Crushing the soft little buds in his hand, he growled at Russell. “Just how many barrels of peat did Grindall order?”
“Enough to roast the entire harvest,” his steward said carefully. “He said he discussed it with ye.”
“I’ve no memory of that.”
Russell swiped his hat off, revealing tufts of wild orange hair, and scratched his scalp nervously. “Well, if ye doona mind me saying so, my laird, ye’ve been a bit … distracted lately.”
Distracted by a ripe mouth and a round arse.
“I do mind ye saying so.” Because it was true. He’d always been a focused, driven, and determined man, and no tempting wee English lass was going to change that.
The Ravencroft distillery had almost collapsed under the drunken tyranny of his father, and Liam would be goddamned if he added the failure of the livelihood of so many to his already tainted legacy.
Employing a breathing technique he’d learned from an Indian guru, he took a breath in through his nose, and counted slowly as he controlled the exhale with his throat.
Russell likewise employed another tactic. “This shipment was expensive, and we could barely afford it due to the new copper mash tuns for the barley we acquired last year without dipping into the tenant rents. Grindall said that the peat would hasten the kiln fire of the barley and add smoke to the taste. So many of the Highland distilleries are implementing the practice.”
Goddammit. He’d wanted the distillery to be self-sustaining. He’d do anything to avoid dipping into his other sources of income.
Liam looked to his right, counting a few bricks of the warehouse which held rows upon rows of aging Scotch in their blond oak casks, then back to the kiln fires over which he was aiding Thomas Campbell, the cooper, in assembling and charring the insides of the imported casks for this year’s offering of spirits. The work was backbreaking for most men, but Liam found that he appreciated the mental monotony of it. Once Andrew fit the wet slats of oak into the bottom ring, he passed them to Thomas Campbell to char the inside over the flame.
Liam would then take one of the already charred barrels and bend the slats of wood to fit into the iron rings, and employ the blacksmith’s hammer to pound them into place. He enjoyed the need to sweat and strain, found a sort of physical release in the force it required of him.
A physical release that he was sorely in need of.
This peat business was an unwelcome interruption.
Taking another breath, he tossed the peat back into the crate. “There are three—and no more than three—ingredients in Ravencroft Single Malt Scotch. What are they, Andrew?”
He turned to his son, who stood behind him. The boy’s mood was as black as the soot smudged across his fine shirt and stubborn, miserable features. He’d brought Andrew down to experience the jolly frenzy of work that came after the barley harvest. The milling and mashing of the barley into grist, the import and assembly of the casks, the careful fermentation in the mash tuns, the distillation processes, and finally the stacking of the finished barrels where they would sit for no less than three years and one day, and sometimes more than two decades.
“I doona ken what they are,” Andrew mumbled.
“Aye, ye do, lad. They’ve been the same for centuries.” Liam tried to keep his rising temper from his voice.
Glowering at the crates of moss, his son lifted a shoulder. “I canna remember.”
Setting his teeth against his frustration with his son, his steward, and his fucking buyer, he ticked the answer off on his own fingers. “Malted barley, water from the river Glan, and yeast. That’s it,” he informed them both. “I’m not adding the taste of the slag ye collect from the bogs to my whisky.”
“This peat is special grown for Scotch,” Russell said. “It’s hardly from the bogs.”
Unused to repeating himself, Liam enunciated his words very slowly. “Barley. Water. Yeast.”
Russell took one look at Liam and hopped to cover the crates. “What do ye like we should do with all this?”
“Burn it. Throw it in the sea. Wipe yer arse with it! I care not,” Liam snarled. “But I’ll flay the skin from any man’s hide that puts it near my whisky.”
“You know, Mr. Mackenzie.” A soft, husky feminine voice from behind him vibrated through every hair on Liam’s body until lust dripped like warm oil straight to his loins. “I’ve heard that peat makes an excellent addition to compost. Perhaps you can add it to the fertilizer you’re mixing in with the top layer of soil before the frost.”
“Miss Lockhart, Lady Rhianna.” Russell beamed at her, wiping a self-conscious hand over his hair and replacing the cap. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
There was no amount of controlled breath that could have prepared Liam for the sight of Miss Lockhart swathed in a simple dark gold day dress the exact color of the barley roasting in the kiln. A woolen shawl of the blue, green, and gold Mackenzie plaid rested casually over her head and shoulders. Only a little of her hair peeked from beneath it, but Liam thought that she might have worn some of it down.
How long is it? he wondered. And was it truly as silky as it appeared?
Beneath the slate-gray autumn sky, she was as vibrant as a sunset. Judging by the instantaneous change in productivity around the crop of buildings that comprised the distillery, he wasn’t the only man to notice.
The lass had addressed Russell, but her gaze traveled the length of Liam from the top of his loosely bound hair, to his open shirt, soiled kilt, and filthy boots. When she’d finished her inspection, her eyes returned to meet his, and he couldn’t exactly name what he saw there before she flicked her lashes down, but his body responded to it.