“More whisky!” his father bellowed. Apparently, he’d grown tired of fondling his woman.
“Och!” Liam bellowed back, doing his best to drown out the cries of agreement. “You’ll empty our coffer before the games tomorrow. What kind of host would we be without drink after the games?”
His father peered at him with an angry scowl. Hell. That meant he’d entered the mean phase of the night. “The Sassenach will fill them again.”
“Aye,” he said because there was no use disagreeing about that now. “But there’ll be no more drink until we flatten the Aberbeag tomorrow! Show the Sassenach what kind of men we are!”
There was a full round of cheers from that but also a great many grumbles as women started filing in and grabbing their men. He looked to the side where Mairi stood with her hands on her hips. No doubt she’d been listening closely to the revels and had prompted the women to get their men. And as he watched, she waded in to the sourest of his father’s clan.
“No one fights well with a sore head,” she chided as she helped bully the herder to his feet. “Get thee gone and show us your mettle tomorrow!”
The man grumbled at her—along with several others—but did as she bid. Liam helped where he was needed, but mostly she managed them well. Before long even the worst drunks were out the door. And when she at last shut the doors, she turned and pinned him with a hard stare and a raised brow. He didn’t need words to know what she was asking.
Can your Sassenach do the same? What will you do without me?
He didn’t know. He had big plans for his people, and he had no idea if Clara was up to the task. But he wouldn’t be stopped by Mairi. He turned around—it was time to get his father to bed—only to pull up short.
Aaron sat near his father. His hand was wrapped around a tankard, but from the look on his face, it hadn’t pleased him in the least. How long had he been there? What had his father said? Damn it, if Aaron chose to be prickly, he’d pack up the women and leave at first light.
Liam approached with a wary smile. “Aaron, how do you like the whisky?”
“Better than the company,” he said flatly as he pushed his drink away. His eyes were hard. “There’s been some crude talk here about my sister.”
He couldn’t deny it. “We can be a crude people, but no one will hurt her. I swear it.”
Aaron looked hard at the mess around the great hall, the dogs—Scottish Deerhounds—who were settling down for the night, and the MacCleal who was being cajoled out of his seat by his half-naked mistress. Disgust curled his lip, and he shook his head.
“I believed your clothing and your speech. You’ve spoken intelligently about matters of state, and I’ve heard you argue science with my sister at a level I can’t follow. Your education is good, your appearance is good, and no one has a dark word to say against you.”
“You thought me a fine husband prospect before. That hasn’t changed.”
Aaron’s fist slammed down hard on the table. “Not changed? Do you think I will let my sister step into this? That I would leave her to—”
“English men have revels such as this with dogs and whores. Do not deny it, because I know it’s true. I’d wager you’ve even attended a few.”
“Not with my sister!”
“And she was not here.” Liam used a cloth to wipe down the seat that his father had used. Thankfully, the man had been led away by his woman. Then Liam sat in the laird’s seat and faced his future brother-in-law. “You saw tonight the old way of doing things. Drunken revels and coarse talk. Did you see the faces of the loudest men here? They are aging, as is my father.” He composed himself in the chair as a refined man of elegance, such as would be suitable in a royal court. “I am the future here. My plans for the clan are modernization, commerce, and education. Things that you and your sister support.”
“Then come back to her when you have cleaned up this place.” And by “place,” he clearly meant his “people.”
“That is not how it works, and you know it. The new generation must show the old how to do better. And so I am.”
“How?” he asked with a sneer. “By all accounts you’ve barely been back here in years.”
Liam pushed Aaron’s tankard back toward him. “That’s how.”
“What?”
“Scottish whisky. It’s the finest in the world.”
Aaron arched a brow, then at Liam’s encouragement he picked up his drink. He sniffed it, then took a slow drink, before setting it back down. “It’s good, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s better than good. It’s fine enough to be served at the king’s table.” He grinned. “I hear Prinny has a taste for it.” In truth, Prinny had a taste for all kinds of alcohol and could likely be convinced to enjoy Scotch whisky. But only by a man with access to the prince. A man like Aaron, or his second cousin who worked at Carlton House supplying the regent with all his food and drink.
“You want a Royal Warrant for your whisky.”
“I do. A mark will make it easy to sell everywhere. Not just London, but on the Continent too.”
