Page 47 of Tair

Inside the room the maid placed the lamp she carried on an empty shelf, shedding light on dozens of huge, cobwebbed oak barrels that had been left on their sides. The strong scent of charcoal and wood added to the dankness of the room, which appeared as if no one had stepped inside for years.

“Are these filled with whiskey?” Lucy asked, touching the rim of one barrel.

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis made by crofters in a hidden glen no’ far from here,” Garia said. “They dinnae sell their spirits to anyone but the MacRune. ’Twill take another ten year before they’re ready for drinking.”

Lucy stepped back out and looked down the length of the passage, the end of which she couldn’t see. At least fifty more doors lined each side.

“Did the clan fill all these rooms with whiskey barrels?” she asked the maid when she stepped out beside her.

“Och, no, my lady. Only those on the left,” Garia said, gesturing. “The right side, ’tis for the perry and cider kegs that come from the orchard presses.”

A hundred rooms filled with alcohol that wasn’t ready yet? “Where does the clan keep the spirits they can drink?”

“In the buttery, of course.” The maid chuckled as if she’d made a joke. “We walked by it when we went to check the spence—that great shuttered barn just outside the kitchens.”

Lucy vaguely recalled the outbuilding. “Oh, I thought that was the stable.”

“’Twas before Seneschal had the stables moved to the other side of the stronghold,” Garia said. “’Twas before I came to work for the clan, but all ken that he’s ever hated horses.”

Sgathan hated something?

“Any particular reason why?” she asked, fascinated now.

“He’s never said.” The maid grimaced. “My mam served as a kitchen maid back in those years, but she would never speak against Seneschal. After my da were killed by brigands, ’twas he that came and offered Mam work. I was but a wee bairn, and we had no other kin. She’s ever said he kept us from starving.”

Lucy would never have expected the smooth-talking Sgathan to show pity to a widow and her infant, but maybe that was how he recruited people who would be slavishly loyal to him. And why would the man hate horses? Aside from boats they were the only form of transportation in this time.

After checking a dozen of the aging rooms Lucy heard Garia’s stomach growling, and ended their search so they could go up and get something to eat. After the blazingly passionate interlude with Tair at the spring she wasn’t especially hungry, or quite up to facing the clan, so she just had some bannocks and jam in the kitchen while the maid wolfed down a bowl of repulsive-looking lumpy porridge before hurrying off to help with the serving.

Sgathan came in and eyed her and Lucy for a moment before he went over to speak with Ronan, who nodded and walked out to the outdoor ovens, leaving them alone.

“Fair evening, Mistress Brooke.” Sgathan glanced at her half-finished snack. “Do you no’ care for our fish brose?”

“Fish and oatmeal porridge?” She shook her head.

“’Tis a good hot meal on a cold night.” Instead of continuing on his way he sat down across from her. “What did you find in the cellars?”

“Too much alcohol. Whisky,” she added when he frowned. “I hadn’t realized you lot outdrank the British.”

“We dinnae drink all the spirits in the cellars,” Sgathan chided. “We sell most to the cities and towns in the midlands. Highland whiskey, ’tis greatly valued there.”

“Interesting business.” It would also give them an excuse to regularly travel without attracting much notice, Lucy thought. “Do you make the deliveries yourself, Seneschal?”

“My duties give me charge of the stronghold, so I cannae leave the island.” He got to his feet, and then gave her an odd look. “Do you gossip about me with our vassals, Mistress?”

“Why, are you worried they might tell me something bad about you?” she countered.

“I’m no’ what you think, Lucy Brooke.” He didn’t give her his usual superior smirk when he added, “I’m far worse.”

That made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but all he did was stroll back out of the kitchens.

Lucy lost what was left of her appetite, so she cleaned up and then went to face the music with the laird, whom she found washing up in their room.

He had shed everything but his trousers, and was rinsing some pink foam from his hands. Splashes of darker red on the basin’s rim told her he’d bloodied his hands.

“Did you have another fight?” she asked as she came in.

He didn’t look at her. “’Twas but a small tussle in the lists. Go to bed.”