“No, but some of her women seeking a fresh start, particularly those with children, may wish to come here. I’ve already suggested it to her.”
“You think a woman would wish to travel so far from home?”
“I’m certain of it,” he said. “There are many women looking for a new beginning, away from their pasts. Why not come here? Despite what you hear about my countrymen, we welcome newcomers. Fresh ideas, new people… It’s how we grow.”
“Then it seems as if your education is complete,” Lilah said.
“My education?”
“The plight of the disadvantaged, a greater understanding of the world. You recall our bargain?”
“Ah, yes, our bargain.” He met her gaze, hunger in his eyes. “But I must still complete your education, must I not? I believe we’d agreed on five lessons in pleasure. Four yet remain.”
She dropped her gaze to his lips—those full, sensual lips. She had only to move forward a little, and she could taste them.
He smiled and drew back. “I believe we must add another lesson.”
“Which is?”
“To show you that I am more than an uncouth Scot or a libertine lord.”
She had judged him unfairly.
“I believe my education with regard to you has already begun,” she said, “but I’m eager to learn about your whisky, even if I don’t like the taste.”
“Then you have set a challenge, Miss Hart,” he said. “I must persuade you to taste it again.”
“I can’t see myself enjoying it a second time.”
“There are many different forms of whisky,” he said. “The taste depends on many factors.”
“Such as?”
“The water is an important part,” he said. “Our water is collected from the burn, which comes straight from the mountain—fresh and clear, almost sweet to the palate. One must also consider the barrels in which the whisky is aged. We’re experimenting with different barrels, including sherry casks. The sherry should infuse a level of sweetness. But I’m also eager to experiment with different barrels to impart a variety of flavors. However, I must stay my enthusiasm until we can reap the rewards of our efforts. And for that, I have Hamish to thank. He acts as a steady hand to prevent me from sinking too much of my assets into the venture.”
“Hamish seems a sensible fellow,” Lilah said.
The man in question gave her a stiff bow. “I do my best for the master.”
“Come,” Fraser said. “Let me show you the whole process from start to finish.”
He ushered her into the main part of the building.
A dry, acrid smell caught at the back of her throat, and she coughed. “What the devil is that?”
“The peat smoke,” he said, laughing. “Only a Sassenach would choke at the most beautiful aroma in the world! I once heard tell that, to an Englishman, the smell of peat smoke is akin to his grandmother’s week-old undergarments roasting on a coal fire.”
“Why use something so disgusting?”
“The smoke is used to dry the grain,” he said. “The longer we smoke the grain, the stronger the taste of peat. Every Highlander has peat in his blood. It’s the fuel which keeps us warm in winter. It gives our land the richness on which our plants and animals thrive.”
He escorted her into another room that contained a number of wide, fat wooden barrels. The smell was not unpleasant, at least not compared to the peat smoke she’d inhaled a few moments ago.
“This is where we add the yeast to the mash,” he said.
“How long does it take?”
“It differs depending on the strength of taste, miss,” Hamish said. “It can be ready in two days, but we leave it for four. The extra two days imparts a deeper flavor. Though the master intends to sell to the English, who are unlikely to appreciate the complexities of a good whisky, he’s unwilling to compromise on quality merely to cater to their unsophisticated palates.”
“Your master is a man of integrity,” Lilah said. “I cannot abide a man willing to trade his principles for profit.”
“Or a woman,” Fraser said. “I want to yield a profit, of course, but my primary objective is to share my passion for good whisky with the rest of the world and leave a legacy for the people who depend on me.”
Once again, guilt pricked at Lilah’s conscience. This man, who she’d admonished for being a profligate, had done more to help others than she ever could. He had every right to indulge in the pleasures of life.
What had she done, other than stitch a few torn sheets for Mrs. Forbes, yell abuse at the aristocracy, and write naïve political pieces?
Her motivations, which she’d believed to be honorable, were driven by nothing more than vanity—an attempt to use the notion of social inequality to further her writing career. She had convinced herself it was for the greater good, but in reality, the only person it served was herself.
A warm hand took hers.
“Miss Hart?”
She looked up into a pair of kind blue eyes. Now that her own eyes had been opened to the truth about herself, she could not meet his gaze. She blinked to clear the moisture pricking at her eyelids.
“The smoke…” she said.
“Of course.” Gentle hands steered her out of the room. “Hamish, perhaps you could find Miss Hart a glass of water.”
“Of course, sir.” The man disappeared.
“Is there more to see?” she asked. “I wish to continue.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ve left the best until last.”
The next room contained four large copper vats with a bulbous shape at the bottom, tapering to funnels at the top.
“This is where the fermented mash is distilled, concentrating the liquor,” he said. “A wood fire heats up the liquid inside the vat, and because the liquor boils before the water does, we can catch it and separate it from the water and impurities in the mash.”
Lilah placed her hand on one of the vats and ran her hand along the smooth contours of the metal.
“It’s cold,” she said.
He placed his hand over hers. “My da told me the vats were fashioned in the shape of a pagan goddess,” he said. “Smooth, ripe curves for a man to claim, and a delectably firm, round bottom.”
He moved beside her, and his body heat seeped through the material of her pelisse. A light cough came from behind, and he moved away.
“Your water, miss.” Hamish stood in the doorway, a glass in his hand. She took it and sipped the water.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It’s from the burn,” he said, pride in his voice. “Perhaps, if you find our water to your liking, you’ll appreciate our whisky one day.”
“I find myself appreciating much of what I see here,” she said. She turned to her companion. He took the glass from her and lifted it to his lips, turning it deliberately so his mouth met the spot where she’d sipped it.
“Delicious,” he said. “A taste like no other, and one I hope to indulge in many more times.” He returned the glass to Hamish. “You may leave us now,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.”
“Very good, sir.”