Scottish Brides Page 31
“He doesn’t look at all sweet,” Jeremy said, before pulling the door shut.
“Did the lad just insult me?” Lachlan scowled at the closed door.
She ignored his question. “What do you mean, we’re married?”
She’d spent the last few hours grieving for him. That she could have been spared the misery with a few words from him made her wonder what she wished to do first—hit him or kiss him. When he swung up into the saddle and pulled her up to sit in front of him, she decided that it might be foolish to argue with a man so obviously determined. Therefore, she settled on kissing him. Long moments later, when she surfaced, he smiled down at her.
“You’ll need to know a little about my country, lass. There’s many a way to get married there. I made a promise to you, and then you lay with me. It’s one of the time-honored traditions. But you’ll learn to be a Scot in time.”
“I am a Scot, Lachlan, although it’s been many years since I’ve lived in Scotland. My name, which you’ve never bothered to ask, is MacPherson.”
He stopped his horse and looked down into her face. His smile, when it came, was broad. “Truly, Janet? Well, that’s a relief. Almost as much as not having to apologize. I’ll not do it after I found you eloping with another man.”
He leaned down and kissed her once more.
A few minutes later, she spoke again. “You didn’t mean it.”
“What?”
“You didn’t mean it. You would never have married me if you hadn’t thought I was Harriet.”
He turned his horse and trotted back in the direction of the carriage. He didn’t need another shot to stop the driver; the beleaguered man only turned and looked behind him, then held up both hands as if in surrender.
Lachlan dismounted and rapped on the carriage door.
Jeremy opened it and looked out at the sight of Janet still mounted and an irritated Scot standing before him.
“I’ve a favor to ask, Englishman.”
Jeremy’s eyebrows wagged upwards.
“All you have to do is witness this.” Lachlan turned to Janet and gripped her hand tightly. “I’ll have you for my wife, Janet. Will you have me for your husband?”
She blinked at him, bemused. There was a shadow of beard on his face, and he looked irritated and tired. There were several strange stains on his shirt and trousers, and he smelled like malted barely. But his eyes seemed to sparkle, and his grin was daring.
“Are you sure, Lachlan?”
“With all my heart, Janet. I’ll welcome you to my heart and home as if you were the Bride of the Legend.”
“What Legend?”
He frowned. “A bit of nonsense that has no place here and now. Are you not going to answer me, then?”
“Yes, Lachlan, I’ll have you for my husband.”
He turned to Jeremy. “Did you hear all that?”
“Indeed.”
“Then, Janet, we’re wed again. Is that enough for you?”
He only laughed when she punched him on the arm.
Fourteen
He had plans, wonderful plans that would somehow come to pass. He couldn’t help but think that things had a way of working out, if you put your nose to the ground and kept believing in it.
His clan didn’t have to know that Janet wasn’t exactly the Glenlyon Bride. The fact that he’d been spared Harriet’s presence in his life could be construed as a deep and heart-felt blessing. He wondered if she limped and added it to the list of questions he would ask Janet when she awoke.
He looked down at her. She’d collapsed against him again, her cheek resting against his shoulder. It was the very first time he’d seen her in the sunlight. Her hair was the auburn of a good Scots lass. He wished she was awake so that he could see her eyes, but he didn’t jostle her. Perhaps now they’d be able to get a good night’s sleep from time to time, since there was no need to stay awake at all hours of the night. But then, there were advantages to knowing that he could go for two or three nights without sleep. He grinned.
He had returned from a border raid with a true prize this time.
The sight of Glenlyon ahead filled him with pride and that ever-present feeling of homecoming. Mixed with it was the burden of its responsibility. Somehow, he’d find a way to keep the clan intact and his world together. Those who wanted could emigrate, but he’d provide a living for those who wanted to stay in their ancestral home.
“The beastie’s going to blow again!” called a nearby voice.
Lachlan only sighed at the sound of another failure. As a greeting, it could have been better timed.
Janet roused, coming awake as easily as he did whenever he had a chance to sleep. She rubbed her eyes with the fingers of one hand and gripped his shirt with the other.
The cavern was being emptied of men as they raced for cover.
“What’s the matter, Lachlan?”
They dismounted, and he pushed her back among the standing men. “It’s a wee problem, Janet. Stay here where you’ll be safer.”
He walked into the cavern, expecting to see yet another oozing mess. Instead, the fire beneath the copper kettle was blazing brightly. But the hissing and bubbling that was coming from all the pipes did not augur well for the next few moments.
“The wort can’t pass into the wash container, Lachlan.”
He turned, and Janet was there at his side. But before he could ask her what she meant, she passed him, going unerringly to a series of pipes and curling vents. She turned one handle left and another right, and a pale-brown liquid flowed uneventfully into the huge copper kettle.
She turned and looked at the first of the men who peered cautiously into the cavern. “Is the yeast in the kettle?”
He nodded and came closer.
She looked over at Lachlan. “Sometimes the wort is too thick to flow freely, but when that happens, you have to dilute it with water. If you don’t, you have a blockage, and the fermentation begins in the pipes instead of the kettle.”
“Then it blows.”
She nodded.
“And how would you know such things, Janet?”
She tapped the side of a smaller copper kettle gently, much like a proud mother would pat the cheek of a healthy babe. “You’re wasting these mash tun solids. They’re perfect for cattle feed.”
Lachlan could only stare at her. It was as if she was speaking some odd language, and he could understand only every third word.
“Where’s your germinating floor, Lachlan?” He turned to James, who looked at another of the men. He led her to the far side of the cavern where the barley had been spread out. “It’s too damp here,” she announced, and before Lachlan could blink, half a dozen or more men were moving the grain to another, sunnier, area.
“How do you know of such things?” he asked again.
She smiled over at him. “I learned from my father. I helped him from the time I was old enough to walk.” She looked around her, the expression on her face one of deep pleasure. “Isn’t it odd, Lachlan? I have forgotten most of my Gaelic, and my speech is too English, but I’ll never forget a pot still and good malted whiskey. A legacy from Ronald MacPherson.”
“Of Tarlogie?” James came forward, his face wreathed in a smile as bright as the morning sun.
She nodded.
James turned to Lachlan. “ ’Tis said the excise men wanted him badly enough to put a price on his head. I’ve heard he could discharge a still sixty times in twenty-four hours.”
“Ninety,” Janet corrected, smiling. “He was a great one for production. Nor did he have any great love for the malt tax. He always said that the demand from potential customers made the threat of fines worthwhile. But the excise men were a bit of a problem.”
James continued to shake his head, his expression one of rapt joy.
“You’ve not installed the vent pipe,” she said, bending and retrieving one extra bit of pipe they had left after the second explosion. She pointed to where it should be inserted at the top of the kettle.
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sp; Lachlan watched her in amazement. His Ealasaid had been replaced by a woman named Janet who was familiar with her surroundings, who tapped the copper pot occasionally as if to judge its contents. She twisted a pipe loose and replaced it right side up, then popped her head into a barrel and pronounced it too briny to use for aging the newly distilled whiskey. She wanted to see the container of yeast and tasted a bit of it; she seemed to study the steam that wafted to the ceiling of the cavern.
He thought his mouth was open, but he didn’t bother to shut it. He turned, and the seer was there, his beard twitching over his lips. The old prophet was laughing; he was sure of it.
“She’s the Glenlyon Bride, Lachlan. She knows the secret of uisge beatha, the water of life. You know yourself that she’s claw-footed, and she’ll scare all the dogs in the castle if she ever sings.”
“But she’ll save us.”
“Aye, and you.”
He slitted his eyes at the old man. “Are you sure there’s no other clan that can benefit from your wisdom, Coinneach? Someone else you might bedevil? You could have made this a lot easier by simply telling me.”
“But to truly fulfill the Legend, you first had to fall in love with her.” His beard twitched again.
Coinneach turned, held out his hands, and raised them above his head. In a voice born to carry, he made his latest pronouncement.
“I see into the future,” he declared, when he was certain he had attracted the attention of everyone in the cavern.
Lachlan shut his eyes and waited. Only a touch on his arm bid him open them, and he did, to see Janet smiling up at him. He enclosed her in his embrace and held her tight, steeling himself for what the old seer had to say next. But it didn’t matter; he already knew the future. It stretched out before him in a long road. A dynasty perhaps, and happiness. Hardship balanced by laughter. Friendship and love. Perhaps even success. Maybe a name for themselves. Glenlyon Whiskey. He could almost see it now.
He bent down and placed a soft kiss upon Janet’s fore-head. Her hand reached to the back of his head and pulled him down for a true kiss—one that enticed him to think of trysting places in the daylight. After all, he was newly married.
Thus, the Sinclair laird and the Glenlyon Bride missed the words of the seer entirely. But it didn’t matter, for the Leg-end had already been fulfilled.
KAREN RANNEY
KAREN RANNEY began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and most of all, a writer. The violin was discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained an overwhelming love of hers. She loves to hear from her readers—please e-mail her at www.karenranney.com.
Karen Ranney lives in San Antonio, Texas.
Books by Christina Dodd
CANDLE IN THE WINDOW
CASTLES IN THE AIR
THE GREATEST LOVER IN ALL ENGLAND
IN MY WILDEST DREAMS
A KNIGHT TO REMEMBER
LOST IN YOUR ARMS
MOVE HEAVEN AND EARTH
MY FAVORITE BRIDE
ONCE A KNIGHT
ONE KISS FROM YOU
OUTRAGEOUS
PRICELESS
RULES OF ATTRACTION
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
RULES OF SURRENDER
RUNAWAY PRINCESS
SCANDALOUS AGAIN
SCOTTISH BRIDES
SOMEDAY MY PRINCE
TALL, DARK, AND DANGEROUS
THAT SCANDALOUS EVENING
TREASURE OF THE SUN
A WELL FAVORED GENTLEMAN
A WELL PLEASURED LADY
And in Hardcover
SOME ENCHANTED EVENING
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Under the Kilt copyright © 1999 by Christina Dodd; Rose in Bloom copyright © 1999 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd; Gretna Greene copyright © 1999 by Julie Cotler Pottinger; The Glenlyon Bride copyright © 1999 by Karen Ranney
Excerpt from Someday My Prince copyright © 1999 by Christina Dodd; excerpt from Married in Haste copyright © 1999 by Catherine Maxwell; excerpt from His Wicked Ways copyright © 1999 Sandra Kleinschmit; excerpt from The Perfect Gift copyright © 1999 by Roberta Helmer; excerpt from Once and Forever copyright © 1999 by Constance O’Day- Flannery; excerpt from The Proposition copyright © 1999 by Judith Ivory
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