “Fergus! Up!”
The dog bounded into the back, pink tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, eager for another ride.
CHAPTER NINE
Grim lines of determination showed in the set of her jaw and the grip of her hands on the wheel as she guided the ATV up the winding hillside. Scarcely wide enough for the white truck Malcolm had seen earlier, the small, paved road jutted over the edge of the mountain, growing steeper as they climbed. Malcolm gripped the metal bar near his head as she wheeled the vehicle around another sharp curve, wishing for a sturdy Highland pony between his legs instead of the much-patched slippery seat beneath his buttocks.
Water glittered to the left under the fading sunlight. Allison nodded at the small lake. “It’s man-made. Kinda like a buffer between the warehouses and the distillery. And a good source of water should we ever battle a fire on this side of the street.”
Malcolm shuddered, as much from the thought of a fire at the distillery as from the sight of so much water … Fergus licked the back of his neck and Malcolm gave himself a mental shake to ward off threatening memories as he focused on Allison’s next words.
“Grandfather said the storehouses were built up here because they would be too protected down in the hollow, and the whisky needs the cold and warmth of the seasons for the wood to breathe, letting the whisky flow in and out for color and flavor.”
Judging by her white-knuckled grip on the wheel, Allison was talking more for her benefit than his, for he knew the art of maturing whisky well.
“Ours were built on a hillside, also,” he said. “We lived verra close to the sea, and the uisge beatha matured with the hint of the salt air in its flavor.”
She cut him a quick glance and her grip eased. “I’d forgotten you’ve a distillery background, too. Would you like that again? If you had the chance.”
Malcolm considered her question. “Aye. `Tis hard work, but there is an artistry about it that resonates in me. `Tis in my blood, ye might say.” He grinned. “And I dinnae mean I over-drink the whisky.”
Allison’s lips twitched. “No. Convincing everyone to drink responsibly is important. But I know how you feel. I left to pursue a nursing career, loving my visits back, remembering the days I spent here as a child and older, following the process to its completion. It is quite satisfying to sample that barrel you set aside more than ten years ago and finding it every bit as marvelous as you’d imagined. But when Grandfather died …” Her voice trailed off.
“When was that?” Malcolm asked.
“Not quite a week ago.” Her spine stiffened as she quickly wiped a knuckle across a pale cheek.
“I’m sorry, lass. My grandda was still alive when I left to join the war in support of Prince Charles. But he is many generations gone, now.”
They topped the hill and Allison maneuvered the ATV next to the first building. Unremarkable, made of metal and wood and sporting enormous, double doors, it, and the other seven like it, housed the Sutherland treasure. The setting sun burst orange and gold, gilding the buildings, a reminder of the amber liquid within. Fergus jumped from his perch, nose to the ground as he trotted away, intent on his own business.
Malcolm’s battle-honed gaze surveyed the area. The white truck sat silently to one side, almost completely hidden behind the farthest storehouse. Silence fell heavily on the ridge, eerily so. A gentle wind swayed the trees on the edge of the cleared space, their branches dipping rhythmically, afternoon sunlight dancing on their leaves.
“I think we should check the outside of the buildings first,” Allison decided. She motioned to her right. “You take that side, I’ll go this way.”
He wanted to tell her to be careful, but she’d already struck off on her own. Shrugging off a sense of unease that prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, he followed the rocky drive to the west side of the warehouses, nerves stretched taut, ears attuned to every sound.
The distance between himself and Allison grew, the ATV now a small black object huddled in the increasing gloom. He approached the first building and tugged on the door. It creaked, but was latched firm. Cautiously he moved to the next warehouse, feeling exposed in the broad track between the buildings. His nerves stretched taut. The ancient wound on his chest ached and he rubbed it with the heel of his hand.
A scream split the air. Malcolm spun about and crouched low, hands splayed for balance. Something thumped on metal and he honed in on the pale glow of the white truck.
He darted around the building, keeping low. Rounding the corner, he spotted Allison, hauled backward as she fought the grip of a sandy-haired man.
“Let me go!” she shrieked as she collapsed to her knees, slipping from the man’s hold. His arms suddenly empty, the man stumbled. Allison pushed off from the ground, arcing back. Her head thudded solidly with the man’s nose and he crumpled where he stood, h
ands to his face, blood dripping from his chin. Allison whirled about, her foot drawn back to finish the job. Sandy rocked back and forth, moaning miserably, the fight gone from him.
Malcolm skidded to a halt, a surprised smile on his face. “Well done—for a Sutherland lass,” he approved. “Who is this amadan who thought he could best ye?”
“This,” she spat, coloring the word so vividly Malcolm cringed, “is my ex-master distiller.
“Sandy?”
“Aye,” she mocked, tossing his brogue back at him.
“What had ye stumbled upon?” Malcolm eyed the man as he wiped his bloody nose tenderly with his jacket sleeve. Allison lifted her foot warningly and Malcolm took pity on the man. “It may be we need to speak with him. Dinnae injure him further. I believe the two of us can handle him.”
She flashed him a grin. “I like you, Malcolm. Most men would have patted my head and said they’d take over. Nice of you to notice I can handle myself.”
“I respect yer abilities, though bear with me if I’d rather not see ye muss yer pretty face.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded. She addressed the man at her feet. “Sit up. I have some questions for you.”
Sandy tilted his head in her direction, cupping his nose in his palm. “It’s broken!” he protested. Suddenly his eyes flew open wide and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet. He managed two steps before Allison sent him sprawling with a well-placed kick to the inside of his knee. Sandy groaned, clutching his leg as he rolled about in agony.
Allison frowned. “Oh, be quiet. I didn’t kick you hard enough to dislocate it.”
“Nae, but he’ll have a nice bruise to remember ye by.” Malcolm spoke sharply to Sandy. “Tell the lass what she needs to know.”
“You’re going to get us killed!” Sandy snarled, rolling to his feet. He swayed on one leg, the toe of his other boot lightly touching the ground, his knee apparently unable to bear the strain. He lunged forward with a frantic glance over his shoulder and bolted around the corner of the building.
Malcolm’s chin jerked up, wondering what caused the man’s panic. Without warning, the rear doors of the white truck exploded outward, releasing a ball of fire that sent shrapnel winging through the air. Malcolm dove for Allison, knocking her to the ground, covering her body with his. Breath he’d not needed in nearly three hundred years left his chest in a harsh whoosh. Screams pierced his ears and the acrid odor of smoke filled his nose, and he was instantly transported to Culloden.