“You must be feeling very expansive tonight, John,”
Heather Urquhart said with a malicious glint. She wore deep red and had chosen the chair nearest the fire. “I’m sure Donald would approve.”
Martin Gilmore sat opposite Heather, watching her with the fierce intensity he had fixed on Gemma the previous evening. If Pascal Benoit felt threatened by the young man’s interest in Heather, he betrayed no sign of it. Wearing toast-colored cashmere, he looked relaxed and deceptively teddy-bear-like.
“Where is Donald?” asked Gemma, taking the prof-fered glass from John.
“Hung up at the distillery,” replied John. “He rang up and said he’d be along shortly. Feeling better, are you, Hazel?” he added solicitously.
“Yes. Thanks.” As Hazel smiled up at him warmly, reaching for her drink, Louise came in. Louise froze in the doorway, as if arrested by the fleeting glimpse of intimacy between Hazel and her husband.
Hazel’s smile faltered, dimmed. “Oh, Louise . . .” She took the glass from John’s hand too quickly, or he let it go too soon. Whisky sloshed over the rim, and the room smelled suddenly of fermenting pears and butterscotch.
Pascal offered Hazel a handkerchief to mop her hand, and the awkward moment passed, but silence still hung like smoke in the room. The plaintive wail of bagpipes came clearly from the CD player.
Martin held aloft his tumbler and leaped into the conversational breach. “Bloody good stuff, John. I could get used to this.”
Louise gave him a look that said he’d better not bank on it, but before she could speak, the front door slammed and Donald came into the room. He brought with him the scent of woodsmoke and cold air, and beamed round at them with all the bonhomie of an auburn-bearded Father Christmas. “Started without me, have you?” He carried a bottle tucked in the crook of his arm like a baby.
“Everything all right?” asked Heather.
“Just had a wee root round in the cellar,” answered Donald, still standing, still cradling the bottle. Although Gemma craned forward to read the label, she couldn’t make it out. He turned to Louise. “Could you fetch us another tray of glasses, Louise? I’ve a little surprise.” Turning back to the others, he added, “Put aside whatever swill John’s seen fit to serve ye before you spoil your palates.”
“What are you up to, Donald?” asked Heather, sitting up with an alertness that belied her sleepy-cat pose, but he merely shook his head.
Not until Louise returned with a tray of clean tumblers did he transfer the bottle to both hands, and then his manner became suddenly hesitant. “Aye, this is a rare treat for anyone lucky enough to taste a dram, but . . . it’s for Hazel that this has a special meaning.” He turned the bottle outwards, and Gemma saw that the label was handwritten like the one on the bottle he had brought for the picnic. “Carnmore, . A sherry cask, unusual for Carnmore. It was the last issue.”
“Don’t tell me you bottled the Carnmore, Donald,”
Heather said, her face going pale. “That cask is worth a bloody fortune. You know—”
“Twenty-three years is long enough in the cask. And what better occasion than to mark Hazel’s return to the Highlands?” He pulled the cork from the bottle, poured a half-inch in each glass, and handed them round. “When this cask came up for sale from a private collector a few years ago, I thought it well worth the investment.”
Gemma held the glass to her nose and breathed carefully, as Donald had taught her. Toasted hazelnuts and . . .
was it chocolate? “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why is this so special?”
“My family’s distillery,” Hazel said, her voice choked.
“Up near Glenlivet. The last year of its operation was . Donald, I-I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he answered gently, and for a moment the two of them might have been alone in the room. “Just drink.”
Hazel raised the glass to her lips, and Gemma followed suit. The whisky was rich, oily, like melted butter on her tongue, and it left shimmering ripples on the inside of the glass.
“Donald,” Hazel whispered. “You shouldn’t have done this. Not for me. I—”
The doorbell rang, a clamor in the hushed room.
Louise, whom Gemma noticed had stood with lips tight and drink untasted, disappeared. The muted sound of voices came from the hall, then Louise came back into the room.
“Donald. There’s someone to see you.”
“To see me?” He sounded startled.
“You’d better go.”
A look of apprehension crossed his face at Louise’s
tone, but he smiled at Hazel and made a graceful exit.
After a moment the murmur of voices came from outside, one Donald’s bass rumble, the other a shrill female coun-terpoint.
The sitting room drapes were not yet drawn, although the light had faded to a pale charcoal illuminated by the pink glow in the western sky. Propelled by curiosity and a nameless unease, Gemma rose and went to the window.
As she peered out, a movement at her shoulder told her Hazel had joined her.
Donald stood in the drive, talking to a blond in a very short skirt. The woman held a small girl by the hand, the child’s face a pale blur in the dusk. Every line in the woman’s taut body shouted her fury while Donald shook his head, his hands upraised in placation.
A movement along the driveway’s edge drew Gemma’s eye from the confrontation. Half hidden in the shadow of the hedge, a slender, kilted man stood perfectly still, watching.
Chapter Six
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.
—robert burns,
“Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad”
It was the longest meal in Gemma’s memory. John and Louise had hustled them all into the dining room while Donald was still in the drive, on the grounds that the celery and Brie soup should be eaten immediately.
“As soon as the cheese melts, that’s the secret,” John pronounced, with more urgency than any soup warranted.
They were halfway through the first course before Donald returned. “Sorry about that,” he said, sliding into his seat beside Hazel, but his smile looked strained.
No one gave in to the temptation to ask him the woman’s identity, nor did he offer any explanation, and the clinking of spoons against china grew unnaturally loud. Heather watched him with open speculation, Martin with frank curiosity, Pascal with a detached amusement. Hazel didn’t look at him at all.
But when John and Louise came in to take the soup plates, Louise smiled at Hazel, touching her shoulder lightly as she reached over the table. Was there a thawing of sympathy in that quarter, Gemma wondered, now that Hazel appeared to be the party wronged?
And was there a certain smugness to Heather Urquhart’s smile? How much did she know about Donald’s relationship with Hazel? Could she have engineered a deliberate sabotage? Not that it hadn’t been in Hazel’s best interest to see Donald in his true colors, Gemma reminded herself. But the sight of her friend’s face, tight with misery, made her doubt her own judgment.
John brought in the grilled salmon, which was indeed as good as he had promised, but Gemma, watching Hazel push her portion about on her plate, found she had lost her appetite.
Rather to Gemma’s surprise, Martin Gilmore made a valiant effort at conversation, questioning her about her job, and Pascal about his interest in moths, with more sensitivity than she had credited him with. The atmosphere eased a bit, and Donald joined in with an occasional comment, although Gemma noticed his wine consumption was more than generous.