The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

him that Vesey was the man who she feared, would that not be as bait to the bear?

“Wrongs can be righted,” Duncan said, as much to Kate as to the crowd. “Let us drink to that together. But I cannot, in all honor, toast a new beginning properly with Adam’s ale, especially since I have better to offer you. Fred, if you will?”

The clink of glass penetrated Kate’s confused thoughts. She watched in shock as the little man came forward, cradling a basket with the care of a nurse bearing a newborn. There was an astonished murmur from the crowd as dusty bottles were passed around and uncorked.

“Eilean Kirk uisgebeatha,” Duncan confirmed, pouring a liberal portion of the golden liquid into Kate’s cup. “Savor it, for as far as I know, this is the last of the MacLean’s gold ever brewed.”

“And there is nae mair ye ken?” Tam asked, his bushy brows wrinkling.

“Not a dram,” Duncan confirmed. “Unfortunately, these are the only bottles in my cellars and never will its like be brewed again, but I would be honored if you will all share these last drams with me.” He filled his cup and raised it high.

“Do ye ken that?” Tam’s face broke into a smile. “'Tis honor he puts before the MacLean gold.”

As the import of Tam’s words penetrated, the inhabitants of Strathkirk rose to their feet, lifting their cups in pledge.

“Wrongs righted,” Tam raised the bottle and put it to his lips.

“Wrongs righted,” came the echo.

Tam took a long pull, before addressing himself to Duncan once again. “Milaird, I ne’er thought I would be sayin’ this to ye, but it was my father’s last wish. ‘Twas his own hand that brewed this before Culloden and as ye ken, any made after didna taste quite the same. Da, canny man that he was, couldna outright refuse to brew the gold for his laird, but he changed the malt. Yer grandfather thought it to be the curse, and in a way,” his look was sheepish, “it was. But I could make this for ye’, milord. Da showed me the right way of it, should the curse ere be comin’ undone.”

“The curse is not yet broken, Tam,” Duncan said. “But a revived distillery might help to rebuild Strathkirk. I leave for Edinburgh, tomorrow. If you will tell me what equipment and provisions you will need, we can start minting the MacLean gold again.”

“It may well be verra dear,” Tam warned. “The distillation contraption was Da’s own design. All these year’s long gone, there’s nae much left of the auld to be saved.”

“You shall have whatever you need,” Duncan promised, pouring again.

“Save the bottles laddies,” Tam called merrily. “No use in wastin’ good glass or a fine evening.” He scooped up a sack from beside him and pulled out his pipes, inflating the bellows with a discordant whine.

“Where will you get the money?” Kate whispered under cover of the noise.

“The funds will be found, Kate. I keep my promises,” Duncan told her. “They trust me to do as I say, even though they have no reason to.”

Do you trust me? The words were as clear as if spoken aloud, but Kate could find no answers within her, only endless choices, every one of them bad.

A flute was pulled from an apron pocket. A fiddle yowled as it was tuned. Restless fingers tapped, seeking a beat upon taut leather. Then suddenly the instruments joined in unison and the night was filled with wild music.

All at once, Kate knew that she had never heard a true reel. This was a pounding wave of sound, a potent force that beguiled her feet. But it was Mrs. Kirby who was the first to be charmed from her chair. The older matron began to dance, her pattens pounding the stone adding a peculiar music of their own. Although she had seemed utterly exhausted just moments before, the woman whirled, clicking her toes to the ground, before leaping with an agility that belied her years. With a smile, she beckoned to Duncan and the crowd sighed as he gave her a courtly bow. He raised his arms above his head, the folds of plaid draping with a ripple. Slowly, he began to move to the music, the brooch on his plaid flashing as the jewels caught the torchlight.

The tempo increased, until Kate could barely follow the intricate pattern of steps and his trews became a dizzy riot of color. Mrs. Kirby stepped from the circle, and Duncan beckoned toward the shadows. “Will you dance with me, little lassie?” he asked, crouching at the knees.

Kate gasped as Anne stepped into the torchlight, like some shy woodland creature under a spell. Duncan rose but bent over to take the child’s hands. The flute trilled gently and the pipes hushed as she skipped to his simple steps and tried to mimic what she had seen. The people watched, charmed, as he caught her up and whirled her round until she whooped, then held her until she was steady on her feet. With a bow and a dainty curtsy it ended and Anne wreathed in smiles, ran to her mother.

Kate buried her face in her daughter’s hair to hide her tears. It would be hard on the child to take her from the only place where she had found a measure of happiness, a sense of security. But, as always, the decision had been wrenched from Kate’s hands.

While she watched Duncan dancing amidst his people, she told herself that he truly did not need her any longer. The spell of solitude had been broken. Although it would take far more than a few superficial repairs to restore the rotten floors and the other results of years of neglect, the castle was becoming a home. Some of the younger women in the village had been eager to offer their services, claiming that it “was nae richt for milady to be workin’ like a drudge.” It would be a relief to end the deception,