She heaved a sigh. “Sad but true, pet. I’m a complete romp.”
Brown looked shocked—probably by both her language and frank assessment of her character. Unfortunately, he quickly recovered.
“I refuse to believe you are anything but charming, Miss Calvert,” he gallantly said. “No one in his right mind could say otherwise.”
Jeannie’s brows snapped together as she shot the vicar a suspicious glance.
Double drat.
“I do believe the men are waiting for us,” Kathleen said.
“Indeed they are,” Sabrina replied, waving to her husband.
The Kendrick twins waited by the center door of a two-story, whitewashed building. They stood in identical postures—legs braced, arms crossed over their broad chests, faces shadowed by the brims of their hats.
Kathleen would have laid bets they were also wearing identical expressions of irritation at all the dithering about. Kendrick men, even the calm ones, radiated restless energy whenever they wanted to get on with something.
“Hallo,” she called, madly waving both arms. “We’ll be right there.”
When the twins exchanged a glance she could practically read that one, too. After all, she was behaving like something of an idiot.
Jeannie frowned. “Kath, why are you acting so strange?”
Kathleen took her sister by the arm. “Whatever can you mean? This is how I always act.”
Sabrina pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh.
“Step lively now, my girl,” Kathleen said, layering on an Irish brogue. “We don’t want to keep the gents waiting.”
She swept her sister along the path to the distillery, leaving an amused Sabrina and a perplexed Mr. Brown to follow in their wake.
Chapter Fourteen
Grant watched Kathleen haul her sister toward the distillery. Jeannie was clearly protesting, and just as clearly her big sister wasn’t having it.
“What’s that all about?” Graeme asked him.
“I imagine Miss Calvert is trying to discourage her little sister’s enthusiasm for the vicar.”
“Ah. Which would leave room for the vicar’s enthusiasm for the big sister,” Graeme replied.
Grant had to ignore the impulse to growl at his twin. If Kathleen wished to spend her time with boring clergymen, so be it.
“For a wee slip of a thing, she’s quite masterful,” added Graeme.
“I’m well aware.”
“And very bonny. As our Mr. Brown has clearly noticed, unlike some other fellow around here.”
Grant threw him an exasperated glance. “Did we not agree that this subject was closed for discussion?”
“I don’t think I recall that discussion.”
“Since it took place less than twenty-four hours ago, I can only conclude you’ve turned into a moron.”
“Maybe, but I’m still your favorite.” Graeme dug an elbow into Grant’s side. “Although I suspect that will be changing any time now.”
“Yes, because I’ll have murdered you for being so moronic.”
“Och, you’ll be shocking the lassies with such bloodthirsty talk,” Graeme teased.
Grant just smiled as Kathleen bustled up, Jeannie in tow. Halfway down the path, Sabrina and Brown followed at a more reasonable pace.
“Please excuse us for dawdling.” Kathleen sounded a trifle breathless. “So kind of you to wait.”
“We didn’t dawdle,” Jeannie groused. “I have a stitch in my side from running up that blasted path.”
“I’m very sorry, dearest,” Kathleen said, not looking sorry at all.
“You and Sabrina were the ones who were dawdling, not the vicar and me,” Jeannie replied. “Mr. Brown said we had to keep up with Grant and Sir Graeme, and not linger by ourselves to look at the scenery.” The girl twirled a hand. “Because of the bandits, you know. He’s very concerned for our safety.”
More likely, the vicar was concerned about Jeannie’s reputation—and his. According to Graeme, Brown was the very soul of clerical propriety. Grant suspected, though, that yon vicar would happily cast all vestiges of propriety to the winds when it came to Kathleen.
Not that he could blame the man. She looked entirely fetching in the beribboned straw bonnet that framed her sweet, freckled features, and the pink spencer that was buttoned tightly over her breasts. It did an excellent job of showcasing her neat figure. Now a dandy little breeze was whipping her skirts tight around her legs, flattening the material against the top of her thighs, perfectly outlining the delicate notch between—
“Here we are,” Sabrina gaily announced as she walked up with Brown. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I’m still getting back into fighting trim after my confinement.”
Graeme leaned down to give her a kiss on the nose. “You’re in perfect fighting trim, my love, as I well know.”
“Goodness,” said the vicar.
Sabrina poked Graeme in the chest. “None of that nonsense, sir, or I’ll be forced to box your ears.”
Jeannie giggled. “He’s too tall for you to box his ears.”
“I’ll climb on a chair. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Sabrina said, winking at the girl.
“Then we’d best get on with the tour,” Graeme said, “before my wife takes it upon herself to engage in acts of physical discipline.”
The mildly off-color remark sailed over Jeannie’s head. Brown, however, blushed and then darted a furtive look at Kathleen.
Bastard.
And here he was, jealous of the bloody vicar, apparently the most mild-tempered man in Scotland. And wasn’t that just ridiculous?
“Ready, everyone?” Sabrina brightly asked.
“Aye,” said Kathleen, “and I’m especially hoping for a taste of your foine Lochnagar brew. It’s that eager, I am, to compare it to a good Irish whisky. There’s nothing like a dram or two of whisky to remind one of home, as they say in the auld sod.”
Jeannie peered at her sister. “Kath, why do you keep talking like that?”
“Like what? This is how I always talk.”
“No, it’s not.”
For some reason that Grant couldn’t fathom, Kathleen had adopted a comically prominent Irish accent. It reminded him of all the times he and Graeme had broadened their brogues to annoy various members of the family, especially the Sassenachs.
“We cannot possibly disappoint the old sod,” Sabrina said, trying not to laugh.
“Och, I’ll put my foine brew up against your Irish whisky any time, lassie,” Graeme said. “There’ll be nae contest, ye ken.”
Mr. Brown darted a glance between Kathleen and Graeme, looking confused.
“Since we’re reaching the point where we won’t be able to comprehend each other,” Grant said, “I suggest we go in.”
Graeme winked at him. “Aye, that.”
“I don’t understand,” Jeannie said. “Is everyone joking?”
“No, lass, my brother is simply acting like the village idiot,” Grant replied.
“A frequent occurrence,” Sabrina cheerfully concurred.
“Aye, that,” Graeme teased as he ushered his wife through the door.
Jeannie looked suspiciously at her sister, who simply opened her eyes wide as if to suggest nothing at all was amiss. The girl shrugged and latched on to Brown again, all but dragging him inside.
Kathleen huffed out a sigh before starting to follow her sister.
Grant held her back. “What’s afoot?”
“Why, nothing.”
“A foine brew?” he said.
She seemed to debate with herself before her lovely mouth curled up in a sheepish smile. “I’m dancing on the head of a pin, if you must know.”
“And it’s Vicar Brown who has placed you there?”
“You noticed?”
“Which part? The part where Jeannie’s mooning over him, or the part where he’s mooning over you?”
“Unlike Jeannie, I’m certainly not encouraging him. And I’m hoping
that my ridiculous behavior will put him off.”
She bristled so adorably that he couldn’t help teasing her. “Aye, but the fella seems mighty taken with ye. Not that I blame him, ye ken. Yer mighty fetchin’ in that wee bonnet of yers.”
“Good Lord, you’re worse than I am.”
“Aye, that.”
She started to laugh but then caught herself. “I’m going in.”
When she sailed right past him, Grant followed, shaking his head. What the hell was he doing?
You’re flirting with her.
Fortunately, what he saw inside the building was interesting enough to momentarily distract him from the woman who was turning his brain inside out.
When Grant had last been up for a visit, the distillery was still in the construction stage. It was now completed, with three copper stills running on the spacious ground floor, with room for at least three more double stills. Fires burned in the large brick hearths behind all the gleaming copper, and stairs at the back of the room led up to what would be the mashing floor.
A lanky young fellow was tending the hearths, carefully restocking the flames with peat. He glanced over at them with a smile but continued in his work.
Grant breathed it all in, the scent of peat and mash filling his nose. The heady scent was replete with memories of his wild youth, memories that made him feel rather wistful.
He and his twin had been a pair of jinglebrains, as Angus liked to say, and they’d had some splendid adventures together. Running an illegal still had probably been the stupidest escapade in their careers of mayhem, but it had been rather grand for all that. For the first time in their lives, they’d made something and earned money by their own hands. As foolish as it was, it had felt like a real accomplishment.
In the difficult days of their youth, when tragedy had so often brought the family teetering to the brink of destruction, he and Graeme had actually done something. They’d built something that worked.
Together.
From his earliest memories, Graeme had always been inseparably by his side. Because of his twin, Grant had never had a chance to be lonely, even on the darkest days. Graeme had been wild, yes, but always there, the rock on which Grant could find his footing.
And that was the root of the problem, wasn’t it? His family had all moved on from those tumultuous times, settling down and building happy, purposeful lives. While he had built a useful life too, in service to family and clan, it was a rather solitary one. Even surrounded by Kendricks, as he was most days, he often felt alone.
Graeme quietly moved to his side, his gaze warm with understanding. “All right?”
He mustered a smile. “Always.”
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”
“Aye, that.”
“God, we were stupid.”
Grant laughed. “Incredibly stupid. But you’ve done a splendid job with this. Everything looks top-notch.”
“Not like the old days, eh? That crazy still we cobbled together. It’s a miracle we didn’t blow ourselves up making the blasted stuff.”
Sabrina joined them. “How satisfying that your misspent youth has transformed into something so productive. Kendricks have an interesting way of going about life, I must say.”
“You mean the most difficult way,” Grant said. “Taken only by hard-headed Scotsmen who can never make life easy on themselves.”
“Or the rest of us,” Sabrina wryly commented.
Kathleen, who’d been inspecting one of the stills, glanced up. “Are you saying you distilled illegal whisky?”
Her skeptical tone seemed to suggest that Grant couldn’t possibly do something so interesting.
“As a matter of fact, we did.”
“Best brew in the district,” Graeme added.
“So you two were both . . .” She twirled a hand, as if words failed her.
“Criminals?” Grant finished for her.
“I was going to say smugglers. I assume you had to smuggle your ill-gotten gains to market.”
“Those casks weren’t going to walk themselves out of that glen, now were they?” Graeme said. “Grant excelled at developing the distribution network, which is no surprise.”
“I think you mean I was simply better at outrunning the excisemen,” Grant replied.
Kathleen pressed a hand to her lips.
“One mustn’t be too shocked at such goings-on, Miss Calvert,” Brown said. “The taxes imposed by the British on the legal trade were punishing. Although quite wrong, one cannot be surprised that some locals engaged in a spot of illegal distilling.”
“I’m not shocked,” said Kathleen. “As I said to Sabrina earlier, men get to have all the fun, which is quite unfair.”
“I’ll say,” Jeannie piped in.
Brown looked startled by their responses, but then he mustered a gallant smile. “Yes, but what would we do without the ladies to keep us in line?”
“Become smugglers, apparently,” Kathleen replied.
Grant smothered a grin. Brown would have to do better than that to keep up with his sweet lass.
Och, yer doin’ it again. Kathleen was most definitely not his.
“Ye canna blame us,” said the young man tending the hearths. “Them bloody Sassenachs almost bled us dry.” Then he bobbed his head at Sabrina. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady. I mean, the bloody English.”
“Never mind, Dickie,” Sabrina said. “I’m used to it.”
“Don’t forget you’re half Scottish, love,” Graeme added.
“And it’s that proud we are to be workin’ for ye, Lady Kendrick.” Dickie smiled at Grant. “And a pleasure it is to be seein’ ye again, sir.”
“And you as well, Dickie. You’ve done a splendid job, here. I’m mightily impressed.”
The young man blushed. “Och, it’s all Magnus, sir. I just does what he tells me to.”
Dickie was cousin to Magnus Barr, Graeme’s chief distiller. The cousins were part of the smuggling ring that had operated on Lochnagar lands. Graeme had put an end to it, primarily by asking Magnus and Dickie to join him in setting up a legal operation. Magnus was a genius at coaxing a fine elixir from his stills, which he lovingly tended like they were his bairns. His talent, combined with Sabrina’s money and Graeme’s leadership, had spurred Lochnagar Distilleries to be on its way to turning a profit by next year.
When Grant happened to glance at Kathleen, her polished-pewter gaze was fixed on him with intensity.
“What?” he asked.
“You really were a smuggler?”
He frowned. What the devil was she getting at?
“Yes.”
“But you should know that I was the true mastermind of our evil doings at Kinglas,” Graeme quickly said. “Grant was simply watching over me and trying to ensure that I didn’t kill myself or end up in prison.”
For some deranged reason, Grant was annoyed at such a lackluster description of his contribution to their youthful indiscretions.
“Angus came up with the original idea,” he pointed out. “Although I was the one who developed the plan and designed the still. Graeme was simply the muscle.”
“I was more than just the muscle,” Graeme indignantly stated.
Grant raised an eyebrow.
“I was also the chief taster,” his twin said.
“You certainly drank up more than your share of the profits.”
His brother heaved a dramatic sigh. “Och, stabbed in the back by one of my nearest and dearest. It’s a sad life, ye ken.”
Sabrina patted her husband’s arm. “It’s certainly true that you have very nice muscles.”
He snorted. “Thank you. And Grant is correct. He was the brain of the operation.”
“It all sounds quite jolly,” Jeannie enthused.
“I had no idea you were so dashing, Mr. Kendrick,” Kathleen said, flashing Grant a cheeky smile.
In other words, she’d continued to think him a dead bore until now.
“Grant can certainly be
dashing,” Graeme said. “I remember one time, just before we were sent down from school—”
Since Grant knew exactly which embarrassing tale his brother was about to relate, he elbowed him in the side. “Definitely not.”
“Let’s have that tour then, shall we?” Sabrina tactfully interjected. “Dickie, perhaps you could do the honors.”
“I’d be happy to, milady. I can take ye upstairs to show ye where we start the mashin’.”
“Is Magnus about?” Graeme asked. “I’d like a word with him while you show the others around.”
“He was called over to the gristmill, sir, ’bout an hour ago.”
Graeme frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“I canna say, sir. He beetled out before I had a chance to speak with him. But his mam is in the office, if ye’d like to ask her. She’s goin’ over the inventory for the next few months, like ye asked her to.”
“I’ll just pop in and have a chat with her, then.”
Graeme strode over to a door at the other end of the distillery. When he opened it, a small bundle of gray streaked past him and straight to Dickie.
“You have a cat,” Jeannie exclaimed.
“Aye, that’s Mrs. Wiggles,” Dickie said, as the cat wound herself around his legs. “She’s our mouser.”
Jeannie crouched down, clicking her tongue. The sleek feline scampered over and pushed her head against the girl’s hand. “Can I pick her up?”
“Of course, dear,” Sabrina said. “Mrs. Wiggles is quite spoiled. She loves nothing better than to be carried and fussed over.”
“Huzzah.” Jeannie hoisted the cat into her arms.
Mrs. Wiggles promptly settled and began purring loudly.
As Dickie ushered the others up to the second floor, Kathleen paused at the bottom of the staircase, clearly waiting for Grant.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’d quite like to hear that story about you and Graeme,” she said.
“Which one?”
She rolled her eyes. “The one you cut short.”
“It’s not for polite company, I’m afraid,” he said.
Well, it was more a story too stupid to relate to anyone with a brain. He couldn’t count the times he and his brother had acted like complete idiots back then.
Kathleen’s gaze suddenly lit up with mischief. “That’s exactly why I want to hear it.”
The Highlander's Irish Bride Page 18