Except that she hadn’t counted on Callum being unable to grasp the fact that nothing was going to happen between them. She’d told him flat out, finally, that he just wasn’t her type, but still he hadn’t given up. He rang every few days, and if she wasn’t at home he talked to Chrissy. Not that Chrissy minded a chat about horse lin- eaments and trout flies, but it made Alison uneasy that he would use the child to get to her. His latest ploy had been an offer of free riding lessons for Chrissy. Against her better judgment, Alison had accepted, hoping that the lessons might make up a bit for Donald’s failure to produce the pony.
if John will let us, that is,” he added, with a mischievous glance at his friend.
They were all still gathered in the Inneses’ sitting room, replete with coffee, whisky, and John Innes’s chocolate mousse. Lilting bagpipes played in the background, the fire crackled, and if not for her worry about Hazel and the faint nag of homesickness, Gemma would have been quite content. She’d been sure to claim a seat on one of the two sofas, between Hazel and the arm, leaving a discomfited Martin Gilmore to take a chair on the opposite side of the fire. Hazel sat on the edge of her seat, twisting her whisky glass round and round in her hands.
When Gemma had touched her arm in mute query, Hazel had merely shaken her head and looked away.
“Osprey?” Gemma asked now, breaking off her chat
with Louise Innes about the Chelsea Flower Show. “I thought they were extinct.”
“They vanished from the Highlands for more than fifty years,” John told her. “But in a pair established a nest site at Loch Garten, and now there are over a hundred pairs. They’re protected by the RSPB, of course, but eggs are still stolen occasionally.”
“Crime pays, unfortunately,” agreed Donald. “And collectors, whether of rare whiskies or birds’ eggs, are not always quite sane.”
Louise frowned. “The police should do more. I’m sure if they only—”
“I’m sure the police are overworked and understaffed,”
Gemma blurted, her irritation with the woman’s critical tone overcoming her manners. “Without chasing after egg thieves. I mean . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed, as she realized everyone was staring at her. Shrugging, she said apologetically, “Sorry. A bit of defensiveness goes with the job, I suppose.”
When the faces around her remained blank, she cursed herself for an idiot. She’d blown her own cover—not that she’d seriously intended to keep her job a secret. “Hazel didn’t tell you, then?”
“Tell us what?” asked Louise.
Well, there was no help for it now. “I’m a police officer. CID.” Seeing their blank expressions, she added,
“Criminal Investigation.”
Martin gaped at her. “You’re a detective?”
“An inspector,” Gemma admitted, beginning to enjoy herself. “Metropolitan Police.”
Pascal Benoit gave a delighted chuckle. “Brains as well as beauty, I see. You will give Heather some competition this weekend.”
Had everyone conveniently forgotten that Hazel was
a psychologist, and a licensed therapist? wondered Gemma, incensed on her friend’s behalf. And Louise— Louise’s job must take considerable skill and business acumen. But before she could protest, Heather Urquhart stretched languidly and smiled her little triangular smile, saying, “Well, it’s a good thing Donald’s family stopped smuggling whisky a few years back.” The woman suddenly reminded Gemma of Sid, their black cat at home. There was something feline about the way she sat curled in her chair, with her feet tucked up beneath her short, black skirt, running her fingers through the ends of her hair as if grooming herself.
“Och, Heather will have her wee joke,” said Donald, with a wink at Gemma. “The truth is, Benvulin was one of the first distilleries to be licensed. That was in ,”
he explained, apparently for Gemma’s benefit, “when the duke of Gordon managed to convince the government to legalize the distilling of whisky. Now, as to what the Brodies did before that, I
“But what I can tell ye,” he continued, lifting his glass and settling back in his chair, “is that making whisky was women’s work. It was the wives managed the stills while the husbands were out tending their sheep, or raiding cattle. So our Heather’s no setting a precedent.” He switched his gaze to Hazel. “And wasn’t it your great- grandmother, Hazel, who took on the family business when her husband died?”
“I-I’ve no idea.” Hazel shifted uncomfortably. “That was a long time ago.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Donald said softly.
“That’s your Londoner’s viewpoint. To a Highlander, a hundred years is nothing at all.”
*
Beneath the jocular tone, there was a note almost of pleading.
Hazel had stood for a moment, speechless, gazing up at him, then she’d clasped Gemma’s arm. “I— We’d better turn in. We’ve a big day tomorrow.”
“You’ll need a good night’s sleep to tackle John’s porridge in the morning,” agreed Louise, with such deadpan delivery that Gemma wasn’t sure she’d meant it as a joke.
Gemma took the opportunity to bid everyone good night, then steered Hazel firmly out the door, determined to get her friend on her own. Their feet crunched on the gravel as they crossed from the house to the barn.
The crisp air smelled of pine and juniper, and the mist rolling in from the river held the earthy dampness of marsh.
Hazel halted just outside the door to their room and tilted her head back. “Donald was right,” she said softly.
“The sky’s like black velvet. I’d forgotten . . .” She shivered convulsively.
“Come on, before you catch your death.” Gemma pulled Hazel into the room and shut the door. “We can stargaze some other time. Right now you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on between you and Donald Brodie.”
She’d stalled, pacing, until Gemma had thrust a mug of hot Horlicks into her hands and pointed at the armchair.
“I needed a break,” Hazel went on slowly. “And I wanted to see the Highlands again. Cooking was the one thing I could do, so I got a job catering for shooting and fishing
parties.” Making a rueful face, she blew across the top of her drink.
“Go on,” urged Gemma, settling herself at the head of one of the beds. Their room was small but pleasant, with dark beams in a whitewashed ceiling, and snowy puffs of duvets on the beds. “Was it hard?”
“I’d no idea how primitive some places still were, the shooting lodges. There were days I had to use the floor for a chopping block. It gave me confidence, though—
after that I knew I could cook anything, anywhere.”
“And Donald?”
“Donald was a guest at a lodge near Braemar, where I was cooking. One day he stayed in from the moor to help me, when I had more guests than planned and not enough food to go round. After that we were—he was—” Hazel shook her head. “I never believed in love at first sight until that day. We were giddy from then on, consumed by it. I stayed months longer than I’d intended, missing the start of the Christmas term for my second degree. We were so sure that we were meant for each other,” she added, her voice wistful.
“And then when Donald found out who I was, who my family were, that clinched it. It was to be a dynastic union; I was the ideal queen of his little empire.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gemma. “What had your family to do with it?”
“Whisky,” Hazel said shortly, sipping at her Horlicks.
“Everything comes back to whisky, in case you hadn’t noticed. My family had owned a distillery, almost as
