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It was a typically cryptic remark from the village Methuselah. Chattan knew everything there was to know about Dunlaggan’s residents and was usually spot-on with his analysis. He also had an annoying tendency to keep much of that analysis to himself. Unlike the rest of the elderly gents who lounged about the pub, this old duffer was no gossip.
Grant ducked under the low doorway and stepped into the pub. The large, timbered room had a mismatched collection of tables and chairs, a polished bar at one end, and a large stone hearth with a cheerful peat blaze at the other. Mullioned windows let in the late afternoon sunlight and lamps dotted the tabletops, imparting a cheerful glow. Like the rest of Dunlaggan, the pub was simple, neat, and homey, inviting all and sundry to stop in for a wee dram.
The pub was about half full now, but would slowly fill up as the workday drew to a close.
Mr. Monroe, the publican, greeted him with a smile. “A guid day to ye, Mr. Grant. Will ye be having a dram of Lochnagar’s finest?”
“Just ale, thanks.”
While the publican drew off a mug, Grant leaned an elbow on the bar and cast a look about.
Captain Brown and the vicar occupied a table in front of the hearth, and several of the other patrons had pulled their chairs around, listening to their conversation. From what Grant could tell, the captain was holding court to a spellbound audience, expounding with verve, as well as the occasional jest if the general laughter was any indication.
The vicar sat mostly quiet, cast into a shade by his older brother. Although there was a strong physical resemblance between the brothers, the difference in manner was striking. For all Mr. Brown currently annoyed Grant with his awkward courtship of Kathleen, he was a modest and gentle-mannered fellow, as befit a vicar.
In contrast, Captain Brown struck Grant as a jolly dog, always ready for a drink or a jest. His easy, expansive manner probably appealed to both men and women.
And Grant didn’t trust him one damn bit. His instincts told him the man was not a Captain Brown but a Captain Sharp, in Lochnagar for something other than a friendly but unexpected visit with the brother he’d not seen in over four years, according to Sabrina.
Of course, it was entirely possible that Grant mainly disliked the man for interrupting what had been shaping up to be a very pleasurable first kiss with Kathleen.
“The vicar must be pleased to see his brother,” he remarked to Monroe.
The publican turned a jaundiced eye toward the captain. “It’s a rare bit of mystery, if ye ask me. Never once showed his face around here in all the years the vicar has been seein’ to us. Then he pops up all of a sudden like, just for a wee visit with his brother, or so he claims. Except the captain’s been in here for the last two days yacking about a land scheme and fillin’ some heads with barmy ideas.”
Grant frowned. “What sort of land scheme?”
“He claims there’s land in South America needin’ settlers, ye ken. Hardworkin’ Highlanders can make their fortunes farmin’ the land.” He snorted. “As if anyone ever made a fortune in farmin’.”
“Except for the landowners who squeeze every farthing out of their tenants,” said an attractive, red-haired young woman who joined Monroe behind the bar. “Our present lord and lady exceptin’, of course,” she added, flashing a smile at Grant.
He returned the smile. “Ah, Patty. Back at the pub, are you? I thought Magnus was keeping you busy at the distillery.”
Monroe’s daughter, Patty Barr, had worked at the Deer and Hound until she’d wed Magnus a few months ago. Since she had excellent organizational skills, she now helped run the office at the distillery.
“Just helpin’ until the regular barmaid is over the grippe,” she said. “Poor Da was at sixes and sevens without me.”
Monroe gave his daughter a quick hug. “It was a sad day when ye left me for that big lug of yers. Dinna think I’ll ever get over it.”
She scoffed. “Since ye live with me and Magnus, that’s not really a problem. Not to mention that my husband keeps ye in the best whisky this side of Inverness—at cost, ye ken.”
“Now that is an excellent deal,” Grant said.
“Aye,” Monroe agreed. “Magnus might be a little short in the brainbox, but he brews a fine whisky.”
His daughter elbowed him. “None of that, Da. Ye’ll hurt my man’s feelins.”
Monroe looked incredulous. “Lass, I insult yer man every day. And heagreeswith me.”
“Anyway, we canna all be geniuses like Mr. Grant or Sir Graeme,” Patty said.
“Actually, Lady Sabrina is the brains of the outfit,” Grant replied. “Graeme and I just do what she tells us.”
Patty gave an approving nod. “It’s a wise man, ye are. Now, are ye peckish, sir? Would ye like a bit of stew from the kitchen?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll join the others. I’m curious to hear more about the captain’s land scheme.”
Patty’s snort was an uncanny echo of her father’s. “That one. He’s a flash, if ye ask me.”
