held up his glass and the amber liquid glowed as it swirled, the lead-cut crystal sparkling in the candlelight. Flora looked startled and Lachlan felt his cheeks redden. Had he committed a faux pas? Did fine ladies not drink spirits?
‘It is my own blend,’ he hurried on. ‘The whisky we make at the distillery near Ballinorchy, on the shores of Loch Carnmore. I thought you might like to sample it. After all, if you are to help me find patrons, it is fitting you should know the taste.’
Her eyes lit up. Happy that he had asked her? Maybe she was not offended. Perhaps this might be a success after all, if Flora was keen to help him promote Carnmore whisky. He poured a splash into a tumbler and handed it to her.
‘It will burn your throat at first,’ he warned, ‘but give it time. Allow the flavour to come through.’
She tilted the glass, her eyes on his. She drank. Swallowed. Blinked. Coughed, just a little. And, finally, she smiled. ‘It is nicer than the malt whisky my father drinks.’
‘He gave you whisky to drink?’
Her cheeks dimpled. ‘No. He disapproved of females drinking strong spirits. But that just made me want to try it all the more. I was sixteen years of age—it made my eyes water, and I coughed and spluttered so much my mother heard.’
‘And was she angry? Did she punish you?’
She stared down into her glass, which she held in both hands, cradled to her chest. The play of candlelight over her décolletage, her shoulders and her pale arms stoked his desire, heating his skin.
‘No. She was only scared that he would find out. She never told him.’ She tipped up her chin, capturing Lachlan’s gaze. ‘My father has strong notions of right and wrong. He expects obedience and he can make life unpleasant if his rules are not obeyed.’
‘He beat you?’
Lachlan felt again the sting of the lash on board the prison hulk, the Susan, and again when he first arrived in Australia.
‘At times, yes, but that was only to be expected when we were naughty as children. But if he fell into a rage, the entire household would suffer so we all tried hard not to annoy him. Especially my mother.’
He caught the sudden apprehension in her expression. In time, she would learn that he was not like her father.
‘Carnmore Whisky is a milder spirit than the whiskies distilled from malted grains in the old pot stills,’ he said. ‘We use a Coffey still, mixing malted barley with unmalted grains such as wheat. As it’s a continuous process it is cheaper and quicker to produce, but it is still a fine product. I have been experimenting with blending the two types to improve the flavour.’
His cheeks heated at allowing his enthusiasm to carry him away. ‘I apologise for boring you with business talk.’
‘No!’ She touched his forearm. ‘I’m not bored. I—I like to be involved.’
Now it was her turn to colour and Lachlan felt more comfortable in her presence than at any time since their wedding.
‘From where does your father get his whisky?’
‘A clansman, Sandy McCrieff. He lives up to the north, further into the Highlands.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘At least, he did. He could no longer pay the rent, even in whisky, and he left at the start of the summer.’
A familiar story.
Flora handed Lachlan his teacup and they sat side by side on the sofa as they drank. The silence stretched and, as soon as she had finished, Flora stood up and Lachlan immediately shot to his feet. She cast him a nervous smile, but did not meet his eyes.
‘I believe I shall retire now. It has been a long day.’
Her cup rattled in its saucer as she went to deposit it on the tea tray and Lachlan followed her with hungry eyes, devouring her curves and the sway of her hips as she moved.
His bride. His wedding night. He grew hard. Painfully so.
‘I shall give you time to prepare.’ His voice sounded gravelly and he cleared his throat. ‘I shall see you in a short while.’
Her cheeks were pale, her freckles clearly visible. She nodded before leaving the room.
Time passed slowly, marked by the tick of the mantel clock. Lachlan paced the room a time or two, then paused by the salver and poured himself another whisky as he tried to gag that insistent inner voice that said he was unworthy. He should have gone with her. That would have helped his nerves. He should have just got on with it. Bedded her. Consummated their marriage. Once they’d been intimate...once she was no longer a virgin...they could both concentrate on what was important. Their future lives together.
But he had not wished to shock her and, although the waiting made him more apprehensive, it would be easier for her if she was already in bed when he went to her.
He sighed. Scratched his ear. Drained his glass and, finally, he strode from the room.
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