“What are ye even doing here, anyway? Ye dinnae ken how to distill, unless ye have some secret life that ye havenae yet shared with the rest of us.”
Arran’s smile turned a touch melancholy, and he gazed out to where the men were hurrying to their different tasks or listening keenly to an elder who knew the art of whisky.
“Nay, I dinnae ken much of the business myself,” Arran confessed. “But Caden… He always said that Buchanan whisky was the best to be had.”
Ciaran’s attention had been caught by the familiar sights and smells of the workspace, as well as by his envy over the impeccable facilities that the Buchanans had built on the ashesof their tragedy. At Arran’s reference to his elder brother, Caden, however, his mind snapped back to the conversation. This was a chance to get an answer to one of the questions that had been bothering him—without arousing undue suspicion.
“I dinnae mean to pry,” he said, even though he intended to do precisely that. “But your brother… I heard tell that the McPhersons had sided with Gordon, and yet I find ye here, wed to a Donaghey.”
Arran clenched his jaw, though he didn’t look offended by the question. James reached over and laid a hand on Arran’s shoulder, the gesture a clear sign of commiseration.
“My father has chosen the wrong side in the conflict, aye,” Arran said, his gaze far-off and bleak. He looked suddenly older than he had even moments ago, a heaviness weighing upon his shoulders. “My brother… He was a tool in my father’s schemes, but he helped me save Davina from what could have been a dreadful fate, and for that, I will always be grateful to him.”
There was a fierceness to his tone when he spoke about his wife, but Ciaran noticed that this did not precisely answer the question about his brother. He decided to press, just a little.
“Your brother remained with your father, then? And ye have no news of how things fare at McPherson Keep?”
Ewan shot Ciaran a look, but it wasn’t suspicious—it merely chided Ciaran for his insensitivity. All Arran did, however, was offer a grim shake of his head.
“My brother was unable to escape with us,” he said which, once more, did notquiteanswer Ciaran’s question. But perhaps even Arran was uncertain about his brother’s true loyalties. “And my father wouldnae permit his heir to consort with a traitor like myself.”
There was bitter irony in his words.
“I will see them freed, though,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I willnae leave my clan to suffer under Gordon’s rule.”
That comment struck Ciaran directly in the chest, leaving him almost breathless with its force.
“’Twas an ugly scene,” James commiserated. “But at least ye found your bride out of it, aye?”
This distraction did dispel some of the angry clouds that floated behind Arran’s eyes.
“Aye,” he agreed easily. “And she is worth any trouble a thousand times over.”
“Dinnae let her hear you say that,” James joked. “Those Donaghey girls take that as a challenge.”
Ciaran got halfway to opening his mouth to comment that Eilidh had to be the most troublesome of the lot before remembering that he was not part of this conversation. This was for the men who had actually married the sisters, not for the lying coward who had mauled her in the armory.
“All right, enough havering,” Ewan commanded, hands on his hips as he looked out over the distillery. “I dinnae bring ye here to blether on and on. Ye are here to work. So. Gunn.”
Ciaran tilted his chin in acknowledgment. In another life, in another set of circumstances, he would have liked knowing Ewan Buchanan. He was honorable and hardworking, and clearly not afraid to roll up his sleeves and labor alongside his men.
“Aye?”
“The Gunns were masters of distilling, not so long ago. What do ye think of what we’ve built here?”
It was clearly a test. But some instinct made Ciaran suspect that what was really being challenged wasn’t his knowledge of whisky alone.
“It will garner attention,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Gordon… he hates anything that makes a clan stronger. He destroys legacies—horse breeding, distilling.”
He paused, glancing around at the men, who had not lost any of their good cheer for starting their labors.
“But I dinnae think that ye were wrong to stick to your craft,” he said. “I wish my father and brothers had stayed true to theirs, instead of meddling in politics and feuds that didnae concern them. Now, they’re gone. My family’s legacy is gone.”
This was perhaps more than Ciaran ought to have admitted, but Christ if it didn’t feel good to say it out loud.
“Why did ye never go back to it?” Ewan asked. This, too, was a challenge—Ewan Buchanan was a laird down to his bones—but it was not one devoid of sympathy.
“As ye ken the King forbade it,” Ciaran said, shrugging his shoulder with a nonchalance that he certainly didn’t feel. “After my father’s role in the uprising, the Gunns were to be punished. Perhaps we might have found our feet again eventually, but now another war has come to the Highlands.”
