Taming The Lion

Mathew’s tense shoulders relaxed. “What now?”

“We find the stills,” Ross said softly.

“Oh, and how will we get out of here?”

“Climb, I hope.” Ross unbarred the double shutters covering the window and eased open one side. Cool, damp air swirled in as he leaned out. “Ah, only three stories to the ground.”

“Only,” Mathew gasped.

“Aye, and there’s a wee ledge just below.”

“You cannot be thinking of walking that!” he whispered.

Ross just grinned. He had always had a penchant for climbing, whether it was a tree to filch apples or down a cliff side after falcon chicks to train for hunting.

“Idiot.”

“I just don’t have your fear of heights.”

“Respect. I respect the fact that birds fly and men were meant to keep their two feet on the ground.”

“I will be careful.” His mind made up, Ross turned and surveyed the room.

Like everything at Kennecraig, it was neat and clean if sparsely furnished. An attempt had been made to make them comfortable. At one end, a large table held a trio of pitchers, cups and a bowl for washing. Surprisingly, there were also stacks of books and what looked like writing materials. Did Lady Catlyn read, or were these her father’s?

There was no bed, of course, but the promised sleeping pallets had been laid out before the hearth at the other end, where a small fire crackled. Blankets and pillows lay nearby, along with their saddle packs.

Ross made for his pouch, pawed through it and found the thin coil of rope at the bottom. “It pays to be prepared.” Grinning, he straightened and looped the rope around his torso.

“And what am I to do while you are off risking your fool neck?” Mathew whispered fiercely.

Ross scanned the chamber again as he had so many others in his career as a thief-taker. “Conduct a thorough search.” He pointed to the two large tapestries that brightened the long walls. “Look behind the hangings for hidden passageways or safe-holes. It is doubtless too much to hope that she has left this recipe laying about, but examine the books and papers on yon table.” He frowned, surprised to find little evidence the lady spent time on the traditional female pursuits—no needlework frame, no mending basket.

But then, Catlyn Boyd was a most unusual lady. One he wished he had met under different circumstances. If he was to steal her secrets, he must know her better.

Chapter Three

Catlyn found herself standing before the double doors to the distillery with no memory of how she’d gotten there after fleeing the great hall. There was no other word for the way in which she had run from the hall, from Ross Sutherland’s touch. Even now her wrist still prickled where his callused hands had encircled it. And her heart beat much too swiftly.

The man was a menace to womankind. And it was a blow to her pride to find she was not as immune to him as she should be. Awash with shame, she leaned her forehead against the door, drawing strength from steel-banded oak.

There were too many people counting on her, too many decisions to be made without cluttering her head with silly thoughts of Ross Sutherland. It was just that he was handsome. And strong. Curiously his size and warrior skills appealed to her even more than his poet’s face. Part of her wanted to acquiesce to Adair’s suggestion and hire the knight.

Oh, and would that not be the most foolish thing she had ever done.

Agitated, Catlyn pulled open the right-hand door and stepped into the distillery’s anteroom. Immediately, the familiar scent of the Finglas wrapped itself around her. To her, this was the heart of Kennecraig, the center of her world for as long as she could remember. She knew and loved every inch of this ancient tower, from the keg maker’s workshop on the floor above to the cellars beneath housing the mash tuns and stills. On this main floor were the settling rooms and her workroom. Her province, her responsibility.

Catlyn sighed. Small wonder she craved a champion. Even before Hakon had come into their lives, her days had been hectic and full. Now, as she passed through the entryway and into the maze of dimly lit rooms beyond, she felt weighed down by all that must be done. Always before there had been others to share the burden, but her father was gone, her mother as good as.

Oh, Roland and his men would perform the manual tasks associated with each phase of the whiskey making, but it was up to her to record these steps in the journals. It was up to her to decide if the Finglas from four years ago was up to Boyd standards and how much of it should be sold, how much kept by for her father’s pet project.

Tucked away in a darkened corner of the still rooms were kegs from as far back as ten years ago. Thomas had reasoned that whiskey became smoother and more drinkable every year. At ten years, he felt it had reached its peak. If he had been able to, he would not have sold a drop of the Finglas till it was ten years old. But in order to provide for his clan, he’d been forced to sell most of each year’s production.

This year, he had intended to offer the ten-year-old Finglas to a few discriminating customers in Edinburgh. Among them, the king.

Now it was up to Catlyn to make her father’s dream reality. But was she strong enough to do it? Would the nobles deal with a Highland distiller who was also a woman?

Frowning, she wandered into the settling room. It was twice the size of the great hall, the ceilings one and a half stories above the stone floor. During the day, air and light filtered in through narrow openings at the rafter line. By night, only a single lantern, such as the type used on ships, was left burning in a center table, for flame and liquor were an explosive mix.

Row after row of shelves filled the room, so it resembled a maze. They were lined with single rows of whiskey kegs. Each keg bore a label with a date and batch number inscribed in Catlyn’s precise hand. The numbers were recorded in her ledger books, and from them she could tell what barley fields had been used in the distilling, how many times the liquor had been run through the stills and, of course, how old it was. The chimneys that vented away the smoke from those stills ran up through the middle of the room and thence through the second-story cooperage.

Bypassing the shelves, Catlyn took the lantern from the table and continued on to her counting room. The door was always locked unless she was inside, not out of fear someone would steal the records but because it had been done so from the beginning and the Boyds were great ones for tradition.

She took the key from the pouch at her waist, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Immediately she felt her remaining anxiety melt away. Small and cozy, with a fireplace to keep the damp at bay, the chamber had served the lords of Kennecraig as a record room for generations. Ever since her great-great-grandfather had added this building to house the distillery.

The shelves lining two of the walls of the record room were crammed with the leather-bound ledgers and crumbling parchment rolls that chronicled every step of the distilling process for each year going back six generations. Some were written in Latin, others in French.

As a child, Catlyn had sat on the floor and fashioned dolls from wood curls while her brother, Thom, studied the languages and ciphering essential to every lord of Kennecraig. She’d been far more interested in his lessons than the silly dolls, which was fortunate. When Thom had died at age fifteen, Catlyn had assumed the heir’s role. There had been grumblings among some of the men, but her father had stood firm. “The lass has my head for details and her grandsire’s nose for the brew.”

That she’d stepped in to fill her papa’s role far too early saddened her. Yet she loved this craft. Every step held its own fascination. The earthy pleasure of visiting the fields and assessing the barley, of judging when the grain was at its peak and ready to be married to the purest burn water. The careful mixing of barley and water, in just the right portions, appealed to her sense of order. But nothing equaled the thrill she felt when the first drop of liquor fell from the coil of hammered steel tubing.

A grating sound from the main room had her spinning in the doorway.

“Who is there?” she called, raising the lantern. Its pale golden light bounced off the nearest kegs but was swallowed up by the darkness beyond. A shiver worked its way down her spine. She had never been afraid to come here, even at night and alone, but that was before Hakon had come to the mountains.

She thought about the barrels of black powder sitting next to the stills in the cellars. Her father’s desperate scheme to keep Hakon from attacking them. Thus far it had worked, but what if one of his men sneaked into Kennecraig and moved the barrels away? It would take time and many strong men.

Like the Sutherlands.

She swayed for a moment, terrified. Then she remembered the injuries Hakon had inflicted on the Sutherlands. Nay, Ross was not a danger to them. At least not that way. And the doors to the cellars were kept locked except when Roland and his men were working there.

Still it might be wise to post guards here until the Sutherlands were gone.

Catlyn felt a bit better till she glanced at the papers piled on her worktable. She should spend an hour or two on them, but her eyes were gritty, her nerves frayed. And she had one more duty to perform before she retired. Resolving to be down here at first light, she shut the door and locked it.

Ross crouched down behind one of the keg-laden shelves and watched Catlyn walk past, confident the shadows would hide him. Still he did not let go the breath he had been holding till he heard the door clang shut.

“Dieu, that was close,” he whispered into the gloom. He had found what appeared to be the distillery by following his nose. Surprised there were no guards outside, he had cautiously opened one side of the door and eased inside. The stench of whiskey had made his eyes sting and his belly roll. He’d ignored both.

Used to sneaking about in darkened places, he had slipped into the cavernous room and started his search for the stills themselves. Only a small amount of pale light came in from some openings high above. A locked set of double doors just off the entryway looked promising, but he had moved on, down row after row of kegs. The neatness impressed him. He rapped his knuckles gently on a few and judged them to be full. Full of whiskey. If Hakon knew the Boyds had so much on hand, he’d have worked harder to get inside and steal it.

Then he had seen the light spilling from a chamber cut into the wall. It drew him, but before he could get close enough to see what was inside, an incautious step betrayed his presence.

Ross looked toward the door, then back to the one Catlyn had so carefully locked before leaving. Possibly it led to the stills, or to a room where the accounts were kept. Orderly as everything was, he did not doubt that the Boyds, had a scribe who kept a record of how much whiskey was produced and sold. Tempted as he was to see if the lock would yield to the tip of his dirk, the time was not right.

Keeping to the shadows, Ross retraced his steps down the long corridor, out the back door and around the side of the tower. Up the rope he’d left and onto the ledge.

Tomorrow night he’d come prepared, with parchment and charcoal to sketch the stills.

Catlyn paused outside the chamber that had been her parents’, dreading what she’d find when she entered.

On the day Adair brought her father’s body back to Kennecraig, Catlyn had also lost her mother. Jeannie Boyd had taken one look at her departed husband and faded into a stupor from which she had yet to emerge. The pain of watching her mother retreat further and further into herself was almost more than Catlyn could bear.

She bowed her head, her heart aching. She would give all she owned, aye, even the precious stills, to have her mother whole again. “Please, please let me find her better.”

Bracing herself for disappointment, Catlyn knocked softly. She did not expect an answer. Even before her husband’s death, Jeannie Boyd had been considered a bit fey. She would immerse herself so thoroughly in the scenes she created with needle and thread, that she paid scant attention to the real world around her. Now her mind seemed to have permanently retreated into one of those imaginary worlds. A better world, where her husband was not dead, just away.

Catlyn pushed open the door and immediately spied her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her husband’s clothes chest. It was empty now, every garment Thomas had possessed arrayed around Lady Jeannie in neat piles.

“Mama, how nice to see you up.” Hope buoyed Catlyn’s steps as she crossed the room. Could it be her mother had regained her senses and was finally setting Papa’s things to rights?

Jeannie raised her head, her once glorious mane of chestnut hair dull, her eyes red rimmed. “Thomas is due back any day, and I cannot find his best plaid.”

Catlyn’s knees went weak, and she sank down beside her mother. They had buried her father in his bloodied tartan. “He may not need it with the weather so warm,” she said gently.

“He counts on me to keep it in good repair. He teases me sometimes...says ’tis the only practical thing I do. And now... I—I can’t understand where it’s got to.” She picked up a saffron shirt and shook it, as though expecting the eight-foot length of plaid to fall from it onto her lap.

“It will turn up.” Catlyn captured her mother’s fluttering hands, found them icy cold and painfully thin. She chafed them between her own hands. “Let me put you to bed, Mama.”

“I cannot sleep till I’ve found the plaid.” She freed her hands and went back to shifting through the clothes.

Catlyn watched through a veil of tears. It seemed her mother was wasting away before her eyes, her plump body gaunt, her once golden skin pale from hours indoors. “Tomorrow we will take a walk on the battlements. The fresh air would do you good, Mama. You have not been outside since...” Catlyn choked on a sob. “It’s been so long since you’ve been out.”

“I will not leave this room till I have his plaid.” Frowning, Jeannie picked up a pair of worn woolen hose. “These are Thomas’s favorites. I know he’ll be surprised I’ve mended them so the hole barely shows, but he’ll be most displeased if I cannot find the plaid.”

The door to the chamber opened.

Catlyn turned toward it, her already low spirits plummeting when she saw Dora standing awkwardly in the doorway, a covered tray in her hands It was surely the cruelest of ironies that the one woman upon whom her mother depended was Eom’s mistress.

“Oh, Dora,” Jeanme exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re back. You’ve got to help me find Thomas’s plaid.”

“Aye, my lady.” Blue eyes downcast, Dora sidled into the room and set her burden on the table. She was slender, blond and so radiantly beautiful that men, even those who’d known her all her life, stared when she passed by.

Small wonder Eoin had been tempted to dally with her while courting the plain wren of a woman who was heir to the distilleries, Catlyn thought. Even her mother preferred Dora’s company. Where Catlyn attempted to coax her mother back into this world, Dora seemed to slip readily into Jeannie’s.

“It may be that one of the maids took the plaid to wash,” Dora said. “Tomorrow we’ll go down and look about.”

“Let us go now.” Jeannie got awkwardly to her feet.

Dora swiftly put a hand under her elbow, steadying her. “Oh, nay, my lady. ’Tis night, now, and the maids will be asleep. You should be abed, too.”

“I am not sleepy,” Jeannie protested.

“Come sit by the hearth, then,” Dora coaxed. “I’ve brought up a cup of warm milk.”

“All right. But at first light, we must go down and search. Search everywhere.” Jeannie dutifully walked to her chair.

Dora glanced quickly, apologetically, at Catlyn. “I know ’tis a futile errand,” she whispered. “But the fresh air and a wee bit of exercise might do my lady good.”

“Aye.” Catlyn jumped up and crossed to her mother. She should be glad her mother had someone in whom she could confide and trust, but instead, she was jealous of Dora. Again. “I will ready Mama for bed, Dora. Eoin is doubtless waiting for you.”

“Nay, that is over. He...he is wroth with me.” Her hand absently fluttered over a bruise at her temple.

“Did he do that?” Catlyn exclaimed.

“Nay.” Dora shook her head so violently her long blond braids flew back, revealing another dark mark below her ear.

“Dora.” Horrified, Catlyn went to her, took her gently by the shoulders. “Tell me true if Eoin has beaten you.”

“Nay, at least I do not think it was him.”

“Tell me what happened,” Catlyn demanded.

“Accidents. A stone flying out of the darkness.”

“Oh, Dora, I had no idea.”

Dora turned her head aside. “Please let it go. It is right that I be punished. I should not have let him kiss me knowing he was promised to you, but I have been so lonely since Alan died. One minute Eoin and I were speaking of the past, the next...” A single tear trickled down her cheek.

Catlyn’s eyes filled with tears. “It is not your fault. It is Eoin’s, taking advantage of your grief.”

Dora raised her head, looking Catlyn in the eye for the first time since Catlyn had found them together. “I swear it was the first time, and it went no further than a few kisses.”

Catlyn believed that as surely as she now believed that she had not really loved Eoin. She had agreed to wed him out of duty and respect for her father’s wishes. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Now tell me who threw these rocks at you.”

“Someone who wishes me punished.”

“I will put a guard on you and alert Adair to watch.”

“Nay.” Dora grasped Catlyn’s hand. “It would only make matters worse if they thought I had complained.”

“Very well, I will say nothing.” Directly, but she meant to spread the word that she would not tolerate such behavior.

“I am sorry I ruined things for you.”

Catlyn smiled faintly, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Dora, I begin to think you did me a very great favor. For all he was my father’s foster son and lived here ten years, I realize I did not truly know Eoin. He has revealed his true nature, the charming, self-serving rogue. Had we wed, he would likely have pursued other women.” She chuckled. “And I would have been forced to cut out his cheating heart.”

Dora managed a watery smile. “Thank you for not turning me out. You are truly the most generous of women.” She grabbed Catlyn’s hands and kissed them.

Embarrassed, Catlyn freed her hands and patted Dora awkwardly on the shoulder. “You have amply repaid me by caring for Mama.” She looked over at her mother, who stared into the empty hearth as though it contained the secret of life.

“She will regain her senses,” Dora murmured.

“I pray you are right.” Catlyn walked over and hunkered down at her mother’s knee. “Mama, shall I read you a story?”

Her mother glanced at her and smiled brightly. “I think that’s why my Thom has stayed away so long,” she said. “Because he knows the plaid’s not mended. He’ll not come back to me till I’ve found it and set it to rights.”

“Aye, Mama,” Catlyn said softly. Her heart aching, she stood and walked toward the door.

“We must be up and looking at first light,” Jeannie said.

Dora’s reply was lost in the closing of the door, but doubtless it was something soothing.

Catlyn stood outside the room, shaking, her emotions a shambles. After a moment, she found the strength to move down the hall to her own chamber.

Why? Why had these things happened to her clan?

Father Griogair, the priest who had come over from the town of Doune to bury her father, said that God visited such hardships as these on folk as a penance for past ill deeds. If so, she was paying a very high price for having teased her brother when he was alive and tormented their tutor with her endless questions. Of course, if Eoin was to be believed, she also suffered from the sins of being cold, inflexible and indifferent to a man’s natural need for a mistress.

Did Ross Sutherland have a mistress?

Without a doubt. He was a rogue, the sort of handsome rascal who thought all women worshiped him. It would be folly to have him here, luring her maidservants into trysts in darkened corners. Oh, and he’d be good at that, Catlyn thought, shivering as she recalled what it was like to be the focus of his searing blue eyes.

He made a woman, even one as cautious as herself, feel as though she were the most important creature on earth. It was all a lie, of course, an act. But she would not have him here, breaking hearts.

Through the slits between the window shutters, Ross watched Catlyn make her exit. How lonely and sad she looked, he thought, her shoulders bowed, her steps slow.

He transferred his gaze to Catlyn’s mother. Clearly the death of her husband had unhinged Lady Jeannie’s mind. His heart contracted in an unwelcome spurt of sympathy. He tried to push it away, reminding himself he could not afford to feel anything for the lass he’d come to rob. But his own mother was dear to him, though Lady Laurel probably did not realize how much he loved her. He had disappointed both his parents with his refusal to settle down and accept the responsibilities for the estates he’d one day inherit.

The land he had lost in that drunken wager.

Just let him get back that damned note from Hakon, Ross vowed, and he would spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy of his parents’ love

“Come to bed, my lady,” murmured the maid.

Ross watched the stunningly beautiful Dora help Lady Jeannie to her feet. It was not surprising that Eoin had trysted with the maid. Doubtless he preferred her warmth to Lady Catlyn’s haughty coldness. And yet, the lady had displayed an unexpected compassion in dealing with the girl. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lady Catlyn, the puzzle he must solve if he hoped to regain his property.

Ross turned away. Stepping carefully, he moved past the window, placing his feet with great care on the narrow ledge that ran around the tower. The stone was rain slickened beneath his boots, making the adventure a bit more dangerous than he’d expected, but well worth the risk. Not only had he discovered the location of the distillery, but the scene between Lady Catlyn and Dora had provided him with important information.

Considering what he’d learned, Ross inched past the last barred window. He had no more than cleared it than the shutters were abruptly thrown open. A curse hissed between his teeth as he flattened himself against the wet stone wall of the tower.

A pair of slender hands appeared on the sill. Someone sighed, the sound filled with longing. “The air smells so fresh after a rain,” murmured Catlyn Boyd.

Ross shrank back, praying she did not lean out.

“Ye’ll catch the ague breathing in that dampness,” grumbled a rough female voice.

“I’m used to it, Ulma. Besides, I must ride out tomorrow to see if the storm flattened the barley.”

“There’s no need for ye to muck about in the muddy fields. ’Tis Eom’s job to manage the crops.”

“So it is, but Papa always checked such things himself. I also need to record the amount of rainfall in the gauge and measure the height of the crops for the book.”

The book? Ross’s ears pricked up. Did this book also contain the recipe Hakon sought?

Ulma sniffed. “Ye do too much, lass.”

“I do no more than what is required. It just takes me longer because I am new at doing some things.” She sighed again. “These days I need to be two people.”

“Well, if Eoin had not proved such a deceitful rascal, ye’d have a husband to bear part of the burden. Ye should have turned that...that bastard out the very night ye found him and—”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Catlyn said fiercely. “And Papa would have exiled him, no matter that Eoin was his foster son.” Her voice grew softer. “But once I was over the initial shock, I realized how important Eoin was to the clan, and knew we could not dispense with him to ease my pride.”