Neil lifted the dram to his lips and tossed the drink to the back of his throat as Tam had done. But unlike Tam, he immediately succumbed to a fit of coughing as a trail of liquid fire hot enough to steal his breath and bring a rush of tears to his eyes seared its way from his throat to his stomach. “What kind of witches’ brew is this?” he managed between gasps.
“Whisky,” Tam pronounced with a grin of supreme satisfaction. “Scots whisky. The best whisky in the Highlands. Made from an ancient MacInnes recipe and improved upon by the Munros.” He waited until Neil recovered from his fit of coughing, then leaned forward and poured him another dram. “Guaranteed to cure what ails ye.”
Neil shook his head. “How? By killing me?”
“By pleasurin’ ye,” Tam cackled. “Fine Scots whisky is like a maiden’s weddin’ night. It only pains ye once. The first dram singes ye, but the others are puir bliss. Go on, laddie, see for yerself. Only sip it this time.”
Neil gritted his teeth, then took a hesitant sip and discovered Tam had spoken the truth. The liquor flowed across his tongue like heated honey, dissolving the knots in his muscles, warming the pit of his stomach.
He looked up at Tam and his surprise must have shown on his face because the old man chuckled once again. “Warms ye right up. I keep a flask in me plaid.”
“I knew there had to be a trick to wearing a plaid and keeping warm,” Neil said wryly.
“Aye. ’Tis our way of keepin’ warm when we’re out raidin’ or warrin’ wi’ the neighboring clans.”
“You’re not out raiding or warring tonight, old man.”
“Och, that’s true,” Auld Tam admitted. “But whisky’s a guid remedy fer other ailments.” He pinned Neil with a sharp look. “Like when yer an auld mon and canna find a wife to warm ye bed fer ye or when yer a young mon who canna satisfy one.”
Neil frowned. “I wondered how long it would take for you to get back to that. Sorry old man, but a gentleman doesn’t discuss the particulars of his marriage bed with his drinking companions.”
“As far as I can see ye dinna have a marriage bed,” Auld Tam observed. “Ye have an empty one and it doesna look like yer goin’ to be remedyin’ the situation any time soon.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Now, if it’s instruction ye need …”
Neil gave a derisive snort. “It’s not a question of having the knowledge, the ability or the desire to satisfy her,” he replied, extending his cup for a refill. “It’s a question of opportunity.”
Auld Tam quirked an eyebrow at that. “Yer married right and proper.”
“Aye.” The thick Scottish burr was a perfect imitation of Tam’s. “We’re married right and proper.”
“Weel?”
“Weel, I promised my bride a spectacular wedding night and I failed to deliver the goods.”
“Ye dinna?”
“I did.” Neil cupped his hands in the water. He rinsed his hair and washed his face. He sluiced the water from his face and shook his head, sending droplets of water flying in all directions before he opened his eyes and sent Auld Tam a meaningful glare. “She dinna.”
“That explains why she’s so out of sorts,” Tam said at last. “She’s ashamed.”
“Ashamed? Of me?” Neil reacted immediately. He shoved his empty cup at Tam, then stood up in the tub so quickly that water surged over the rim and onto the floor. He couldn’t believe his ears. He was young and healthy and handsome and a peer of the realm. He was a belted earl with a title and a family dating back to the Conqueror and fortune greater than that of the present king. And she was ashamed of him!
“Not of ye, exactly.” Tam gave Neil a thorough once over, leisurely refilling both cups with whisky before he handed him his tartan. The lad had every right to be proud—and angry. “Of her husband’s performance. And of his place in the clan. She canna respect a mon who willna or canna keep his word. And highlanders dinna brag aboot the things they canna do.”
“I wasn’t bragging,” Neil muttered, rubbing the plaid over his chest and legs, using it as a towel, before knotting it around his waist. “I was trying to reassure her by letting her know that while everything else about her wedding had been disappointing, the wedding night wouldn’t be.” Neil raked his fingers through his hair, grunting, as he ruthlessly worked his way through the snarls and tangles. “It’s a wonder I could perform at all! I had a lump the size of a hen’s egg on my forehead thanks to you and your trusty battle axe and a bitch of a headache. I’d been abducted, tied across the back of a horse and bounced across Scotland, thrown to the ground, threatened, stripped of my clothing and coerced into repeating my vows before a clan of hostile witnesses, then expected to perform on demand. I ached in more places than I care to remember and—” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“An’ …”
“As a lover, I left a lot to be desired.” Neil could have bitten out his tongue at his unfortunate choice of words. “I barely managed to consummate the marriage before passing out.” He opened his eyes and glared at the old man. “I’d never disappointed a woman in my adult life—until the night it mattered the most.” He muttered a nasty curse beneath his breath. “I was hoping that the gifts I ordered from London would make a difference, but they’ve yet to arrive. I’ve worked like a slave in the village and on the castle—designing improvements and making the repairs we have the men to make in order to provide her with the comforts other ladies take for granted and in the hope that I might win her favor. I’ve done everything I can think of to lighten her burden of responsibility and I’ve waited outside the door to the laird’s room every morning for the past sennight hoping she would—” He broke off, reaching for his cup of whisky and downing it in one gulp. “I can’t think what more to do except improve on the castle and even then, we’re so woefully short of men that when the stonemasons arrive …” He stared at the empty whisky cup. “Who did you say made this drink?”
“The Munros. Why?”
“The same Munros we’ve been raiding?”
“Aye.” Tam nodded. “They dinna mind the raidin’. ’Cause they’d rather make whisky than tend the horses or cattle or chickens.”
“Do they sell this whisky in Edinburgh or London?”
“Sell the uisge beatha, the water of life, to outlanders?” Auld Tam cackled. “Of course not. Only highlanders. But not to us. Years ago, a Munro laird married the daughter of the MacInnes brewer in order to learn the secret of makin’ it and before the last Uprising the Munros dinna ask us to pay because our clans were connected.” Tam shrugged his shoulders, “Durin’ the Uprising the current Munro laird supported the Sassenachs to keep from losin’ his land, his barley and his stills. An’ since the Uprising, we’ve had to steal it. Besides, we couldna buy it. We’ve dinna have coin.”
Neil grinned, so happy he could’ve kissed Auld Tam on his bald head. “That’s it! That’s the answer!”
“To what?”
“To our survival, Tam. I’ve ordered enough supplies to support the clan through the winter, and I’ve got enough money to support it for years to come. But the king is determined to open the highlands and unless the clans can support themselves, they’re doomed. But crops and herds take time to establish and it will be years—perhaps decades—before Clan MacInnes can support itself. Unless we have something to sell. Something like this.” He refilled his cup and raised it in salute to Tam.
“We canna sell what belongs to the Munros.”
“Why not?” Neil asked. “We’ve been eating what belonged to the Munros.”
“Most of the animals we’ve been takin’ from the Munros originally belonged to the MacInneses,” Tam said defensively.
“So did the recipe for this whisky.” Neil smiled. “We’ll buy into the enterprise, pay for permission to sell it and pay the Munros to make it.”
“Enough.” Tam held up his hand. “Puir Jessie.” He clucked his tongue in sympathy. “No wonder she’s so out of sorts. ’Tis time ye quit tryin’ to impress yer bride by rebuildin
’ her castle and her holdin’s and to start impressin’ her with yer skills as a lover.”
“How?” Neil demanded. “Tell me how.”
“Ye start by meetin’ her at the laird’s room.” Tam reached over and patted the younger man on the shoulder. “And do what comes natural.”
“She’s not interested.”
“She’s interested,” Tam told him. “But she’s afeard of being disappointed again. ’Tis no wonder she willna confide in Magda or Flora for ’tis plain to see that my daughters are satisfied wi’ their husbands. So satisfied that in a few months I’ll be grandpa to two wee bairns.”
Neil looked up in surprise. Was it possible? Had he managed to … After only one time? “Could the MacInnes possibly be …”
“Nay.” Auld Tam seemed to read his mind. “Not yet.”
He had failed her twice, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Tam. “How can you be so sure?”
“Davina,” Tam explained. “Jessie dinna meet ye at the door to the laird’s room for the first four mornings of the sennight because her woman’s time was upon her.”
Neil scowled. “She hasn’t met me any morning.”
“She tried. For the past three mornin’s. But she couldna wait all day. I tried to gi’e her as much time as I could but sumthin’s always demandin’ the laird’s attention and she was gone to attend to her duties by the time ye arrived. I came here tonight because I thought it was time ye knew.”
Neil hooked his foot around the footstool beside the hearth, pulled it to him and abruptly dropped to a seat atop it. The air seemed to leave his lungs in a rush and his heart began to pound. “I waited every morning thinking that the MacInnes …” He buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “I had no idea …”
Auld Tam bumped Neil’s shoulder with the edge of the flask. “Weel, now ye know. An’ now there’s sumthin’ more important for ye to do than rebuild a castle. Ye can start by drinkin’ a toast to the future of the clan.”
Neil picked up his cup and allowed Tam to refill it once more. “To the clan!”
“To the clan!”
Auld Tam drained his cup and grinned as Neil did the same. He stared at the young man for a moment, then reached out and jabbed him in the arm. “When they wed, I ga’e my lassies plenty of time alone wi’ their husbands and they rewarded me with guid news. It’s time I did the same fer ye and Jessie.” He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly from the effects of the whisky. “Dinna worry aboot the castle or the stonemasons or buyin’ whisky from the Munros. Ye worry about yer wife and yersel’. I’ll take care of the other details and I’ll make sure ye ha’e the privacy ye need to gi’e Jessie a wee bairn of her own.”
* * *
She wanted to be happy for them. She was happy for them. Magda and Flora were her oldest and dearest friends. Of course she was happy for them. So why couldn’t she stop crying? Because, Jessalyn thought, as she ruthlessly scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the backs of her fists, she was afraid. Afraid her envy would show. Afraid she wouldn’t be able to share in her friends’ joy without the bitter taste of jealousy spoiling it. Because, for the first time in her life, Jessalyn wanted what Magda and Flora had.
She was bombarded by daily images of her husband, images her willful mind insisted on reproducing in vivid detail day after day, night after night until she seemed haunted by them. She pictured him hauling stone and timbers with Auld Tam, fishing in the loch with Ian, patiently holding the basket while Hannah collected eggs from the hens he’d helped steal from the Munros, and standing on the roof of Magda’s cottage, his MacInnes tartan blowing in the breeze as he thatched alongside Magda’s husband, Artie. But most of all she remembered him leaning against the door that led to the Laird’s Trysting Room. She remembered his kisses and the feel of his skillful fingers against her, the way he looked with his kilt on the floor around his ankles and the clear green of his eyes and the way that solitary dimple creased his cheek, as he smiled wickedly and reminded her that he was free most mornings.
Jessalyn slid down the wall. She sat on the cold stone floor with her knees drawn up to her chest and rested her back against the thick iron lattice of the yett. She tugged at her skirts, pulling them over her feet in a futile attempt to ward off the damp and the cold seeping through the stone. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to put aside her vivid memories of her husband—the intoxicating feel of his lips on hers, the mating of her tongue with his, and the overwhelming hint of something more exciting, more intoxicating, just beyond her ken.
The early morning air in the tunnels was frigid, but she felt hot and feverish and achy as if she’d caught the ague. Jessalyn sighed. She had made the trip down here four mornings in a row, had sat on the freezing floor and waited for him to appear, but she’d been bitterly disappointed, almost as disappointed as she had been when she’d awakened eight days ago to find her woman’s time upon her. She knew what it meant and she realized that her frustrating and embarrassing wedding night had been all for naught. She hadn’t been as fortunate as Magda and Flora. Two days ago, Flora had whispered her exciting news and this morning Magda had done the same. They were both with child. Jessalyn knew that she was not. And she couldn’t stop crying over it. She was plagued by feelings of guilt for not rejoicing in her dearest friends’ good fortune. She was ashamed of herself for wanting what they had and terribly, selfishly afraid that their lives and their friendships were about to change beyond recognition. The gulf between them that had begun when she became laird of the clan and widened when the three of them married was sure to become unbreachable once her childhood friends became mothers.
Magda and Flora’s impending motherhood made the responsibility of being laird of the clan weigh heavier on her shoulders. Her wedding money wouldn’t last forever and Jessalyn was haunted by the knowledge that her clan depended on her for food and shelter. Would she be able to buy enough peat for the fires or blankets for the beds and food for the stew pots? Could she bear to watch any more members of her clan suffer? Could she stand to lose any more of her family to the hunger and cold? And what of the man she had married? He had promised her security and wealth beyond her wildest imaginings. Could she count on him when it really mattered? Or would he fail her the way he’d done on their wedding night?
She ought to leave. She ought to get up and go about her business. She ought to march through the doors of her father’s chamber and demand that her husband reassure her. Demand that he do his duty and kiss her long enough to put an end to the frustration that was driving her mad. Surely then she’d find relief from her unsettling feelings. Before, all she’d had to do was convince him to forget about the other and concentrate on the touches and the kisses she craved. Now, she’d demand that he give her a child and be quick about it. She would tell him that he needn’t bother with the part she liked, that all he need do was proceed to the part she hated. She didn’t care. She was perfectly willing to sacrifice his touches and his wonderful kisses if it meant that he would get her with child. But how? She’d tried ordering him to do her bidding and he’d ignored her demands. Surely there was some way she could accomplish her task without backing down—without conceding defeat or allowing him to claim victory in their battle of wills … If only she could discover it … For what good was there in being the laird of the clan if she had no power? What good was being laird of the clan if she couldn’t get her handsome Sassenach husband to fulfill his duty? Jessalyn bit at her bottom lip and brushed away another flood of tears. Was she destined to follow in her father’s footsteps? Would worry and sacrifice and grief drive her into an early grave? Was that all the laird of the clan had to look forward to? Would there never be anyone to share her burden? Would the aching loneliness never end?
Chapter Nineteen
She was waiting for him. Neil quickened his pace. He could see her in the distance sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chin, her back braced against the iron yett. He frowned. He imagined her looking up and smiling at
him or running to meet him, welcoming him with hot kisses and open arms, but she didn’t look up. Nor give any sign of having heard him. As he drew nearer he saw the moment in her shoulders and recognized the sound echoing hollowly in the passageway. She was crying. His stomach tightened and his heart seemed to catch in his throat. His proud, highland laird was crying as if her heart would break.
He stopped in his tracks, then silently retreated into the shadows, momentarily stunned and unsure. Her tears made him uncomfortable, anxious, willing to do whatever he could to end them. Perhaps because they were unexpected and private. His mistress had cried at the slightest provocation. She’d used her tears or the threat of them to wheedle gifts and favors from him. Neil’s conscience ached with the knowledge that he had given the MacInnes far more reason to cry than his mistress had ever had and she hadn’t shed a tear. She hadn’t cried when she’d discovered that her father’s oath had bound her to marry a man she didn’t know, a man who wore the uniform of the enemy. She hadn’t cried when she repeated the vows that gave him rights to her body and to all her belongings. Nor had she shown any indication of having cried the morning after their wedding when she’d been angry and unsatisfied.
But she was crying now. And the sight of it tore at Neil’s heart. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and hold her. He wanted to cuddle her close and promise her everything would be all right. He wanted to rebuild her castle and take care of her clan. He wanted … her. The woman he had come to know and admire. The MacInnes with the flame-kissed hair, fierce pride and the determined glint in her eyes.
He took a deep breath, then stepped out of the shadows and started toward her, whistling a jaunty little tune. Suddenly the MacInnes raised her head and looked in his direction. She turned her face to the side just long enough to scrub the traces of tears from her eyes and cheeks with the heels of her hands, then pushed herself to her feet. She straightened her shoulders, stiffened her back and turned to face him.