The Highlander's Irish Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  He couldn’t help returning her smile. Everything about her seemed to sparkle, as if she were a spangled scarf catching sunlight. Her very presence filled the room with vibrant, joyful life.

  Grant couldn’t resist leaning down, coming within inches of her Cupid’s bow mouth.

  “Och, ye’ll be wantin’ to hear all my secrets now, will ye?”

  Her cheeks pinked up, making her freckles practically glow. Instead of retreating, she gave him that adorably saucy smile.

  “You’ll be thinking me a forward miss, kind sir,” she said with her teasing Irish lilt. “But it’s that curious I am, and no denying it.”

  My God. She was actually flirting back.

  And wasn’t that a grand surprise? Grant would be happy to satisfy her curiosity about a number of things, and his own, as well. Like how far her freckles trailed down her body, and if they reached her—

  “Hurry up, Kath,” Jeannie called. “Everyone’s waiting.”

  Kathleen jerked back, knocking her elbow against the oak banister. “Ouch.”

  Grant reached for her. “Be careful, lass.”

  “I’m fine, sir. And you’re correct. I should be more careful.” Quickly, she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.

  He slowly followed. Kathleen Calvert was as changeable as her beautiful eyes—one minute, bright silver with humor, the next, dark gray with frustration. He didn’t know where he bloody well stood with her from one moment to the next.

  So let that serve as a warning to you.

  By the time he reached the upper floor, Grant had himself firmly under control. Kathleen didn’t even bother to look at him as she adroitly inserted herself between Jeannie and Brown. And while that clearly pleased the vicar, who beamed at her with undisguised delight, it did not please Jeannie. There was trouble brewing there. If he had a brain in his head, Grant would steer clear of the whole lot of them.

  He was here for only one reason—to help Graeme bring a gang of thieving, troublesome bastards to heel. What Kathleen Calvert chose to do with her time was no concern of his.

  Now properly sorted, Grant turned his attention to his surroundings and was impressed once again.

  Three large mash tuns were installed in the center of the long, low-ceilinged room, with space for at least two more. The design of the room was excellent, and the quality of the equipment top drawer. With Graeme running the show, Grant had no doubt that Lochnagar would soon be one of the finest distillers in Scotland.

  Dickie gestured toward the containers. “These here be called tuns. That’s where we mix the grist with hot water and start fermentin’ things.”

  “The grist is actually malt, grown from barley,” Brown explained to Kathleen. “Once the barley is harvested, it’s soaked in warm water for a few days, then spread out to dry in a malting house. It’s then dried some more in a kiln before it’s ground to flour at the mill. That is the grist Dickie is referring to.”

  Dickie nodded. “Aye, sir, that’s correct.”

  His tone suggested he was a wee bit annoyed that Brown had stolen his thunder. Grant didn’t blame him. He was beginning to conclude that yon vicar was a bit of an officious prat. In all fairness, he’d never thought that about the man before, but he’d never been in competition with him for a fair lady’s hand.

  And you’re not, you ninny.

  “You seem to know quite a bit about whisky, Mr. Brown,” Kathleen said. “I take it you’re a tippler?”

  The vicar looked shocked. It was his default expression, as far as Grant could tell.

  “Goodness, no,” he exclaimed. “But any self-respecting Scot is familiar with the process.”

  “My Irish granny always used to say that a dram a day kept the doctor away,” Kathleen replied with an airy wave. “It was grand advice, I’m thinking.”

  Jeannie shook her head. “But your granny was a teetotaler, Kath. She said she hated the taste of spirits, remember?”

  When Kathleen let out a tiny sigh, Grant decided a spot of chivalry was in order.

  “Dickie, I take it the barley is still milled off the premises.”

  “Aye, Mr. Grant. We use the barley from some of the local farms, and two of them have malt houses and kilns for the dryin’. They were part of our smugglin’ rig, ye ken, before we turned legal.”

  Brown clucked his tongue. “The less said about those days, the better.”

  “Aye, Reverend,” Dickie said in a long-suffering tone.

  “But why work with other farms?” Kathleen asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to consolidate everything into one operation?”

  “That’s an excellent question, dearest,” Sabrina said.

  “I’m not just another pretty face, you know,” Kathleen joked.

  Brown pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Brains and beauty. A formidable combination, Miss Calvert.”

  The vicar’s ponderous gallantry had Grant contemplating whether to dump him into one of the mash tuns.

  “I’m pretty and smart, too,” Jeannie said, looking rather sad as she cuddled Mrs. Wiggles.

  “Darling, you are much prettier and smarter than I am,” Kathleen cheerfully exclaimed. “By a country mile, as we all know.”

  Brown smiled. “Dear ladies, such comparisons are entirely unnecessary. I have rarely seen sisters who shared such beauty, both inside and out.”

  Jeannie scrunched up her face. “Kath and I aren’t related, Mr. Brown. We’re stepsisters. So we couldn’t possibly look like each other.”

  The irrepressible vicar looked daunted by Jeannie’s artless observation.

  “Did you say something, Grant?” Sabrina asked with an innocent air.

  Since he’d been trying not to laugh, it took him a moment to answer. “Ah, not really.”

  Kathleen’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps you were answering my excellent question?”

  Vixen.

  “Yes, that was it,” he replied. “Up until recently, most people brewed their own liquor and ale as a regular part of the farming seasons. They had malting houses and kilns, and they supported each other more or less as a collective.”

  Brown held up an admonishing finger. “It was illegal, nonetheless.”

  “How dreadful of everyone,” Jeannie said, who’d gone back to gazing at the man with girlish adoration.

  Kathleen pointedly cleared her throat. “You were saying, Mr. Kendrick?”

  “Right now, Lochnagar is still in the building stages,” Grant explained. “So it relies on local farmers to provide the finished grist. But all the distillation and production will take place here, so as to ensure a consistent product.”

  “We’re hopin’ to roll some of them farms directly into the operation,” Dickie said. “Bring ’em into the fold, as Sir Graeme likes to say.”

  Sabrina nodded. “We want to provide as much work as possible for the locals. We’ll be relying on the farmers for barley, and the crofters for harvesting peat for the fires and kilns.”

  “And as we expand,” Dickie added, “we’ll be bringin’ in more villagers to work.”

  Brown smiled at Sabrina. “It’s splendid that you and Sir Graeme are providing work for Dunlaggan, even if one cannot entirely approve of the end product.”

  “I do believe we were promised a sample of that end product,” Kathleen said. “This tour has been so interesting, but I swear I’m parched. I’d love to wet my whistle, Sabrina.”

  “Er,” Brown said, clearly disconcerted by Kathleen’s behavior.

  One could only hope the vicar was finally realizing that the cheeky lass would be more than a handful for the likes of him.

  Grant had to admit he’d like nothing better than getting a sweet handful of the cheeky lass, preferably while she was wearing one of those frilly underthings and not much else.

  Sabrina hooked arms with Kathleen. “Why don’t we repair to the office? Graeme has several bottles of Lochnagar’s finest tucked away there, exactly for emergencies such as this.”

  “Hardly an emerge
ncy, Lady Kendrick,” Brown said with a nervous chuckle.

  “That remains to be seen,” Kathleen muttered.

  The ladies trooped downstairs, followed by Jeannie and Brown.

  “What’s amiss with Vicar Brown?” Dickie asked Grant. “He’s actin’ right strange.”

  “Maybe he’s been out in the sun too long.”

  Dickie snorted, then followed Grant down the stairs just as Graeme was emerging from the office.

  “Enjoy the tour?” Graeme asked with a smile.

  “Dickie is very good at giving tours,” Sabrina replied.

  Grant snapped his fingers. “Tours—that’s just what you need. Everyone’s mad for the Highlands these days. Half of England is coming up here on holiday. Once you get fully up and running, you should give tours of the distillery. You can put up some of the whisky in specially designed bottles and sell directly to Sassenach tourists.”

  “Tourists? Really?” Sabrina asked in a doubtful tone.

  “Scotland is crawling with Sassenachs, thanks to Walter Scott and that ridiculous spectacle with the king last year. Might as well make some blunt off it. God knows you two have certainly earned a slice of that particular pie.”

  His sister-in-law had played an integral role in King George’s visit to Edinburgh, and she’d snagged Graeme as a result of it.

  “What do you think, dearest?” she asked her husband.

  Graeme flashed a smile at Grant. “Actually, I think it’s bloody brilliant. I always knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  “I’m the smart twin, remember?” Grant said. “As well as the good-looking one.”

  Graeme scoffed. “That’s debatable, but—”

  The door was flung open and Magnus Barr stalked into the room, Angus on his heels.

  Graeme frowned. “Grandda, what’s wrong?”

  Sabrina hastened forward. “Is Gus all right?”

  “Och, the wee lad’s fine. It’s other trouble we’ve got, ye ken.”

  Magnus, a veritable giant of a man with the soul of a puppy, was looking mightily fashed.

  “Aye, that,” he said in a grim tone. “At the mill. That’s why I popped over there.” He grimaced at Sabrina. “Sorry to interrupt yer visit with yer guests, my lady.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Sabrina. “Magnus, this is Miss Calvert and her sister Miss Jeannie.”

  Magnus respectfully doffed his hat. “It’s my pleasure. I’m right sorry I weren’t here to show ye around.”

  “Never mind that,” Graeme impatiently said. “What’s wrong at the mill?”

  “Somebody broke into the storage room overnight. The blighters cut open the sacks of grist and dumped it all over the place. Some went out the back window. It’s a right mess.”

  Graeme muttered a curse and threw a meaningful glance at Grant.

  “I’ll go right over and look about,” Grant said, starting for the door.

  Angus held up a hand. “That’s not all the trouble. A lad ran up from Dunlaggan. Yon kirk has been vandalized too, I’m afraid.”

  “What?” Brown gasped.

  Angus grimaced. “I’m sorry, Vicar, but it sounds like they mucked up a mess in there. Made off with the silver, too.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kathleen was on her knees repacking the dirt around the morning glories and trailing vines when a familiar masculine voice nearly startled her out of her wits.

  “Miss Calvert, what are you doing out here alone?”

  Resisting an impulse to press a gloved hand to her thumping heart, especially since that hand was covered in dirt, she twisted around to see an irate Highlander glowering down at her. For a man who prided himself on self-discipline, Grant had been bearish these last few days. Of course, it was in everyone’s best interest, as he and his equally overbearing twin had made abundantly clear.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she replied. “I didn’t even hear the garden gate open.”

  A reasonable person would expect that Grant and his twin would thump about the place making a great deal of noise, as befitted any proper giant. But at least twice now, she and Sabrina had been discussing the Kendrick brothers when the subjects of their conversations all but popped out of the woodwork like ghosts.

  Of course, that quiet quality didn’t hold when having an argument with a Kendrick male. In those circumstances, yelling tended to be the order of the day.

  “That’s because I stepped over the gate,” Grant said, “which anyone could have done if they’d wanted to sneak up on you.”

  “And you apparently wished to do.”

  “No, it’s just easier to step over it.”

  Although the low fence fronting the vicarage came up past Kathleen’s knees, for Grant it would be nothing but a trifle of sticks, easier to step over than waste any energy pushing against the creaky old gate.

  She clapped her hands to shake loose the dirt before starting to push up from the grass border that edged the pretty flowerbeds between the kirk and the vicarage. At least they had been pretty before the mystery bandits had taken several large whacks at them. The crime was petty and stupid, but infuriating nonetheless.

  “Allow me.” Grant cupped his hands under her elbows and lifted her straight up.

  One second, she was kneeling on the ground. The next, she was on her feet, carefully deposited as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. The man’s casual strength was both unnerving and ... stimulating.

  “Thank you,” she replied, rather breathlessly.

  Grant frowned. “You’ve been working too long in the sun. You’ll wear yourself out.”

  “Nonsense, it’s a lovely day. And it’s splendid to see the sun out in full force. You must admit that yesterday was very dreary.”

  “Because of the weather, or because we all spent the day arguing over highwaymen and such?” he dryly asked.

  “Oh, is that what we were doing? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Then she happened to catch sight of her low boots and let out a sigh.

  “You’ve stepped in a bit of muck there, lass,” Grant pointed out.

  In fact, her boots were caked in mud. Annoying, that, since she’d not be trotting off to one of the local stores for a replacement pair in Dunlaggan. The tiny hamlet had only about eighty souls living within its small boundaries. There was one linen draper, who also served as haberdasher and shoemaker. Dunlaggan certainly had its share of rustic charm, but a location for stylish fashions it was not.

  “Mr. Kendrick, would you mind serving as a wall for a moment? I’d like to clean off these boots before they’re completely ruined.”

  “I live to serve, but don’t think we’re done talking about you jaunting around Dunlaggan by yourself. I thought Graeme and I both made it clear that you, Jeannie, and Sabrina were to stay put at the manor house.”

  She braced a hand on his rock-hard bicep and began scraping her muddy boot with a trowel. “You and Sir Graeme did indeed make that abundantly clear, not only on the day of the incidents but carrying on into yesterday. Unfortunately carrying on, one might add.”

  “Yet our suggestions failed to take, at least in your case.”

  “As I recall, they were rather more lectures than suggestions. Very loud lectures.”

  “You’re thinking of Graeme. I never shout.”

  She carefully finished scraping her boots, and then stuck the trowel in a plant pot. Grant radiated impatience, which was rather fun. Kathleen was surprised to realize how much she enjoyed teasing him.

  “Mostly never,” she finally replied.

  His burnished eyebrows snapped together. “And when did I yell?”

  “When I agreed with Sabrina that it was foolish to uproot the entire household and run off to Glasgow over some incidents of vandalism. As distressing as those incidents were,” she hastily added when emerald fire sparked in his gaze.

  She’d seen that fire more than once in the last few days. Once they reached the Highlands, Grant had seemed to turn into quite
a different sort of person from the staid, Glaswegian businessman she’d first met. That she found this new version of Grant increasingly attractive was a discovery she intended to keep to herself.

  “The vicar seemed fair distressed about all this, ye ken,” he sarcastically said, waving a hand at the garden.

  She grimaced as she eyed the wreckage. Two large rhododendrons, clearly the vicar’s pride and joy, had been viciously hacked to bits. The flowerbeds had been trampled, and two stone flowerpots had been overturned, one shattering into pieces.

  But that was nothing compared to the damage done to the kirk itself. Although the vandalism had been fairly minimal in there—the sacristy door had been forced and the drawers and cupboards ransacked—the theft had been significant. The thieves had taken a very fine set of silver candlesticks, an enameled crucifix over three hundred years old, and a chalice inset with semiprecious gems. It was a terrible loss for such a small parish. Mr. Brown had been devastated, and the inhabitants of Dunlaggan were equally upset by the attack on their kirk.

  Since the incidents, the Lochnagar ladies had been under strict orders from the Kendrick men to remain safely at home. Since yesterday had been rainy, Kathleen hadn’t minded. But today had been sunny and warm, and being cooped up had given her the fidgets. And while she lacked the required skills to help track down a gang of thieves, she could do her bit by setting Mr. Brown’s garden to rights.

  It was her small act of defiance in the face of such unfathomable ugliness.

  “Poor Mr. Brown,” she said. “I did feel like I needed to help in some small way.”

  “Not small. You’ve done a splendid job repairing the damage to the garden.” He cast an appraising eye over her work. “You’ve a true talent, lass. Brown will be thrilled.”

  His praise made her feel foolishly girlish—and happy.

  Don’t be such a ninny.

  “Even if you did have to sacrifice your boots,” he wryly added.

  She smiled. “They’ll be my contribution to the cause.”

  “Hannah will sort them out. She wages constant battle against the effects of country life.” He chuckled. “And my brother. Hannah’s determined to get him sorted, too—much to Sabrina’s amusement.”