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Grant reached for her. “Be careful, lass.”
“I’m fine, sir. And you’re correct. I should be more careful.” Quickly, she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.
He slowly followed. Kathleen Calvert was as changeable as her beautiful eyes—one minute, bright silver with humor, the next, dark gray with frustration. He didn’t know where he bloody well stood with her from one moment to the next.
So let that serve as a warning to you.
By the time he reached the upper floor, Grant had himself firmly under control. Kathleen didn’t even bother to look at him as she adroitly inserted herself between Jeannie and Brown. And while that clearly pleased the vicar, who beamed at her with undisguised delight, it did not please Jeannie. There was trouble brewing there. If he had a brain in his head, Grant would steer clear of the whole lot of them.
He was here for only one reason—to help Graeme bring a gang of thieving, troublesome bastards to heel. What Kathleen Calvert chose to do with her time was no concern of his.
Now properly sorted, Grant turned his attention to his surroundings and was impressed once again.
Three large mash tuns were installed in the center of the long, low-ceilinged room, with space for at least two more. The design of the room was excellent, and the quality of the equipment top drawer. With Graeme running the show, Grant had no doubt that Lochnagar would soon be one of the finest distillers in Scotland.
Dickie gestured toward the containers. “These here be called tuns. That’s where we mix the grist with hot water and start fermentin’ things.”
“The grist is actually malt, grown from barley,” Brown explained to Kathleen. “Once the barley is harvested, it’s soaked in warm water for a few days, then spread out to dry in a malting house. It’s then dried some more in a kiln before it’s ground to flour at the mill. That is the grist Dickie is referring to.”
Dickie nodded. “Aye, sir, that’s correct.”
His tone suggested he was a wee bit annoyed that Brown had stolen his thunder. Grant didn’t blame him. He was beginning to conclude that yon vicar was a bit of an officious prat. In all fairness, he’d never thought that about the man before, but he’d never been in competition with him for a fair lady’s hand.
And you’re not, you ninny.
“You seem to know quite a bit about whisky, Mr. Brown,” Kathleen said. “I take it you’re a tippler?”
The vicar looked shocked. It was his default expression, as far as Grant could tell.
“Goodness, no,” he exclaimed. “But any self-respecting Scot is familiar with the process.”
“My Irish granny always used to say that a dram a day kept the doctor away,” Kathleen replied with an airy wave. “It was grand advice, I’m thinking.”
Jeannie shook her head. “But your granny was a teetotaler, Kath. She said she hated the taste of spirits, remember?”
When Kathleen let out a tiny sigh, Grant decided a spot of chivalry was in order.
“Dickie, I take it the barley is still milled off the premises.”
“Aye, Mr. Grant. We use the barley from some of the local farms, and two of them have malt houses and kilns for the dryin’. They were part of our smugglin’ rig, ye ken, before we turned legal.”
Brown clucked his tongue. “The less said about those days, the better.”
“Aye, Reverend,” Dickie said in a long-suffering tone.
“But why work with other farms?” Kathleen asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to consolidate everything into one operation?”
“That’s an excellent question, dearest,” Sabrina said.
“I’m not just another pretty face, you know,” Kathleen joked.
Brown pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Brains and beauty. A formidable combination, Miss Calvert.”
The vicar’s ponderous gallantry had Grant contemplating whether to dump him into one of the mash tuns.
“I’m pretty and smart, too,” Jeannie said, looking rather sad as she cuddled Mrs. Wiggles.
“Darling, you are much prettier and smarter than I am,” Kathleen cheerfully exclaimed. “By a country mile, as we all know.”
