Ghosts of Culloden Moor 16 - Malcolm (Cathy MacRae) Page 3

  She didn’t have time to ponder the question as she caught a quizzical look from Malcolm. She motioned for him to follow her, leading him away from the fire and toward the distillery. Halting on a narrow footbridge spanning a sparkling stream, she watched fish swarm to their shadow and she bit back a smile of remembrance of feeding the fish from her lunch as she visited her grandfather at the distillery. Apparently, someone still did.

  “A bit out of normal, since I would usually start a tour by the store, but this is as good a place as any with the firemen at the ricks.” She waved at the area they’d just left.

  “Ricks?” Malcolm queried, his eyes narrowed, puzzled.

  “The ricks are the stacks of wood currently being consumed by the fire,” she explained. “One of the requirements to be classified as a Tennessee whisky is to filter the whisky through charcoal.” Allison sighed. “I’m still hoping to get charcoal from this fire, not ashes.”

  “The other requirement was to use corn, aye?” the Scotsman remembered.

  “Yes, though we use rye and malt barley as well.” She indicated the crystal-clear water beneath their feet. “And to make good whisky, you must have good water. This comes down from the springs just up the hill.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Aye, good water is verra important.”

  Allison nodded. “Ours is filtered naturally underground through a limestone cavern which filters out all the nasties like sulfur and iron. It is very pure. We pipe it in directly from the spring.”

  She pivoted on her heel, her soft-soled shoes thudding gently on the worn wood of the bridge. Swinging her head side-to-side, she looked left then right to check for traffic before hurrying across the narrow road, the Scotsman following. A small white form launched itself from the small shack at the gate to the distillery property, and Allison crouched, catching the dog as his furry body hurtled into her arms. With laughing protest, she set him down, averting her face from the majority of his frantic licks. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand as she stood.

  A stout man in a security guard uniform stepped from the shack.

  “I didn’t think you’d be bringing tourists across today,” he challenged with a dark look at the man behind her.

  Malcolm halted, pulling back as if uncertain. “She offered,” he murmured.

  “I need to do a walk-through anyway, Denis,” Allison said. “He isn’t imposing.”

  The guard opened the gate to the close-cropped yard around the distillery. “Any idea why the fire got out of control?” he asked as Malcolm and Allison passed through.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “And please keep Fergus here a bit longer if you don’t mind. He’s a West Highland WHITE Terrier, not gray.”

  Denis grinned, tilting his head at the arc of water spray over the rapidly dying fire amid a pile of graying ashes and coal. “He’d love to play in it, wouldn’t he?”

  Allison shot him a warning look. “Keep the gate shut,” she said. “Fergus, wait here,” she added with a wave of her palm in front of the terrier’s face. Fergus leapt up, licking her fingers before she could pull them back. She wiped her hand down her slacks and led Malcolm through the gate, shutting it firmly behind them. Fergus barked an unhappy commentary, his furry white front feet on the lowest board of the rail fence, then plopped to the ground, muzzle on his paws as he watched them enter the distillery.

  The aroma of fermenting grains filled his nostrils. Familiar, yet different, as the odor of corn overpowered the sweeter scent of malted barley. Malcolm halted inside the doorway and drew in a bracing breath. His eyes closed and a smile played about his lips.

  “Like it?” his guide asked, a suggestion of laughter in her voice.

  Malcolm opened his eyes, a hint of embarrassment heating his neck. “Aye. My da and his before him for generations distilled whisky. I remember it well.”

  Allison tilted her head. “How long since you’ve been there?”

  More than two hundred years. “A verra long time.” He jerked his chin at the large pots just beyond the safety railing. “Tell me about this corn whisky of yers.”

  His guide’s attention diverted away. “This is where we cook the grains. We heat the water from the spring, add the grains, and cook them.” She sent a brief smile to a man studying the dials on the enormous pots. He responded with a short nod before returning to his job.

  “From here, we send the cooked mash to the fermenters upstairs.” She motioned to the two-story stainless steel tubs behind them.

  Wort is the sugary liquid we get from cooking the barley. His grandda’s words floated through his mind. Malcolm shook his head at the clarity of the memory. The walls wavered around him and his grandda’s voice faded. He was surrounded by stainless steel and fermenting corn once again.

  “Mind your step on the stairs. They are steep,” Allison instructed as she led the way. Appreciation for the easy swing of her hips jerked Malcolm firmly into the present and he followed her up the steps.

  “Here we add yeast to the mash—”

  Wort— His grandda’s voice echoed counterpoint to Allison’s lecture.

  “—and allow it to ferment for three to five days. It is transferred to the large vat in the corner where it is stirred before sending it to the still. At this point, it contains six to seven percent alcohol, and we call it distiller’s beer.”

  “Wash.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Malcolm took a deep breath to dispel his grandda’s memory. “We call it wash, though it smells a lot like a crude beer.” He forced his lips to twist in a ghost of a smile, but he saw the concern on Allison’s face.

  This isnae working, Soni. As alive as ye’ve made me, memories still haunt me. And try as I might, I cannae hide it.

  “Are you certain you’re okay?” Allison asked, placing a gentling hand on his shoulder. At his nod, she drew back, glancing at her palm as she did. Her face blanched and Malcolm followed her horrified gaze as she stared at the dark red stain on her fingers. Blood.

  In an instant it faded, but Allison turned wide eyes to his. “You’re hurt?”

  Malcolm rubbed the ache in his chest with the heel of his hand. “Och, `tis an old wound. Strange for ye to notice.”

  She glanced back at her hand, the stain gone as though it never existed. She blinked. “Something just happened,” she murmured, her confusion clear.

  Below, the distillery door opened and closed and feet pounded up the stairs, the sound on the metal grating rolling like the burst of mortars. Malcolm gripped the lapel of his jacket and braced himself against the smooth wall of the fermenter behind him as reality faded and the agonized cries of wounded men pounded in his ears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Robert!” Allison shouted as the man’s head cleared the opening in the stairwell. “Help me. I think he’s injured!”

  Tasseled loafers squeaking on the rubber mat spread on the metal grate floor, Robert was just in time to catch the Scotsman as he backed against one of the fermenters and slid to the floor in a heap of green and blue plaid. Allison knelt beside him, the back of her hand against his forehead, checking for fever.

  A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, but his skin was cool to her touch. Her fingertips trailed down his lightly stubbled cheek with a decided lack of professional distance. Shaking off unexpected reluctance, Allison drew her hand away. His eyelids blinked rapidly several times, then jerked open, his amber gaze connecting to hers with shocking force. She shivered.

  “We should get him outside,” Robert said, tugging at the tourist’s sleeve.

  “Wait,” Allison replied. “I don’t think he’s sick. Give him a moment.”

  Malcolm sighed. “Nae. I’m no’ ill.”

  “What happened?” she asked gently.

  “`Tis close in here,” he answered, though his soft words hinted at something more. He was afraid. Of what?

  “Like I said, let’s get him outside,” Robert insisted, rousing Malcolm with a clip to his elbow. “Come
on, now. To your feet.”

  Allison caught Malcolm’s dark look and placed a restraining hand on Robert’s arm. “Don’t push him. He can get up on his own.”

  Malcolm rolled to his feet, bracing a palm against the fermenter as he rose. “Thank ye. I will be fine now.”

  She judged him through narrowed eyes, a hand on her hip. “I think Robert is right. It gets very hot in here, no matter the season, and I’d feel better if you were on solid ground, not this metal grating.” She nodded to the man beside her. “This is my cousin, Robert. Robert, meet Malcolm.”

  Giving the younger man a wary look, he nodded. “Pleased to meet ye.” Malcolm jerked his chin toward the far door. “Might we go that way?” he asked, turning his attention back to Allison.

  “Well, it’s really no further, and the steps aren’t so steep,” she argued with Robert’s disagreeing look. “Please tell me if you feel faint again.”

  Allison allowed him a brief, wide-eyed look at the tall column still before urging him on, and a quick peek inside an empty filtering tank, its stainless steel sides gleaming from a recent scrubbing.

  “We filter the whisky through thirteen feet of charcoal before we barrel it to remove any impurities that might linger after the second distillation. That’s where the charcoal from the burn across the street will go once it’s cooled and dried.”

  Malcolm nodded, interest clear on his face, contradicting the fact he’d sprawled at her feet only minutes earlier.

  She gripped the handle to the door that led outside. “More steps, but they aren’t so steep,” she assured the Scotsman, pleased to note the color in his cheeks had returned. Her hand fisted at the memory of the red stain after she’d touched him. Odd, that. I know what I saw. But why did it disappear?

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” Robert hissed at her as he stepped through the doorway.

  Allison peered past him to the tourist. “He seems steady enough,” she decided. “And he’s a tourist, not my patient.”

  “Cut the tour short. We need to talk,” Robert demanded.

  “I’m doing a walk-through, not a tour,” she replied, her temper beginning to slip a notch at Robert’s tone.

  “Whatever. Get rid of the tourist.”

  Malcolm gripped the metal railing as he descended the stairs. The edges of his kilt flipped upward in the playful breeze and he turned his face into the freshness as his gaze drifted about the small yard. Several vehicles of varying age—though most had seen better days—rimmed the paved area adjacent to the brick-walled distillery. A white truck with no markings drove from behind a nearby single-story building and rattled slowly up the hill behind the distillery.

  Allison’s and Robert’s voices fluttered behind him, indistinct as a murmur on the breeze. Malcolm paid little attention to the pair, drawn to the sights before him. In his mind’s eye, the vehicles faded, replaced by the strong brace of draft horses that pulled the wagon laden with his father’s barreled whisky to the dock for shipment. On the surrounding hillsides he imagined low buildings stacked floor to ceiling with barrels of maturing whisky, the fiery liquid breathing in and out of the sturdy wood with the changing seasons, gaining flavor and color as the years passed.

  And, if he took a deep breath and reached deep enough inside himself, he could almost recall the tang of sea air mingling with the honey and cream, faintly salty and spicy notes of fine Sinclair whisky.

  “I’m sorry. Do you mind if we wrap up the tour?”

  Allison interrupted his contemplations and he startled, a bit sheepish.

  “Aye. Might I try a wee taste before I go?” he asked. He didn’t really know what else to do. If his act of valor had been to save the distillery from the fire, he couldn’t see how he could have done better than the men with the huge hoses and specially-equipped trucks. And the memories that continued to catch him off-guard and toss him back in the midst of those two ominous days in April nearly three hundred years ago, left him rattled as always, blinding him to any role as rescuer.

  He caught a scowl of indecision on his guide’s face.

  “I signed you in for the tour, but I didn’t check your ID,” she wavered.

  “My what?” he asked, uncertain what his ID was or why it should be checked.

  “To be sure you’re over twenty-one,” she sighed. “We can’t serve whisky to anyone younger than twenty-one.”

  A genuine grin widened across his face. “Lass, I am much older than twenty-one.”

  She tilted her head. “You don’t look very old,” she mused. “More worn.”

  “Interesting ye should say that,” he noted. “I often feel worn.”

  Allison’s gaze met his with sympathy and he warmed to her notice, reluctant to look away.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Robert complained, clattering down the steps behind them. Malcolm glanced up sharply, but the rumbling footsteps did not echo in the open air as it had inside the building, and though his heart rate doubled, it settled quickly, keeping the terrors at bay.

  “Don’t rush, Robert,” Allison chided, cutting him a severe look.

  A breeze cooled the sweat on Malcolm’s brow, betraying his jolt of fear a moment earlier. He dragged the ragged sleeve of his jacket across his forehead as frustration crept in.

  When does this end, Soni? How do I face my fears and end this? I cannae endure this much longer. After nearly three centuries, I had hoped I’d paid for my sins. I dinnae want this burden. I want peace.

  “Give him a sip and send him on his way,” Robert insisted, hands on his hips as he turned his displeasure from Allison to Malcolm.

  “It isn’t legal,” she replied, holding her ground.

  “How old are you?” Robert demanded, confronting Malcolm.

  “I was four-and-twenty …” his voice trailed off. Two hundred and seventy years ago.

  “Good enough,” Robert declared, clapping Malcolm heartily on his shoulder.

  “No, it’s not,” Allison argued, but her words fell on deaf ears as Robert stared at his palm.

  Red. Blood.

  Pain shot across Malcolm’s chest and he gripped the ancient wound. A moan slid from his lips before he could stop it.

  Alarm flashed across Allison’s face. “Can you make it over there?” she asked Malcolm, her voice low with concern.

  Malcolm glanced at the small structure she indicated, perhaps thirty yards distant. He nodded.

  “Good. It’s private there.” She gripped his coat sleeve as though she expected him to collapse at any moment, and led him to the single-room building. Robert followed, closing the door behind them. He flopped into a tall chair at the bar, splaying his fingers on the polished surface as he stared at his palm. “I need a drink.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Liquid as cool as the stream from which it came, and fiery as the spirit it had become slid down his throat. Hints of vanilla and spice, mellowed with a smoky background teased his tongue. Malcolm hummed with pleasure. The flavor, though lacking the faintly salty notes he was accustomed to, was rich, supple, full-bodied with a spicy finish—perhaps as smooth as the finest scotch his grandda had jealously guarded in his private collection.

  “Did ye check his ID?” he asked, leveling the far rim of his glass toward the young man at the bar.

  “This is medicinal,” Allison demurred, pouring herself another shot. She nursed it, staring into the rich amber depths. After a few moments, she shifted her gaze to his.

  “Malcolm, I need to know what happened.”

  “Could ye be more specific, lass?”

  She arched an eyebrow at his challenge. “All right. Why did Robert and I get blood on our hands when we touched you, and why is it gone now?”

  “Och, I was afraid that was what ye meant,” Malcolm replied softly. “Are ye sure ye want the answer?”

  Robert swiveled in his chair a bit awkwardly, proving himself a lightweight after a single shot of the whisky. “Tell her what happened, Scot.”

  Malcolm’s lip curled with di
staste for the young man’s high-handed ways. “Ye willnae like it, so hie yerself back inside yer glass and wait until ye’re called.”

  “I don’t have to take that from you,” Robert sneered.

  Calm settled over Malcolm, and he narrowed his gaze. “Nae. Ye dinnae.”

  The veiled invitation and threat pierced the cloud around Robert’s deplorable manners and he scooted his buttocks back inside the safety of his chair.

  Malcolm returned his attention to the woman on the other side of the small circular table. “I dinnae know what ye will think, but in a few hours it willnae matter, so I will tell ye straight.”

  “What do you mean it won’t matter in a few hours?” Her eyes widened with alarm. “Are you in league with Sandy?”

  Her question took Malcolm aback. “Who is Sandy?”

  “The master distiller I fired a couple of days ago.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Nae. I only arrived this morning. I will be gone in a few hours at the most, `tis all I meant.”

  Relaxing with an exhale of breath, Allison sank back in her seat. “You were going to explain about the stain?” she prodded.

  Malcolm leaned his forearms on the table, his glass cradled between his fingers, the bottom glinting copper and gold with the scant remains of the whisky. “How well do ye know yer Scottish history?”

  Allison shrugged. “My grandfather was a grand one for telling stories, and I loved them as a child. I had little time for them, though, as I got older.”

  “Do ye remember earlier today when I told ye the Sinclairs and Sutherlands often feuded?”

  She smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

  He sighed. “That was the easy part of the explanation. Here’s the hard part. When I was a young man, England and Scotland struggled for sovereignty.”