They hurried along, pausing every few yards to check the little fissures on the snow’s surface. As they neared the edge of the woods, Amelia’s stomach pinched, but to her relief, the tracks skirted the tree line rather than dipping into the shadows beneath the snow-encrusted boughs.
“What lies in this direction?” Blair pointed southwest along the forest’s border.
Amelia quickly sifted through the nearby crofts in her mind. “The MacMunns’ cottage is perhaps another mile and a half ahead.”
Blair nodded. “Assuming the tracks continue that way, we’ll stop there and ask if they’ve seen Livie.”
They trudged onward in silence, Amelia too tangled in her nerves to think of anything besides Livie’s wellbeing.
As they crested a gentle rise, the MacMunn croft came into view in the valley below. Amelia’s foot faltered when she saw movement next to the croft. She knew instantly that it wasn’t Livie—this figure was big, bulky, and wrapped in a dark brown wool coat. Still, at least George MacMunn was home and could tell them if he’d seen Livie.
George was saddling his speckled draft horse, though Amelia couldn’t fathom where he was going. He stopped and watched them approach, his hand resting easily on the horse’s neck.
“Mr. MacMunn?” Blair asked when they were a half dozen paces away.
“Aye, milord, miss,” he replied, touching his fur cap and dipping his head to each of them in turn. “I was just coming up to the manor. Ye must be looking for—”
Just then, Livie burst from the croft’s front door.
“Livie!” Amelia dashed to her, wrapping her in her arms.
Once Amelia loosened her hold, Livie looked up at her and gave a sheepish smile. “I hope I didnae worry ye overmuch.”
“What’s going on?” Blair demanded, clearly not placated by the sight of Livie, who appeared unharmed and perhaps even a little pleased with herself.
“Lady Livie arrived no’ long ago,” George said. “She had some…interesting things to say. I was just bringing her back up to the manor.” He patted the saddle on his sturdy draft horse. “She said I ought to come with her, to discuss this business about…”
The man glanced at Blair warily, puckering his cold-chapped mouth.
“The whisky,” Livie finished, giving Blair a pointed look.
Blair’s gaze widened, sliding between Livie and George. When he didn’t immediately reply, Livie added, “The solution to the estate’s problems. Mr. MacMunn is the one ye need to speak to.”
“Ye are the maker,” Blair said slowly, his eyes turning keen on George.
George shifted, but after a moment he answered with a single curt nod.
“Then we do have a fair bit to discuss.”
With another wordless nod, George motioned for them all to step inside. Amelia followed Livie into the croft, more than ready for a few answers.
* * * *
Though George MacMunn looked like he’d rather be eating nails than hosting Blair in his croft’s cramped main room, Highland hospitality ran deep as bone in these parts.
George rummaged in a cupboard for a moment, then removed four cups and a half-full bottle of deep-gold whisky. He poured a healthy dram into two of the cups, but when he added a splash to a third, Amelia interrupted him.
“None for me, thank you.”
“Nonsense. Pardon, miss, I ken ye arenae Scottish, but ye dinnae refuse a wee dram offered in friendship.”
Eyeing Amelia’s startled expression, George relented. “I’ll make it up the way my late wife liked it. Dinnae fash, miss.”
He fetched hot water from a kettle hanging over the fire and poured a splash in Amelia and Livie’s cups, then added a liberal dollop of honey from a pot in the cupboard to each.
Once the cups were passed around, George seated himself on the bench across the table from Blair. Lifting his cup, Blair murmured, “Slainte,” out of habit. George looked up at him, a pleased light in his midnight blue eyes.
The whisky burned a warm, sharp path across Blair’s tongue and down his throat. It was sweet and spicy, smooth and biting all at once. It pooled like molten metal in his stomach, almost painful in its pleasure.
Amelia cleared her throat and blinked several times after her sip, yet a few seconds later she gave a soft, surprised smile. “Thank you, Mr. MacMunn.”
“Ye are welcome, miss,” he replied. It might have been from coming indoors after being out in the cold, but Blair thought he detected a faint blush on the man’s weathered face.
George cleared his throat, turning his attention on Blair. “Now, about this business with the whisky.”
“This is some of the finest malt I’ve ever tasted,” Blair said honestly, nodding to his cup. “Ye made this? Here?”
The wariness was back around George’s eyes. Instead of waiting for his answer, Blair continued on.
“Ye have nothing to fear from me, man. In fact, I am here to humbly propose a scheme to ensure not only yer protection, but the protection of the entire Glenrose estate.”
George leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“Ye’ll think I’m mad, but Lowlanders and Englishmen pay good money for fine, strong Scotch whisky like yers. Two or three pounds a bottle.”
George’s eyes went so wide that Blair could see the whites all around. “Truly?”
“Aye, but only for the stuff that makes it into their fine shops. Legally.”
Now the older man saw where Blair was going. He shook his head. “Nay. They’ll tax us into the ground.”
“We would have to pay taxes, it’s true, but I’ve run a few rough calculations.” Blair quickly went over the numbers Cullingham had come up with, though he wasn’t sure George was following when
