Regency Proposal. Ann Lethbridge
the cave. The smell had an underlying musty scent. ‘What is this place?’
His mouth tightened as if he preferred not to say. She stiffened her spine against the hurt of his distrust. ‘It was an illegal whisky still.’
He had trusted her after all. Something inside her softened. She sat down on the stool, looking up at him. ‘How did you know it was here?’
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘Just brimming with questions, aren’t you, Lady Selina?’
‘How do you know the soldiers don’t know about this place?’
‘No one does.’ He crouched down and poked around in the fire. ‘It hasn’t been used in years. It was my father’s.’
No wonder he hadn’t wanted to say where they were headed. In a strange way she felt honoured.
‘Is your arm really all right?’
‘It stings like the blazes.’
She winced. ‘You could have been killed.’ Or she might.
‘Aye.’ He picked up the saddlebag and sorted through it, setting out its contents on the floor. ‘Flint. A couple of candles. Oats. Bannocks wrapped in cloth. A flask.’ He shook it and something gurgled inside it.
‘What is it, water?’
He opened the stopper and sniffed. ‘Something better. Whisky.’
She huffed out a breath. ‘Water would be better.’
He chuckled and the sound was warm and low and easy. ‘There’s clean water in the burn, lass.’
‘So now we just sit here and wait for morning,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Do you have somewhere we can go next?’
‘I’ve a friend to the south and east of here. Captain Hugh Monro. He has contacts. He might lend us a horse. Or even a cart.’ He looked at her. ‘The thing is, I am just not sure he would see my side of it. He’s a law-abiding man. I doubt he’d approve of smuggling, no matter the reason behind it. And he is more than a day’s walk away.’
More walking. And worrying about being shot at.
‘We’ll make ourselves as comfortable as we can tonight,’ he said. ‘When it gets dark, I’ll fetch water from the stream. We will eat the bannock and we will soak the oats for the morning.’
‘It sounds most appetising,’ she murmured.
He cracked a laugh. ‘A banquet.’
She rubbed her arms. The warmth she’d gained from walking and running had faded. Chill now seeped into her from the surrounding damp earth. In a while, it would be dark and much colder. ‘Do you think we can light a fire?’
‘If we hadn’t been seen, I’d risk it, but they might come back once they catch Beau.’
They would have to make do without heat, then. They had one blanket between them. Sadly, the other had gone with the horse. Although he did have his kilt, which had dried over the course of the day.
‘Why did your family abandon the still?’
He grimaced. ‘The gaugers get wind of them and destroy them. See, the kettle’s been split with a hammer.’
She stared at the odd-shaped stove. ‘How does it work?’
‘This metal kettle here is a wash still, and when it is heated up over the peat fire, the steam containing the alcohol passes up the chimney and then down the worm, the coiled pipe there, and into a spirit still. All that’s left here is the first part of the process. Father used to prepare the mash in a local farmer’s barn and then bring it up here to turn it into whisky. Good whisky, too. We’ve a dram or two left in our cellars.’
There was pride in his voice. Over illegal whisky. It was a world in which she was a foreigner. The thought made her feel rather dismal.
‘We should eat now, while we can still see.’ He glanced upwards and she became aware of just how much the light had faded.
He unwrapped the bannocks and handed her one. They were surprisingly tasty. Or was she so hungry that anything would have tasted good? There were six altogether. She ate two. When he had wolfed down three of them he eyed the one remaining. ‘Do you want it?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said lightly. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite. You finish it.’
He didn’t speak.
She looked up to see him watching her. It was hard to fathom his expression, his eyes looked so dark. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Why do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Lie to me in that stupid little voice. Eat the bannock.’
She flashed hot. ‘You need it more than I do.’
‘Right, and I am the kind of man who takes the food out of the mouths of women and children.’ He stood up and bent to rake around in the rubbish in the corner. A grunt of satisfaction told her he’d found what he was looking for. When he stood up, she saw he had an old and bent metal pot in his hand. She couldn’t understand why he looked so pleased.
He must have sensed her puzzlement. ‘I recall using it the last time I was here. If it had been gone, we would have had to use the flask for water.’
‘And thrown out the whisky,’ she said.
‘Never.’
‘You’d rather do without water, than waste the whisky. I should have guessed.’
‘Uisge-beatha, lass. The water of life.’
She watched him leave, a smile on her lips, then tackled the last of the bannocks.
By the time he returned with water, their dwelling was pitch black and a chill permeated the air. Perched on the stool, wrapped in her blanket, she really wished they could light a fire. She forced her teeth not to chatter, though stilling her shivers was harder.
The sound of Ian’s breathing filled the small space. She sensed him fumble around, heard the clang of metal on rock and guessed he’d set down the pan of water. ‘I’d forgotten how dark the night can be out here,’ he muttered.
And how cold, she wanted to add. She shivered. ‘Are you sure we can’t light a fire?’
He hesitated, then sighed. ‘It would be a mistake. I think we can light one of the candles, though. Its flame is too small to be seen at any great distance.’
The sound of steel striking against flint only made her think more of warm fires. Yet when the wick caught and the small light flared, putting shadows in the corners of their small den, it did seem a bit warmer.
Then she noticed his grimace and the way he flexed his left hand.
She got up from the stool. It was a rickety old thing and did not sit flat on the ground, but it was all they had. ‘Sit down and let me look at your arm.’
‘Getting a little bossy, aren’t you?’
‘Sit.’
He sat.
She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you should take off your jacket, so we can see how bad the wound really is. It won’t help us if you become ill.’
‘Aye, I suppose you are right.’
‘I wish we had some basilica powders.’
Looking surprised, he eased first one arm out of his coat and then, wincing, drew it slowly off the other arm. The fabric was dark with blood.
She gasped. Her stomach