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“Thank you.” Olivia went to the hearth and put on her socks, somehow managing not to smile when she caught Jamie looking at her boots again.
“My husband spent most of what we had getting us here so it wasn’t like we could turn around and go back.”
Jamie studied her for a moment as a flicker of amusement touched his eyes. “So ye continued north?”
“Calum said he had a cousin he’d never met who lived near Beauly, north of Inverness. He thought the man might take us in long enough for me to write to my grandmother in Boston and ask her to send funds for my passage home.”
Jamie leaned one hip against the table. “Why come through Glenbrae, then?”
Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the map of Scotland Fiona had shown her?
“My husband had letters to people involved in the whisky trade. Or he did before we were robbed. I thought maybe I could still make a few connections so the trip, and… my loss wouldn’t be in vain.”
“Robbed.”
“Yes.”
His expression sharpened. “Where?”
“On the road.”
“By whom?”
“I didn’t stop to ask for introductions.”
The faintest twitch touched the corner of his mouth.
“They took our money, the letters, my papers, all of my baggage, and… even my wedding ring. We left the road before they could decide whether I had anything else worth stealing. Calum and I decided to look for a place to hide until we were certain the robbers had gone.”
“And ye found the tunnel?”
“We were trying to get out of the rain and hide.”
“Into the old smugglers’ tunnel?”
“I didn’t know it was a smugglers’ tunnel at the time.”
“And dressed as ye are.”
Olivia glanced down at herself. “My husband believed in practical travel. Back in Boston, some women wear trousers for work or to travel.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat. “A progressive man yer husband.”
“He had his moments.”
The fictional Mr. Bennett was already becoming alarmingly useful, which for some reason made Olivia dislike him on principle.
Jamie studied her for a long moment.
“Ye said ye had a job. What did ye do for this husband involved in spirits and trade?”
“I worked with whisky.”
His suspicion shifted into immediate interest. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can taste and smell spirits, identify faults, compare batches, and tell when something has changed.”
She counted off on her fingers. “Water, grain, smoke, wood, storage, bad handling. My husband handled the business. I handled the glass. He called me his nose.”
