Three days had passed since their expedition to collect evergreen boughs. Three days since their exhilarating snowball fight—and the dozen hard, fast heartbeats spent lying in Blair’s arms.
In that time, the days had warmed somewhat, but the nights were still bitterly cold. It meant that the ground vacillated between muddy slush and rock-hard ice. The sky had turned sluggish, heavy clouds blocking out the thin winter sun. There had been no more forays out of doors, no sunbeams catching with dazzling brilliance against the crystalline snow.
And no more bone-melting, chest-tightening smiles from Blair.
His mood had followed the weather after they returned from the snowball fight. He turned grim once more, a frown darkening his brow more often than not. He’d removed himself back to the study, though Amelia suspected little work remained for him after he’d made the decision to send for his solicitor.
Despite Livie’s incessant pestering, Blair had also refused to select his tradition to share with them. He claimed he couldn’t come up with anything. Amelia feared the truth was worse.
Now that he’d uncovered her and Livie’s scheme to draw the spirit of the season out of him, he’d clammed up. In spite of all the fun they’d had with the gingerbread and the greenery, he was stubbornly digging in his heels, refusing to play along now.
And perhaps he was right to do so. The lightening of his spirits, the easy way he joined in—after a bit of cajoling—had made her hope that their plan just might work. But she had come to know Blair MacTierney, Earl of Brenmore rather well in these past few weeks. If he was set on his course, all the cheerful coaxing and enticing merriment in the world wouldn’t budge him.
But Amelia could rival the best of them in stubbornness. She wasn’t afraid to keep fighting for Glenrose—and Blair’s conscience. No, what had tangled her stomach and left her coiled taut with nerves was Blair’s nearness.
After a hearty but simple country supper of stew, fresh bread with butter, and thick-cut slabs of tangy cheese, Blair had invited Amelia to join him for a nightcap before the fire.
Cross with Blair for refusing to play their game of traditions, Livie had stolen into the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate, then absconded to her room abovestairs for the night, Scone following close behind.
Covering her surprise at his invitation, Amelia had accepted, and they’d settled into the cozy chairs before the hearth.
That had been an hour past. Besides the snapping of the fire, the drawing room had remained silent. Why hadn’t Blair spoken? What did he want from this private evening? His solemn features and contemplative gaze, which remained fixed on the fire, gave away nothing.
Dare she imagine that he simply wanted to be near to her, as she did him? Surely he felt the crackling tension between them, borne partly from stubborn opposition and partly from—yes, she could admit it, if only in the privacy of her own thoughts—simmering attraction.
Perhaps this was Blair’s roundabout way of giving her another opportunity to sway his thinking, to peel back his layers of gruff resistance and touch the tender heart buried deep inside. He’d let her in once, when he’d spoken of his father and the Brenmore estate. And she’d seen, felt him gentle and thaw when they’d made the gingerbread castle, and again on the hunt for evergreen boughs.
She might as well try. She already stood to lose her dream of opening a schoolhouse, and her hopes for a brighter future for all those at Glenrose. What more harm could be done in continuing the fight?
But just as she opened her mouth to speak, he beat her to it.
“Mrs. Drummond,” he said, not looking up from the fire.
Amelia blinked in confusion. Then her gaze fell on the housekeeper, who was surreptitiously sidling along the back wall toward the door to the kitchen. She jerked to a halt, clearly far from eager to have drawn her new employer’s notice. Amelia couldn’t blame her. She couldn’t make heads or tails of Blair’s stony mood at the moment.
“Aye, milord?” Mrs. Drummond said hesitantly.
“This is verra fine whisky. Where is it from?”
“Och, no’ far, to be sure, milord.”
The housekeeper’s airy answer drew Blair’s full, scowling attention.
“What is the name of the distillery? I should like to buy a bottle to take with me when I return to Edinburgh.”
Mrs. Drummond took a reluctant step forward, her hands clasped before her and her thumbs restlessly fidgeting with each other. “No distillery, milord. Just a man hereabouts who’s learned the craft from his father, and his father before that. I cannae say much more than that, milord.”
Understanding lifted Blair’s ebony brows before he smoothed his features once more. “Yer loyalty is admirable, Mrs. Drummond. I understand.” He cleared his throat. “Pass along my compliments, would ye?”
“Of course, milord,” Mrs. Drummond replied with a relieved nod.
Blair might understand, but Amelia certainly didn’t. She glanced between the two of them. “Forgive me, but…what?”
“The whisky is made illegally,” Blair answered evenly. “Bootlegged, as the pirates smuggling goods to avoid yer late King George III’s taxes would call it.”
Surprise flashed through her—at the clandestine goings-on at Glenrose, but also at Blair’s unruffled reaction.
“Why?”
“Same as the pirates,” Blair replied. “To dodge the hefty taxes on Scottish spirits.”
“If I may, milord?” At Blair’s tilt of the head, Mrs. Drummond added, “It’s more than just the taxes, Miss Harlow. Ye see, what with it being illegal and all, some landlords have used the whisky-making as a reason to evict good, honest crofters from their land. It’s really just an excuse to clear the people off and replace them with—”
Belatedly, Mrs. Drummond seemed to realize what she was saying—and to whom. Her wide gaze shot to Blair, and a beet-red flush lit up
