Page 63

She put a hand over her heart. “You are a saint among men.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve been called many things, a saint isna one of them.”

The still was hidden in a fold of the hillside beneath a turf-covered roof that made it nearly disappear among the heather. From a distance it might have passed for an abandoned storehouse, but Olivia noticed signs of upkeep and use as they approached. There were fresh wheel ruts, stones laid around the threshold to control the mud, hoof marks, and a worn narrow path worn that Jamie said led to the spring higher on the slope.

A boy trudged past them carrying two empty buckets, heading up the hill.

They came to a stop and before Olivia could dismount, Jamie was there. She took his hand, gathered her skirts, and promptly slipped in the mud as her boot slid, but before she could fall, Jamie’s hands closed around her waist.

“I’ve got ye, mistress.”

For a moment she had one hand braced against his shoulder while several layers of wool did absolutely nothing to disguise the strength of his arms as he held her steady, waiting to see if her knees would buckle.

“I think I’m okay now.” Who knew riding on a horse could be so exhausting?

With a nod, he released her immediately, handing the reins to a boy who took both horses.

“This way.”

She followed him to the door, heat rolling over her as Jamie stepped inside.

The room beyond was larger than the turf roof suggested, low and crowded and busy. Steam hazed the small window while firelight moved over the rounded copper belly of the still, blackened near the bottom from years of flame and polished brighter where so many hands had touched it. A wooden mash tun occupied one side of the room, vessels of fermenting wash stood nearby, and a worm tub at the far end held cold water around the coiled copper.

Tools hung from pegs. Buckets crowded the floor. Barley dust was on every surface, while the smell of hot grain, yeast, fermenting wash, peat smoke, wood, copper heat, and sweat wrapped around Olivia so completely that she stopped just inside.

An older man looked up from the mash tun. His white beard was damp with steam, his sleeves rolled above scarred forearms, and his swollen hands rested on a wooden paddle polished smooth by years of use.

His gaze went from Jamie to Olivia.

“Ye brought the widow from the Americas.”

Jamie removed his gloves. “I brought someone who kens whisky.”

Clearly unconvinced, the man looked Olivia over again. “A lady who kens whisky?”

“Aye, Alasdair. That’s what I said.”

Two younger men nearby had stopped their work to watch her. Olivia ignored them, took off the heavy cloak, hung it on a peg, and approached the wash without touching anything.

“How long has this been fermenting?”

Alasdair looked toward Jamie who was already checking the fire beneath the still. “Answer her.”

“Three days.”

Olivia leaned closer and let the warmth carry the aromas toward her. Bread dough came first, then grain, green fruit, and a faint sour edge developing underneath.

“What did it smell like yesterday?”

“Like wash.” One of the younger men smiled.

She inhaled again. “Did you use fresh yeast, or dregs from another ferment?”

That wiped some of the amusement from the room.

Alasdair took a step closer. “Dregs.”

“From this vessel?”