April Moon (14 page)

“Aye,” she said, frowning thoughtfully, and
swallowed again. “Oh, aye…this is indeed the best whisky in all of Scotland. It’s Glendarroch make.”

Disliking the stuff as he did, Simon always found it a challenge to distinguish one whisky from another. “How do you know it’s Glendarroch?”

Jenny swallowed again. He watched the delicate ripple of her throat muscles, saw the pink tip of her tongue touch her lips. She closed her eyes, savored, then sighed. Watching her, Simon felt his body fill and harden, but he ignored the sweeping urge of desire as he waited for her answer.

She looked up. “Because I know my own. I made this whisky.”

“Y
OU
?” H
E STARED
at her in disbelief. “You are responsible for Glendarroch whisky?”

Had he come here searching for the men who were smuggling Glendarroch whisky only to discover that it was not MacSorley, not even Jock Colvin, but Jenny herself he was after, and Jenny he must arrest?

“Aye, for the most part it’s my doing,” she said, as if there was nothing wrong in producing illicit whisky. “I oversee the production in the stills, while Da and Felix sell and move our goods. Our stuff is in great demand these days.”

“So I’ve heard,” he drawled.

“We can hardly make enough to meet the requests.” She shook her head. “You’d best drink a bit more.”

“And you’d best tell me more about your illicit whisky business,” he said sternly.

She frowned at him. “Will you arrest me if I do, gauger?”

He leaned forward, right hand still pressing his
left arm. “Whatever we do or say in this place,” he murmured, “stays in this place. Will you trust me in that, at least?”

She nodded slowly, then touched the blade of his
sgian-dhu
to the lantern flame. “You’ve been gone a long while, Simon,” she said as she worked. “Not long after you left, I took over the production of several of Da’s pot-stills. He had so many that he couldna keep up with them all—and dinna ask me how many, or where they’re hidden, excise man.” She glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled. “Go on.”

“I had watched the process since I was a child, so I knew a good deal about whisky-making. Da thought me old enough to taste the batches. I had a knack for knowing one kind from another, and for judging the best of it.”

“How did you come to do that?” he asked, looking at her curiously. “I remember that you were fond of wandering the hills when the heather and summer wildflowers were in bloom, and I know your da had pot-stills hidden in those slopes. But I do not recall that you were fond of whisky, though you had some now and then, as we all did from childhood on.”

“And I know you never liked it much at all, but you must drink it now, regardless.” While he did, she tilted the
sgian-dhu
and let the bright flame pour along the steel blade, which took on a limpid
shine. “Wandering the hills gave me the knack, I think,” she said. “The hills, the heather, the flowers and grasses and burns, all of it are part of me. I know their scents, their tastes, their feel, and I sense it in the whisky somehow.” She shrugged. “I can tell when the flavor of the drink is too peaty, or if there were heather bells mixed with the barley mash, or if primroses or wild onion flavor the water of the burn. If there’s wild garlic, for example, we throw the batch away—I willna accept it.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I doubt I could tell the difference.”

“Ah, you would have been able to if you had stayed with us. I might have taught you myself.”

“I would have liked that,” he said softly.

She glanced away. “Aye, well, drink it now—even though you may loathe it.”

He laughed. “Your brew is very fine, I assure you.” He sipped. “Go on. What sort of magic do you conjure over Glendarroch whisky?”

“When I began supervising the production, we tried different kinds of barley, different containers, varying the distilling times, and so on. I made more and more suggestions, and one day,” she went on, reaching out to urge the flask toward his lips again, “we discovered that some whisky that had been stored in some old oak sherry casks, and left alone for a year, was better than anything we had ever produced. It had a lovely golden color, and all the
strength and whimsy of Scotland itself in its flavor. Drink another wee sippie, now,” she urged him.

He did, then lifted a brow. “Do you want to make me fou?”

“A little,” she admitted.

Simon half smiled, contemplating her beautiful, sparkling eyes. He did not feel drunk. It took a lot of any sort of drink—ale, wine or other—to take him down, but he had relaxed enough to realize how tense he had been in her presence, overly cautious and concerned he might misstep, missay himself.

Better to be himself and take his chances, he told himself. She would either love him or not, regardless. And no matter what happened, he could never stop loving Jenny Colvin, rogue’s child, whisky smuggler, nurse and more bright and dazzling to him than that full moon over the sea, he thought, glancing past the cave.

Oh, aye, he was a wee bit fou, he thought.

“Is this the aged whisky, then?” He lifted the tin flask.

“Aye, that batch is a little over three years old by the taste of it.”

“If it’s such rare stuff and so much in demand, the excise man should not be drinking your store.”

“We’ll make an exception for you. And MacSorley had no right to this batch—oh,” she finished suddenly, biting her lip.

He paused in lifting the flask to study her. “And just how did Glendarroch’s finest batch turn up in MacSorley’s cargo? Is your father in league with them? Answer me,” he added, when she looked away, still and silent.

She sighed. “Captain MacSorley stole it from us,” she admitted. “After my father was imprisoned, Uncle Felix discovered that fifty casks of whisky were missing from the place that we had stored this stuff for aging. Da asked me to come here and see if ’twas here, so then we would know for sure that MacSorley took it. So…my father can die in peace.” She blinked back tears.

“Och, Jenny,” he murmured in sympathy. Then he shook his head. “But why is this so important to Jock?”

She lifted her chin. “That whisky will earn a fortune in trade. The longer it ages, the more it’s worth. Da wants his kin to have the benefit, not MacSorley. He also suspects that MacSorley stole the magistrate’s horse and blamed him for it, and he was right. Cap’n MacSorley is an evil rogue,” she went on. “He wants to control the smuggling along this coast, but my father has the greater share of the business.” She scowled.

“I see. Now that you’ve found the whisky, what then?”

“Felix and the lads will deal with MacSorley.”

“The excise men should take care of that,” he said grimly.

“Aye, and they’d take care of my father, too, in their way. No, Felix and the lads must do this. Remember, preventive man,” she warned, “this was all spoken in our place of secrets. And whatever we do and say here is never to be known by anyone else.”

“Agreed,” he said softly, and felt a surge of desire thrill through him unbidden. “Besides, you have the knife,” he teased, smiling at her.

“Aye, and it’s hot now. We must see to your arm.”

He frowned. “Aye then. Get on with it.”

She reached under the hem of her dress to rip another length of fabric from her petticoat. Then she thrust the
sgian-dhu
into the lantern flame again, heating it one last time.

Simon watched, waited. The whisky’s power heated his blood, warming him head to foot, baking out the clammy feverishness he had felt earlier. He did not intend to get truly drunk—he had never enjoyed the drunken state much, and he would need a clear head to face MacSorley’s lads.

The flame spilled over the shining blade. Simon cleared his throat, sat straighter and angled out his left arm.

Jenny looked at him then, her face lovely in the blue-shadowed moonlight, the lantern light showing
sparks in her eyes. For a moment, he saw an incandescence in her, saw the beautiful and compassionate spirit that had drawn him back here, despite distance and years, despite grief and secrets, doubt and hope.

He saw the tenderness of love.

Then she lowered her glance.

He wanted to kiss her. The feeling roared through him. He wanted to hold her, and explain what he had held in his heart for so long. Instead, he said nothing, waiting while she poured a little whisky on a wadded cloth and leaned forward.

“This will sting,” she said.

When she pressed the spirit-soaked cloth to his arm, it burned like fire. He sucked in a hissing breath.

Quickly Jenny leaned forward and kissed his mouth. Tasting her sweet lips, he forgot physical pain for an instant. He cupped the back of her head, deepened and savored the kiss, felt his hunger for her burn hot and insistent.

She tilted her face and let the kiss renew, and he felt his soul begin to stir in him. Secrets long-held clamored for release. He had carried them for so long.

Then she pulled away in the darkness, sat back.

He blinked in surprise. “What was that for?”

“To hush you. I was afraid you might cry out when the whisky touched the wound.”

“I’m a tough lad.” He grinned, though his arm stung like the devil.

“Aye, but the rest of this will hurt much more.”

“Do your worst, Jenny Colvin,” he murmured, his gaze steady, “if it means you’ll give me a healing balm like that afterward.”

In the lantern light, her cheeks blushed deep pink. She twisted a cloth in her hands and handed it to him. “Bite on that. This will not be pleasant.”

“Though you think I deserve it.” He slid the rolled cloth between his teeth.

“Hush, you,” she said, smiling faintly, shaking her head a little. Once again she thrust the blade into the lantern flame, then brought the knife toward him. When he sensed the heat, he closed his eyes. He felt her hand rest on his own, and her fingers knotted in his. Drawing a breath, he squeezed her hand.

The hot blade seared his gaping wound, sending a lightning strike of pain through him. He grimaced, jammed his teeth into the cloth, felt sweat bead on his brow. As the knife lifted away, he suppressed a deep groan. Leaning back against the relief of cold, damp rock, he closed his eyes while the world spun.

“Oh, Simon,” Jenny whispered, as she began to bandage his arm again. “I didna mean to hurt you so. I’m sorry. Oh, Simon.”

He said nothing, leaning his back against the rock, eyes closed, as he mastered pain and dizzi
ness. Finally, when he felt her tying off the new bandage, he opened his eyes. The world had righted itself a little. White moonlight, brighter for the darkness he had just seen, showed Jenny kneeling at his feet, leaned against his knees as she worked on his arm.

When he saw the raw anguish on her face, he felt as if pain, and the dealing of it, had bonded them. In silence, he touched her cheek, tracing his fingers over her jaw.

“No matter,” he murmured wearily. “It needed to be done, and you had the courage to do it.”

Jenny tipped her cheek into the palm of his hand, and he saw tears glimmer in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

“I should be the one asking your forgiveness,” he murmured.

“When I brought the knife to your arm, then I knew…” She stopped, closed her eyes.

“What, love?” he asked quietly.

“That I…never wanted to cause you pain, though all these years, I have been so angry with you.”

“I am truly sorry if I hurt you,” he whispered.

“And I you.” Her chin trembled, and tears pooled in her eyes. “Here,” she said abruptly, shoving the flask toward him. “Drink a bit more. You need it, for the…the pain.” She wiped her hand under her nose as if to stave off her tears.

He lifted the flask and swallowed again. It burned smoky-sweet as it went down, its fire dulling the sharp ache in his arm, filling all of his senses keenly for an instant. “My God,” he murmured. “You really do make magnificent whisky, Miss Colvin. Only the rarest brings tears to the eyes like this, and makes a man want to sing hallelujah.”

“Oh, dinna sing,” she said hastily, laying her finger on his lower lip. “We canna risk attracting the smuggling sort.”

He chuckled, entranced, and kissed her fingertip. She slowly traced her fingers over his lips, his chin and jaw, then dropped her hand away. “You had better make sure I stay quiet then, as you did before,” he suggested.

She smiled. “Shh…perhaps you’ve had enough after all.”

In the luminous moonlight, she leaned so close that he felt her breath caress his lips. His heart pounded, slow and hard, and he forgot why he was here with her, why the whisky warmed his blood. He forgot about pain, and secrets, even forgot that enemies were elsewhere in the cave.

He was aware only of the magic conjured by moonlight and dreams, aware only of Jenny. She heated his blood more potently than drink ever could.

“White fire,” he said suddenly.

“Wh-what?”

“Your whisky,” he said. “It goes down like white fire. Like moonlight transformed to some magical potion.” He glanced toward the full moon, visible through the split in the rock.

“I like that,” she whispered, still closer to him. Her eyelids lowered as she looked at his lips.

“And you, love,” he said softly, “are like white fire, too.” Stretching out his right hand, he cupped the back of her head and sank his fingers into the gleaming mass of her dark hair. She angled her face toward him, suffused in luminous moonlight.

Stay away from my daughter.

Jock’s words intruded, reminded. God forgive him, he could not keep away from her. Tonight she had the allure of moonlight on her, and he had fallen under her spell long ago. Years had not abated that power. She had filled his dreams all that time, and now he was with her at last. He could not stay away from Jenny Colvin, no matter what her father wanted.

Lost in her lovely eyes, caught with her inside the intimate space in the rock, he felt as if they had found some secret pocket in eternity. Here, the sea whispered below them and the moonlight poured its gentleness upon them. Here, fear and grief and close-kept secrets held no power over hope, and love.

Jenny drifted shut her eyes, and Simon touched his mouth to hers, lingered. Her lips softened be
neath his, and she breathed out a sigh, a poignant sound that fueled his desire. Pulling her toward him with one arm, he felt her arms slip around his neck, felt her body curve to his. Through layers of fabric, her breasts were soft, firm, warm against his chest.

Leaning toward her, for she still knelt beside him, he slid his fingers deep in her hair, felt the braiding loosen. Her hair spilled, rich and silky, over his hand and down her back. Gathering her to him, he kissed her as he had wanted to do for years, since the day he had left.