“Would you care for some company, lass?” Sinclair asked as he handed over the pile of blankets and the whiskey. “Or would you rather me find a spot a peedie further down the strand?”
Miss Van Etten patted the ground next to her, and he sank to the sand. She threw one blanket over her shoulder, adjusting it. Then to his utter shock, she lifted one end of the material to make an opening for him.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Miss Van Etten. I’m accustomed to the dreich.”
Ignoring his protest, she scooted toward him and raised her arm to make an even more inviting cave. Sinclair cleared his throat. She merely raised a challenging eyebrow.
Devil take him. Against all bloody reason, hewasgoing to give in.
Slipping under the wool, he allowed her to stretch the corner over his back. He reached up; then his hand brushed against hers as he pulled down on the blanket, bringing it closer ... bringingthemcloser. It made no sense—an heiress and a poor crofter like him acting like young, foolish sweethearts. But he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’twantto stop himself. He’d been fighting the tug toward her for too long, and tonight ... tonight his resistance had been ground to sand.
Their shoulders were flush against each other now, heat transferring between them. He didn’t need the blanket for warmth. Mere contact with her was enough to heat him for weeks, perhaps even months. It seemed the lass was so good at holding darkness at bay with her light that she was even chasing away his.
Miss Van Etten spread the other blankets over their legs, cocooning them together. She opened the whiskey bottle and drank a dram straight down. Then she handed it to him. He accepted and took a swig. He’d never imagined drinking with an upper-class lady—let alone sharing the same container of moonshine. It should have felt all wrong. But it didn’t. It felt all right ... at least it did tonight.
“I cannot believe that home-distilled liquor tastes so complex and smooth,” Miss Van Etten said. “Although your operationisbigger than most illegal stills.”
Sinclair rubbed his thumb against his scar as her words reminded him exactly why he shouldn’t be allowing himself to feel so comfortable. “What are your intentions?”
She laughed then, the sound short and a bit self-deprecating but no less real. “Rarely honorable.”
Sinclair gave a slow half grin and lifted the whiskey to his lips again. “I meant about the hidden distillery.”
After reaching for the bottle, she sipped a little more. “I was planning to talk to my new land agent about it. He seems a clever sort of fellow.”
Sinclair froze, allowing the whiskey to burn a path through him. He wasn’t sure what her flattery portended. He hoped she meant only to set him at ease with the compliment, but he feared she might be trying to coax him to take her side in the matter over the islanders. When he spoke, he chose his words cautiously.
“Does he now? And why would you be needing a bright chap?”
“I would think that setting up a legitimate distillery will be a bit of a challenge. Getting licenses, negotiating with the locals, those types of things.”
“It is the crofters’ recipe and our bere barley that David Craigie rolls for us,” Sinclair pointed out carefully before he could even allow himself to consider her words. The earl would have automatically demanded the lion’s share of all proceeds, but Mar never would have helped herd sheep or had a fascination with windmills. Sinclair never knew what to expect from Miss Van Etten, but he was beginning to suspect that she might be more principled than she let on. But that didn’t mean he fully trusted her. Not yet, at least.
“I’m looking to be an investor—a silent partner. We can consult with Mr.Lewis about the best way to proceed legally. I have enough connections in Britain that I’m sure we can sail through the process. Once it is certain that we can abide by the applicable regulations, I’ll provide the people of Frest with whatever you need to build a proper distillery on Hamarray.”
Sinclair tried battling down the excitement flickering inside him. It would not do to become overly enthused. Steadiness was always the best course, and Miss Van Etten had not mentioned what share she would demand.
“What percentage of the profits will you be taking?” Sinclair tried not to make the question a sharp demand despite the way his heart was squeezing so forcefully.
“How is it currently divided?”
“Every family gets an equal portion.”
Miss Van Etten was silent as she considered this, and sickly sweet nervousness filled Sinclair. Finally, she spoke, her voice thoughtful. “I wouldn’t want any proceeds until the new distillery is making more money than you currently net now. Once it hits that margin, I shall take just fifty percent of what a single crofter’s share is. And I also want to receive permission for Miss Morningstar to excavate Fornhowe.”
Although Miss Van Etten’s financial offer was exceedingly generous, the last bit caused Sinclair some pause. He did not want the islanders’ heritage carted off to New York or London. “What would her plans be?”
“Meticulous,” Miss Van Etten said. “She is not a treasure hunter but a fact seeker. We can work out with her what she will do with her physical finds, but provided the law allows, we can see that they stay in Orkney. She will work in concert with the desires of the people of Frest. If you cannot come to an agreement with her, then there shall be no dig.”
“That will be in writing?” Sinclair asked, remembering all the earl’s broken promises.
Miss Van Etten grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Then I believe a whiskey-distilling partnership may be arranged, Miss Van Etten.”
“Rose.”
That one word caused something to take root and blossom in his chest. Not milady, not ma’am, not Miss Van Etten, butRose.
