As soon as Gemma and Hazel were seated, John Innes brought over a tray holding several cut glass tumblers and a bottle of whisky. “It’s Benvulin, of course,” he said as he splashed a half inch of liquid amber into each glass.
“Eighteen-year-old. I could hardly do less,” he added, with a knowing glance at Hazel.
“Benvulin?” repeated Gemma.
After a moment’s pause, Hazel answered. “It’s a distillery near here. Quite famous.” She held her glass under her nose for a moment before taking a sip. “In fact, the whole of Speyside is famous for its single malt whiskies.
Some say it provides the perfect combination of water, peat, and barley.” She drank again, and Gemma saw the color heighten in her cheeks.
“But you don’t agree?” Following Hazel’s example, Gemma took a generous sip. Fire bit at the back of her throat and she coughed until tears came to her eyes.
“Sorry,” she managed to gasp.
“Takes a bit of getting used to,” John said. “Unless you’re like Hazel, here, who probably tasted whisky in her cradle.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that.” Hazel’s tight smile indicated more irritation than amusement.
“Is that a Highland custom, giving whisky to babies?”
asked Gemma, wondering what undercurrent she was missing.
“Helps with the teething,” Hazel replied before John or Louise could speak. “And a host of other things. Old-timers swear a wee dram with their parritch every morning keeps them fit.” Finishing her drink in a swallow, Hazel stood. “But just now I’d like to freshen up before dinner, and I’m sure Gemma—”
Turning, Gemma saw a man standing in the doorway, surveying them. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick auburn hair and a neatly trimmed ruddy beard. And he was gazing at Hazel, who stood as if turned to stone.
He came towards her, hand outstretched. “Hazel!”
“Donald.” Hazel made his name not a greeting but a statement. When she made no move to take his hand, he dropped it, and they stood in awkward silence.
Watching the tableau, Gemma became aware of two things. The first was that Hazel, standing with her lips parted and her eyes bright, was truly lovely, and that she had never realized it.
The second was the fact that this large man in the red-and-black tartan kilt knew Hazel very well indeed.
Chapter Two
It was like the worst of the Scottish Highlands, only worse; cold, naked, and ignoble, scant of wood, scant of heather, scant of life.
—robert louis stevenson,
“Travels with a Donkey”
Carnmore, November
Bracing her shoulder against the thrust of the wind hammering at the kitchen door, Livvy eased up the latch. But her slight body was no match for the gale, her preparation futile. The howling wind seized the door and flung it back, taking her with it like a rag doll.
She lay in a heap on the stone flags, the frigid air piercing her lungs. Levering herself up on hands and knees, she edged round the door’s flimsy shelter. The snow flew at her, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, but she crawled forward, her head down, her gaze fixed upon the dark huddle beyond the stoop. “Charles?”
she called out, her voice a croak snatched by the wind, but there was no answer.
The humped form resolved itself as she drew nearer:
man-sized, man-shaped, the darkness a coat, rime-crusted. She dug her way through the heaped snow that had drifted against the sill, frantic now.
He lay against the step, curled in a fetal ball, his head hidden by his arms. “Charles!” Livvy tugged at him, pulling him half onto his back so that she could see his face, and pushed back his wet, cold hair. His skin was blue, his lashes frozen with tiny ice crystals, but she thought she saw his lips move.
“Inside. We’ve got to get ye in the house,” she shouted, trying to lift him. But he was limp, a deadweight, and with the wind buffeting her she couldn’t get enough leverage to haul him over the stoop. Pushing and tugging, she exhorted him, but she grew clumsier as she began to lose the sensation in her hands and feet.
At last she sat back. “Charles, oh, Charles,” she sobbed, wiping at the tears turning to ice on her cheeks.
Then she swallowed hard, her resolve hardening. He had made it home, God knew how, with the last of his strength, and now it was up to her.
But she must get help or he would freeze, and she with him.
Gemma eased her thigh away from its damp contact with the knee of the young man sitting next to her, giving him a bland smile. Not that he was flirting with her—at least she hoped he wasn’t flirting with her. But in honor of the weekend’s cookery class, the small, square tables that would normally have seated the guests from each bedroom in the B&B separately had been joined, leaving the six people assembled for dinner closer together than Gemma found comfortable. The room was overwarm, as well, and although the coal fire blazing in the dining room’s hearth added a convivial
note, the ring of faces round the table all sported a faint sheen of perspiration.
No doubt a good bit of that glow could be attributed to the amount of whisky drunk before dinner, and the liberal consumption of wine with the meal. Considering that they hadn’t reached the pudding stage yet, Gemma groaned inwardly. Paper-thin crepes with wild mushrooms had preceded tenderloin of venison in a red currant glaze, surrounded by heaps of perfectly roasted potatoes and crisp haricots verts. Now Gemma eyed the remaining slice of venison on her plate with something akin to despair. It was too good to leave, but she’d burst if she took another bite. With a sigh, she pushed her plate away and looked round the room. Hazel, she noticed, had art-fully rearranged the meat on her plate without actually eating any of it.
Following the sporting theme evidenced in the entry hall, delicately colored paintings of fish swam round the circumference of the white-paneled dining room walls.
At first Gemma thought the fish were painted on the paneling itself, but as she studied them she realized they were paper cutouts. The sizes varied, as did the quality of the artwork, but all were game fish of some sort, trout or perhaps salmon. Having never seen either except on a dinner plate, Gemma could only guess.
“They’re all hand painted, you know,” said the young man beside her, following her gaze. He had been introduced to her as Martin Gilmore, John Innes’s much younger brother. “It was a household tradition before John bought the place. Anyone who catches a fish weighing more than eight pounds has to trace it exactly, then paint it.”
“Is one of these yours, then?” Gemma asked, nodding at the wall. Martin had the look of an artist, with
his thin, ascetic face and cropped hair that emphasized the bony prominence of his nose. In one nostril Gemma saw a puncture, telltale evidence of an absent nose stud. Perhaps Martin had been afraid John would disapprove.
“Not on your life,” Martin answered, grimacing. “I’m a city boy, brought up in Dundee. I’ll pass on the shootin’