Page 92 of A Scot on the Rocks

It had been like that since the night before. Jamie had come so close to kissing her among the rocks that she could still remember the warmth of his breath against her cheek and the flecks of gold in his green eyes. He’d stopped himself with an apology about her being in mourning, and Olivia had spent most of the night furious with the imaginary Mr. Bennett for having the nerve to interfere with her life after his imaginary death.

The worst of it was that Jamie had been trying to do the honorable thing. He’d trusted the story she’d given him, and every kindness he showed her made the lie harder to keep.

“Are ye listening, mistress?” Alasdair asked.

“I am now.”

“Then fetch the older bottle from that shelf. The one behind the salt crock.”

There were three stoppered bottles where he pointed. Olivia knew the older one because Jamie had mentioned that the run had turned out particularly well, even though the weather had been troublesome and the wash had been held longer than intended. She set it beside the spirit they’d drawn more recently while Alasdair fetched two small cups and a jug of plain water.

“I want to compare them,” she said.

“That’s why I told ye to fetch it.”

“You know, you and my grandmother would either be the best of friends or kill each other before supper.”

“A sensible woman, is she?”

“Far too sensible to put up with you.”

Jamie laughed, and even Alasdair’s mouth twitched before he held out a cup.

Olivia tasted the older spirit first. It was young and fiery, but beneath the heat she found the honey and apple that had drawn her to Glenbrae in the first place. The smoke arrived gently, with the grain and sweetness lingering after she’d swallowed. The newer run was harsher, its mineral edge crowding out the fruit, and she rinsed her mouth before tasting the first again.

“The water changed after the rain,” Jamie said, joining them at the worktable.

“It did, but there’s more to it.” She offered him the cup. “This one was cut earlier, wasn’t it?”

Alasdair took it instead and tasted. Ewan came over when he saw them gathered, and between the three men Olivia pieced together a morning none of them had thought worth remembering. The spring had been clear, the fire had burned more evenly than usual, and a hard rain had kept the men from fetching an empty cask when they expected to. The wash had waited overnight. No one had planned that extra time, and nobody had considered it important once the run was finished.

“It tasted well enough,” Ewan said.

“Better than well enough.” Olivia picked up the old cup again. “That’s the batch I’d choose.”

Alasdair folded his arms. “And ye think the rain made it?”

“I think the rain changed what you did. You waited longer, you used the water you had, and you paid attention to the fire. If I’d come here with a list of ingredients and exact measurements, I could have followed every one of them and still missed what happened that day.”

“There’s no sense letting a wash go sour because a man says the hour has come,” Alasdair replied.

“Exactly. You know when to wait.”

“Aye, well, some of us do.”

He gave Ewan a pointed look. Ewan raised both hands and went back to his work, declaring that he hadn’t touched the fire on the day in question and refused to be blamed for it now.

Olivia took the younger spirit again, searching for the precise point where the balance had gone wrong. Back in the modern distillery in her own time, all those experts before her had tried to recreate the legendary 1786 whisky by changing one ingredient or one piece of equipment at a time. She’d been doing much the same thing, armed with better instruments and a very expensive laboratory. Yet the men around her remembered the work as a succession of ordinary decisions. Whether the wash was ready, how fiercely the peat burned, which spring to draw from after rain, and what kind of cask was available when a run came off the still.

“Have ye found your answer?” Jamie asked.

“Part of one.” She put down the cup. “Could we make a small run using the clear spring water, hold the wash a little longer, and take the heart of the spirit as you did with this older batch?”

Alasdair stroked his beard, considering. “If the wash is ready for it. And if Fergus doesna go near the fire.”

“I can hear ye,” Fergus said from across the room.

“Then mind what I’m telling ye.”