Page 6 of A Highland Duke to Claim Her Heart

Chapter 3

Clybourne Craig stood atop a rugged mountain about a day’s ride from Calder Castle. It rose up out of the rock like a sentinel, the only structure for miles around, and although much smaller than Calder Castle, it was a small but respectable fort.

Its tall stone towers that were weathered and dark with age—though the tops of the ramparts were stained white from the droppings of the birds that roosted there.

Inside, the place was shabby but clean, the furniture at least a hundred years old but sturdy. The style suited Uncle Callum, anyway, Ewan thought, who was well into his eighties himself.

The man looked frail as he handed Ewan a glass of scotch, the smell of the peat so strong that Ewan could already feel the burn in the back of his throat before he even took a sip. They were sitting in the drawing room, whose stone walls were draped with tartans in the family colors and portraits of members of their clan going back several hundred years. Despite the stone, it was warm in the room, as a large fire roared in the grate. This was accompanied by the occasional sound of wailing as the outside of the house was assaulted with the strong Scottish winds.

Uncle Callum’s had been Ewan’s first thought as to where to look for his brother. Christopher was fond of Uncle Callum, and Claybourne Craig was a short enough distance from CalderCastle that he might have stayed here on his way to wherever he was going.

Alaric, meanwhile, had been sent on to several of the other great houses in the area. They were meant to rendezvous back at Calder Castle in a few days.

“This is the good stuff, lad,” Uncle Callum said, grinning down at Ewan with crooked, yellowed teeth as he held up his own glass of scotch. His uncle, or really his great uncle, had a shock of white hair on top of his head, a leather face that had been worn by the harsh wind of the Scottish Highlands, and kind brown eyes that were so much like Ewan’s own. “One of my tenants distills it when he’s not working the fields. I am always telling him—if he wants to start distilling on a large scale, even selling and exporting, I will help him. Set him up with a loan. But he is content to keep the operation small, just for friends and friends of friends.”

Uncle Callum raised his glass high. “Slàinte mhath!”

“Slàinte mhath,” Ewan repeated, and he threw back the scotch. At once, his eyes watered, and his throat burned so fiercely that it took all his willpower not to choke.

But Ewan Dunmore, Duke of Calder, had never once choked on scotch. He was a Scot. And he managed to swallow down the drink with his dignity intact.

Still, when he looked up at his uncle, Callum’s eyes were twinkling.

“Burns, does it not?”

“It is a heavy dose,” Ewan said, setting his glass down on the long wooden table between them. “But the notes of pepper and cherry are impressive.”

“Aye! So you tasted them? Good lad.” Callum reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You could always hold your liquid. Unlike that layabout brother of yours.” He shook his head, and Ewan sat forward, his eyes narrowed, the burn of the scotch all but forgotten.

“Uncle,” he said, “that is why I have come to see you. I need to know if you have seen Christopher.”

Uncle Callum sat back in his large, leather armchair, and raised one bushy eyebrows.

“Aye, I have seen him,” he said. He tapped his fingers slowly against the side of the glass. “He asked me not to tell you, mind.”

Ewan felt a flicker of annoyance in his gut. “But you are not going to keep vital information from me, are you?”

Uncle Callum laughed. “No, I am not. And I told the boy that as well. He was not too pleased, but then again, very little could bring down his spirits.”

“When was this?” Ewan asked.

“Oh, not three weeks hence. He was on his way to Inverness, where he hoped to book passage on a ship to Edinburgh, then Amsterdam.”

Ewan grit his teeth so badly that he thought one might actually break.

“And you did not think to write to me and inform me that my brother was on his way to the Continent?”

Uncle Callum frowned. “In truth, I did tell myself to do so, but then I clean forgot until this morning, when you came riding up, demanding to know if I had seen him.”

Ewan looked down at the empty glass on the table and forced himself to take a deep breath. He always forgot that Uncle Callum’s memory was not what it once was. The man was so sharp in so many ways that it was easy to forget that he was as old as he looked.

When he looked back up, his uncle was watching him thoughtfully.

“He was supposed to arrive yesterday at Calder Castle,” Ewan said. “His bride is also arriving today, and they are supposed to be married in a week. What am I supposed to tell her? That her fiance has run off to Amsterdam because he was in need of one last adventure before marriage?”

Uncle Callum considered this. “Perhaps you should, yes,” he said slowly. “It is best the young lady knows the kind of man she is marrying, is it not?”

Ewan sighed and reached for the decanter of scotch, pouring himself another. He was not usually the type to have two, but considering the circumstances, perhaps it was necessary.