“Hazel, I can stay with you,” offered Gemma. “I don’t mind—”
“No. It’s all right. I wouldn’t have you miss this, and I’ll be fine.” She gave Gemma the ghost of a smile. “I promise.”
reptitiously at Donald as they drove, she was aware of his large, capable hands on the wheel, and of the strong profile of his nose above his bearded lips.
“Bloody hell,” she swore under her breath. The man radiated a woolly sort of sexual magnetism. And if she weren’t immune, she could imagine what Hazel must be feeling.
“Sorry?” said Donald, having—thankfully—not understood her muttered curse.
“Um, your kilt,” Gemma blurted out as he glanced over at her curiously. “I was wondering about your kilt. I thought the one you wore last night was your clan tartan.”
“This is Hunting Brodie. The hunting tartans are never as bright.”
“Sort of like camouflage?”
“Exactly. The hunting tartans usually replace the background color of the tartan with blue, green, or brown.”
“Have you always worn the kilt?”
“Oh, aye. Fits the image, you see, of the owner of an ancient distillery.” His tone was lightly mocking. “And as a rule, I find the kilt more comfortable than breeks.”
“There’s no real tradition, then?” asked Gemma, genuinely interested now.
“I’d not like to disappoint ye.” Donald smiled at her, and her pulse leapt. “There is a tradition, right enough, but it owes more to Sir Walter Scott and the Victorians than to authentic clan history. There’s not even real evidence that early tartans were associated with specific clans. And as for the kilted Highlander marching into bat- tle,” he added, warming to his subject, “the original kilt was merely a belted plaid, and most of the time the soldiers took it off for ease of movement when fighting.”
“A plaid is different from a tartan?” she asked.
“A plaid is just a woolen fabric. The early plaids were
long rectangles of cloth, about sixteen feet by five. A man would lay it out on the ground, pleat it, then lie on top of it and belt it on.”
“It sounds very awkward,” Gemma admitted. “And not the least bit romantic.”
“Och, well, I’ll try not to spoil all your illusions.
Look.” Donald pointed as he slowed the Land Rover.
“There’s Benvulin.”
If Gemma had imagined an industrial site, similar to breweries she’d seen near London, she had been very much mistaken. Before them, an emerald green field rolled down towards a broad sweep of the Spey. In the foreground, a dozen shaggy Highland cattle raised their massive heads to stare at them as they passed. Beyond that, the distillery buildings clustered at the edge of the bluff overlooking the river.
The buildings were weathered gray stone, and in the center rose the distinctive twin-pagoda roofs of the kilns, complete with rustic waterwheel.
“Oh,” breathed Gemma. “It’s like a storybook.”
“It is, arguably, the prettiest distillery in Scotland,”
Donald admitted. “Tho’ I am a wee bit biased.”
He pulled the car up in front of the house that sat to one side of the distillery complex. Heather’s Audi already sat empty in the drive. “Come on; we’ll join the others,”
he said, pulling the baskets from the back of the Land Rover.
“This is your house?” Gemma slid out of the car without taking her eyes from the prospect. Built of the same weathered gray stone as the distillery, the house was a conglomeration of gables, turrets, and rooflines that echoed the pagoda shape of the kilns. It should have been hideous, she thought, but somehow it wasn’t.
“Neo-baronial excess,” said Donald, following her gaze. “Built by my great-great-grandfather in .”
Gemma followed him as he headed, not towards the front door, but around the side of the house. “I think it’s marvelous.”
“You don’t have to pay the central heating,” Donald answered lightly, but she thought he was pleased.
As they came round the corner, Gemma saw a green lawn flanked by rhododendrons and, at its edge, the bluff overlooking the river.
The rest of the party had already spread traveling rugs on the lawn, and Heather called out, “Hurry it up, then.
We’re famished.”
Donald and Gemma joined the group, and as they un-packed the picnic baskets and tucked into their lunch, Gemma watched Heather Urquhart curiously. The other woman seemed relaxed, without the sharpness Gemma had noticed in Hazel’s presence, and her exchanges with Donald had the easy familiarity Gemma had noticed earlier.
Along with the fruit, cheese, and the wedges of cold pheasant pie provided by John, Donald had brought a bottle of whisky and a half-dozen squatty, tulip-shaped glasses. The bottle, however, carried not the Benvulin logo that Gemma had already come to recognize, but a simple paper label with a handwritten number.
“This is a single cask whisky,” Donald explained as he handed round the glasses and poured a half-inch in each.
“Do you know the distinction?”
She shook her head. “That’s different from a single malt?”
“A single malt comes from one distillery,” put in Heather, with more patience than Gemma had expected.
“But the whisky is drawn from many different casks, to
achieve a uniformity of taste—a style. A single cask, on the other hand, is just what it sounds, a whisky bottled from one single cask. Each cask is wonderfully unique, and once it’s gone, it can never be replicated exactly.”
“It’s also very strong,” cautioned Donald, “and so should be drunk with care.” He held up his glass. “First, look at the color. What do you see?”
“It’s a pale gold,” Gemma ventured. “Lighter than the amber one we drank last night.”
“That pale color means it was aged in American bour-bon oak. The darker colors usually mean the whisky has spent some time in a sherry cask. Now”—he nodded towards Gemma’s glass—“sniff.” He demonstrated by holding his own glass under his nose. “What aromas jump out at you?”
Gemma inhaled gingerly. “Um, a sort of spicy vanilla.”
“Verra good. Now take a tiny sip—you don’t want to burn your tongue.”
Complying, Gemma found that although her nose prickled, her eyes didn’t tear as they had last night. “It’s sharp, acid. With a sort of burnt-sugar taste.”
“Brilliant. Now we’re going to add some water, and taste again.” Donald pulled a bottle of spring water from the basket and poured a few drops into her glass.
Gemma sipped, holding the liquid on her tongue and frowning in concentration before letting it slide down her throat. “It’s much more flowery now,” she said in surprise. “With a hint of . . . could it be peaches? And honey—it definitely tastes like honey.”
“That’s very good.” Donald beamed at her as if she were a prize pupil. “And the more you taste, the more complexities you’ll be able to discern. We’ll turn you into a whisky connoisseur yet.” He splashed water into the other glasses, then raised his own. “Slainte.”
This time, Gemma took a more generous swallow and felt the warmth work its way down into her belly, then out towards her fingers and toes.
They finished their drinks in companionable chat, and although Martin stretched out and promptly went to sleep, Gemma found that rather than experiencing the groggy sleepiness often induced by wine, she felt vi-brantly alive and alert. “Could we see the distillery?” she asked.
“Of course,” replied Donald. “We’ll take a wee tour.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Heather, lazily. “That’s too much like work.”
