he directed them when the butter began to bubble. “And the herbs,” he added, nodding to Heather, who had been chopping fresh thyme and marjoram from the garden.
Heather Urquhart had exchanged last night’s sleek, black suit for jeans and a pullover, and had tied back her hair with a businesslike cord. “Yes, sir, please, sir,” she said, rolling her eyes at John as she scraped the herbs into
the pot with the flat of her knife. “I’ll just be tugging my forelock, sir.”
“That’s the first rule of the kitchen,” replied John, good-naturedly. “The chef expects absolute and immediate obedience from the staff. But seeing as I’m a benevolent despot, I’ve arranged a lunchtime outing for ye.”
“You have?” queried Donald, his eyebrows raised.
“Well, with a wee bit cooperation from Donald,” admitted John. “But I did the food myself—a cold pheasant pie—for a picnic at Benvulin. And Hazel, I didn’t forget about ye. I’ll put together something special for you before you go.”
“It’s all right, John,” Hazel assured him, with the first smile Gemma had seen all morning. “I’ll be just fine with an apple and a biscuit. Now what do we do?” She gestured at the pot.
John instructed Pascal to stir a few tablespoons of flour into the sautéed vegetables, before slowly adding stock.
Then he gave them a challenging look. “Now, while that simmers for a bit, we’re going to make pastry.”
“Highland whisky crèmes,” John had pronounced, gazing at them expectantly.
Gemma, looking round at the blank expressions on the others’ faces, ventured, “Whisky in a dessert? Is this a traditional Highland thing?”
“Highlanders can put whisky in anything,” Donald Brodie said with a chuckle, “but I’ve no idea what this particular beastie might be.” Brodie wore a kilt in muted greens and blues rather than the brilliant red Brodie tartan he’d worn the previous evening, with a woolen pullover that looked more suitable for stalking in the heather than cooking.
“It’s shortbread, topped with an ice cream made with fresh cream and flavored with whisky and honey—local honey, of course.” John sounded a bit put out at their ignorance. “Now we’ll be starting with the shortbread—”
“We’re going to make shortbread?” interrupted Heather, whose earlier patience seemed to be evaporat-ing. “Why on earth would we make shortbread when Walker’s is just down the road?”
“Because there’s no comparison between shortbread made in a factory, however good it may be, and pastry made by hand,” John admonished her briskly, setting out a bag of flour and several sticks of butter on the slab of marble set into the work island. “That’s like asking why you would drink single malt whisky when you could have a blend.”
“Ouch. That’s vicious, lass,” said Donald, grinning at Heather, and Gemma saw Hazel give her cousin a sharp glance. Were Donald and Heather more than business associates? But if so, why the elaborate scheme to get Hazel here? Although, Gemma mused, that might account for Heather’s obvious animosity towards her cousin.
“The secret to good pastry is to handle it gently,” continued John as they creamed butter and sugar together, Heather grumbling under her breath all the while. “Unlike a woman,” he added, “the less you touch it, the more tender it will be.”
“But is that true?” asked Donald, with a glance at Hazel that made her blush and look away.
“Theoretically,” said John, seemingly unaware of the sudden rise in tension. “But in practice, I wouldn’t take a wager on it.”
By the time the shortbread was cooling on racks, and the ice cream safely stored in the freezer, Gemma was more
than ready to break for lunch. Cooking, she’d found, was harder on the feet than walking a beat.
Donald had organized the transport to Benvulin; Pascal and Martin with Heather, Gemma and Hazel in his Land Rover, along with the picnic baskets. The early morning mist had cleared, and the day was fine and warm. John and Louise stood on the back steps of the B&B to see them off, like proud parents waving their children off to school, but just as the picnic party reached their cars, Hazel stopped and put a hand on Gemma’s arm.
“Gemma, I think I’ll stay behind,” she said softly. “I—
I’ve a headache.”
Keys in hand, Donald turned, his kilt swinging.
“But—”
“I’m sorry. I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
Hazel didn’t meet his eyes. “But I just don’t think— I’m really not up to it.”
Donald took a step towards her, then seemed to realize they had a rapt audience. He gave a curt nod to Heather, who shrugged and herded her contingent into a black Audi. When the car had pulled out of the drive, Donald turned back to Hazel. “Aye, dinna fash yerself, hen,” he told her, putting on the broad Scots. “We’ll bring you a dram, for auld times’ sake. You take care of yourself, have a nice lie-down.”
“Hazel, I can stay with you,” offered Gemma. “I don’t mind—”
“No. It’s all right. I wouldn’t have you miss this, and I’ll be fine.” She gave Gemma the ghost of a smile. “I promise.”
In Hazel’s absence, Gemma found herself in the passenger seat of the Land Rover by default. Glancing sur-
reptitiously at Donald as they drove, she was aware of his large, capable hands on the wheel, and of the strong profile of his nose above his bearded lips.
“Bloody hell,” she swore under her breath. The man radiated a woolly sort of sexual magnetism. And if she weren’t immune, she could imagine what Hazel must be feeling.
“Sorry?” said Donald, having—thankfully—not understood her muttered curse.
“Um, your kilt,” Gemma blurted out as he glanced over at her curiously. “I was wondering about your kilt. I thought the one you wore last night was your clan tartan.”
“This is Hunting Brodie. The hunting tartans are never as bright.”
“Sort of like camouflage?”
“Exactly. The hunting tartans usually replace the background color of the tartan with blue, green, or brown.”
“Have you always worn the kilt?”
“Oh, aye. Fits the image, you see, of the owner of an ancient distillery.” His tone was lightly mocking. “And as a rule, I find the kilt more comfortable than breeks.”
“There’s no real tradition, then?” asked Gemma, genuinely interested now.
“I’d not like to disappoint ye.” Donald smiled at her, and her pulse leapt. “There is a tradition, right enough, but it owes more to Sir Walter Scott and the Victorians than to authentic clan history. There’s not even real evidence that early tartans were associated with specific clans. And as for the kilted Highlander marching into bat-tle,” he added, warming to his subject, “the original kilt was merely a belted plaid, and most of the time the soldiers took it off for ease of movement when fighting.”
“A plaid is different from a tartan?” she asked.
“A plaid is just a woolen fabric. The early plaids were
long rectangles of cloth, about sixteen feet by five. A man would lay it out on the ground, pleat it, then lie on top of it and belt it on.”
“It sounds very awkward,” Gemma admitted. “And not the least bit romantic.”
“Och, well, I’ll try not to spoil all your illusions.
Look.” Donald pointed as he slowed the Land Rover.
“There’s Benvulin.”
If Gemma had imagined an industrial site, similar to breweries she’d seen near London, she had been very much mistaken. Before them, an emerald green field rolled down towards a broad sweep of the Spey. In the foreground, a dozen shaggy Highland cattle raised their massive heads to stare at them as they passed. Beyond that, the distillery buildings clustered at the edge of the bluff overlooking the river.