The Whisky Laird's Bed

Book 2: Rake Patrol

by Donna MacMeans

Genres: Historical Romance; Scottish & Highlander; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

A spirited woman and a Highland laird learn that attraction is the most intoxicating drink of all in the second novel in the Rake Patrol series.

Claire Starke has no illusions about her future. As her father repeatedly reminded her, her looks would never win a husband, and her poverty makes her an even less suitable wife. Luckily, her comrades at the Rake Patrol have given her joy and comfort—enough to quell the dull ache for a family of her own. So, when fellow member Faith runs off to the Highlands, investigating a whisky distiller advertising for an English wife, Claire sees no choice but to save her friend from this intemperate and lustful man. But she didn’t expect the laird to be so intriguing, or to begin questioning her own restraint...
 
Still reeling from the distillery accident which left him scarred and shaken, Cameron MacPherson has no plans to marry, even if his mother is determined to tie him to one of the British milquetoasts parading through his castle. But when Claire bursts upon the scene, hurling accusations about alcohol and ruin, he finds the reformer fascinating. The fact that she stands up to him when others shrink away is more than charming—this one has spirit and, to be honest, he wouldn’t mind drinking a deep draught of her...

Release date: July 15, 2014

Publisher: InterMix

Print pages: 275

Sample

Chapter 1

London, 1891

Alcoholic fumes and the painful memories they evoked nearly unnerved Claire Starke as she entered the masculine domain of the Bull and Beast.

Steeling her resolve, she pushed forward into the first of nineteen pubs that lined a short stretch of Oxford Street. Nineteen pubs, each filled with men who thought nothing of drinking away their day’s wages, to the detriment of their wives and children. Had these men no conscience? No more productive way to spend their time?

“Think of your hungry children,” she whispered to one man deep in his cups. She placed a pamphlet by his hand.

“Free worker’s lunch at the Sober Society,” she murmured to another, who was nursing a glass of Old Tom gin. He grunted, and she quietly moved on.

“The needs of the household are greater than your need for drink,” she said to the well-dressed man sipping from a glass of amber liquid. An open bottle of Scotch whisky, that most foul of liquors, sat near his elbow.

“What?” Vacuous eyes lifted to her face, trying to focus. “What do you know of my needs?”

“You!” the burly barkeep shouted, pointing a finger at her. “Are you one of those Sober Society troublemakers?”

A group of men slurring their way through the lyrics of a bawdy drinking song stilled. A few tankards of ale smacked wooden tables with loud thuds. Reddened, runny eyes turned her way, while an unnatural silence descended.

Claire slowly straightened, smoothing her hand over her simple black skirt. Defiantly, she shifted her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I believe in temperance. Yes.”

Jeers and whistles rose in response. She raised her voice to a near-shout. “These men need to understand that drinking their wages leads to poverty and malnutrition. Their wives and children—”

“Your face would drive me to drink!” one man yelled. Laughter and cheers encouraged others to join his verbal assault.

“Her nose looks like a beak! She must be a crow,” mocked another.

A chant began. “Crow, crow, crow . . .”

Even though she knew the men very likely couldn’t see her clearly, the insult stung. She knew she was no beauty, and didn’t require the reminder. The taunt about her nose was a familiar one, though, which sadly suggested it was true.

“You can’t distribute that trash in here,” the barkeep snarled. “Leave now before I throw you out.”

It wasn’t an idle threat. She’d learned that from experience, and so kept a knife tucked in her boot. A woman physically ejected from a tavern held a strange attraction to those prowling outside. After one such frightening episode, she’d determined never to be so vulnerable again.

But if she could avoid being placed in such jeopardy, she would. She turned, then peaceably walked toward the door, tossing pamphlets on the tables as she passed. Her pace quickened when she sensed the barkeep behind her. She burst onto Oxford Street a moment before he could catch her.

She paused to catch her breath and clear the stink of pub vapors from her throat. But the scent of rubbish in the street wasn’t much better.

“One down.” She sighed. “Eighteen more to go.”

A tug on her skirt startled her. Looking down, she met the pleading glance of a young boy, perhaps seven, peeking out from a filthy cap. Worn, dirty clothes hung from his thin frame. Beside him, a small black-and-white terrier cocked his head. The two sets of eyes tugged at her heart.

“Please, ma’am. Did you see my pa inside?” The boy glanced to the door of the Bull and Beast. “My ma said to bring ’im ’ome before he drinks the rent. But I’m scared . . .”

It may have been a ploy for money—begging had given rise to talents worthy of Drury Lane—but something about this lad spoke true. Not so long ago, she’d been the one checking the pubs, hoping to find her drunken father.

Sadly, the recent sale of her father’s prized pocket watch had netted less money than she’d anticipated, but she had great expectations of winning the fat prize purse offered by the Sober Society. Thus, she felt she could be generous with the young lad.

“Here, boy.” She placed some coins in his hand. “Take this home to your mother, and don’t tell your pa, or he’ll drink that away as well.”

The boy’s eyes brightened as if lit by one of those newfangled electric lightbulbs. He tipped his filthy cap. “God save you, miss. Thank you so much. Thank you.” Then he turned and disappeared down the street.

She glanced down, noting that the dog had remained.

“Go on,” she prodded. “Off with you.”

The dog didn’t move. She sighed. Another stray. What was it about her that called to all the stray children and animals of the world? Sometimes she suspected that they recognized her as one of their own.

“Come along, then. We’ll see about getting you a bone. Looks like we’ve enough time to be evicted from a few more establishments.”

***

Two hours later, Claire pushed through the door of the Crescent Coffee Palace while her canine companion continued down the street with a new bone locked firmly in his jowls. That was the way with strays. They stayed for a meal or two before independence pulled them away.

The Crescent Coffee Palace had been a gin parlor before the Women for a Sober Society transformed the building into a respectable and popular meeting place for refined ladies. Claire had served on several of the Society’s committees, helping to advance the temperance cause. She hoped her efforts would be remembered when the Sober Society chose their prize recipient. Heaven knew she could use the money. While the sale of her father’s photographic equipment had netted a tidy sum, financial resources were dwindling, with sparse hope of replacement.

“There she is,” a familiar voice called. Sarah, the oldest member of the Rake Patrol, waved her handkerchief. “Over here.”

Four women had originally formed the Rake Patrol to warn and rescue innocent women duped by fraudulent and misleading personal ads placed in the Mayfair Messenger. One of the women, Sarah, worked at the paper and offered unique insight into those placing an advertisement. While Claire was the only one involved in the temperance movement, she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed this noble and rewarding venture even more. She was convinced they had saved numerous women from destroying their lives. In the process, she’d found her dearest, best friends.

Claire sharpened her focus. Something was amiss. Their ranks had been reduced by one, as Edwina Hargrove had recently wed Mr. Ashton Trewelyn and was now enjoying a honeymoon cruise floating down the Nile. Thus, there should be only one other person at the table with Sarah. Yet now there were two.

“Claire, I’m so glad you’re here,” Sarah said. “Perhaps you can convince these two of the foolishness of their plan to—”

“Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Patricia Townsend,” Faith interrupted, with an anguished glance toward Sarah. “Patricia wishes our advice after the receipt of some recent correspondence.”

“Correspondence?” Claire asked, her eyes narrowed.

The mousy woman to her right looked to have one foot in the grave and yet had already laid claim to Faith’s friendship. Suspicious of the newcomer’s intent, Claire looked to Sarah. “Have we moved beyond personal ads? We now consider correspondence?”

“I replied to a personal ad last week,” Miss Townsend explained. “Perhaps you recall this?” She reached into her reticule, then handed Faith a tightly folded scrap of newsprint. Faith spread the paper on the table, then read it aloud.

“‘A Gentleman Desirous of Marriage.

‘A prosperous, handsome gentleman, 29 years of age and of a healthful constitution, is desirous of marriage to a suitable woman of elegance and grace, who would willingly serve as hostess and companion. Ability to withstand the northern climes essential. Reply to Box 23, Mayfair Messenger.’”

Claire stifled a shudder. Even in London, she was always cold. A legacy from her childhood, when a penny was too precious to waste on coal. The thought that someone would voluntarily withstand a colder climate seemed downright nonsensical.

“I remember the man who placed that ad. He had an ugly scar.” Sarah’s finger sliced a path across her face from her temple to the corner of her lip. “I always thought it misleading that he advertised himself as handsome.”

“A scar itself would not render the advertisement false,” Faith interceded. “There are more attributes assigned to ‘handsome’ than the features of one’s face. He might have a lovely disposition or handsome manners or—”

“That may be true,” Claire said, interrupting Faith’s lecture. Those gifted with beauty, as Faith was, often overlooked the advantages of their appearance. However, Claire understood the reality of life without those gifts and it wasn’t all sugar and sunshine. She turned toward Miss Townsend. “I believe you mentioned something about correspondence?”

The woman smiled. “My response to this initial advertisement generated an invitation to interview the gentleman at his home. While I was assured that a chaperone would be present at all times, I’m leery of making such a trip alone.”

“As well you should be,” Claire agreed with a sharp nod. “Refuse him.”

Pleased that her guidance had saved yet another innocent from the clutches of some unscrupulous cad, Claire prepared for a different discussion. While she was proud to be part of The Rake Patrol, she’d hoped to talk about new members and perhaps solicit her friends’ thoughts about that Sober Society contest.

“Only the lowest sort of gentleman would insist that you interview at his home as if you were a servant,” Sarah interjected. “That advertisement has run on several occasions, if I recall. The next time that scar-faced man appears, I’ll tell him—”

“He lives in Scotland,” Miss Townsend said. “That concerns me more than the interview.”

“Scotland!” Claire couldn’t repress her shudder. It would take more than a coal fire to warm her in that desolate place.

Faith’s delicate brows knit together. “If he has come to London on several occasions to place an advertisement in the Messenger . . .”She hesitated before twisting her head toward Miss Townsend. “Why would he insist you travel to Scotland? He could just as easily interview you here.”

“I’m surprised he lives in Scotland,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “The scar-faced man has an English accent, not Scottish.”

“Refuse him,” Claire insisted again, with her Sober Society committee voice. Unsure why they were continuing to discuss this obviously unsuitable ad, she glanced at Sarah. “While I understand you can not decline to run this ad in the future, perhaps the Messengershould demand some sort of disclosure about the trip to Scotland. That alone should discourage unsuspecting innocents from placing themselves in jeopardy.”

“I want to go,” Miss Townsend said quietly.

Claire stared in disbelief. Did the woman not understand the danger of traveling alone so far from home? While she admired the woman’s determination, that was not sufficient reason for such a foolhardy decision.

“I’m not as young as I once was,” Miss Townsend explained. “My opportunities for marriage are diminishing. If there’s a possibility of an amenable future in Scotland, then I don’t want to dismiss it without meeting my potential husband.” She glanced around the table. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and my mind is made up. I’ve a cousin in Edinburgh, though I’ve never been to Scotland to meet her, and I’m curious . . . but I’m not so foolish as to go alone. I was hoping one of you might accompany me . . .”

“One of us?” Sarah’s mouth gaped. “We can’t very well pack up and go to Scotland at the drop of a hat.”

“I think you misunderstand the nature of the Rake Patrol,” Claire patiently explained with a pointed lift of the brow. “We investigate the men who place personal ads to see if they are worthy of the women they seek. If they are not, we work to discourage women from blindly falling into their clutches. It seems to me that this Scotland fellow is the latter, and you have been duly warned.”

Sensing that her words had little impact on the pouting Miss Townsend, Claire narrowed her eyes. “Do you not recall ‘The Maiden Tribute,’ which ran in the Pall Mall Gazette?”

“W. T. Stead’s series on white slavery.” Sarah’s head lifted. She turned toward Miss Townsend. “He wrote about women being lured to London with promises of well-paying positions, only to be forced into brothels.” She scowled a moment and then glanced at Claire. “Of course, Stead was drawn into scandal over that piece.”

“Yet no one has denied that white slavery exists,” Claire stated with authority. If London’s wickedness could support nineteen drinking establishments on Oxford Street, then it could support brothels filled with innocents as well. “Stead’s downfall was his showmanship, not his accuracy.”

“But I’m already in London,” Miss Townsend protested. “And the offer is for marriage, not employment.”

“It’s the same ruse.” Claire shook her head. “If men live in Scotland, I imagine brothels exist there, just as they do here.” She looked around the circle. “I propose we move on to other business. Our group has been diminished by Edwina’s absence. I don’t know if we’ll ever find another who could break codes as easily as Edwina, but we should consider finding someone with her investigative resources.”

“I miss Edwina,” Faith said with a sigh.

“I do, too,” Sarah added. “Reading the personal column is just not the same without her explaining what the coded ads really said.” She looked over at Faith. “Have you heard from her recently?”

“Indeed, I have! I received a letter just as I left.” She fished in her reticule. “I’d quite forgotten it in the discussion surrounding Miss Townsend’s dilemma. Here it is!”

Claire settled back in her seat, accepting that no further business would be enacted at this meeting. They would all listen to Edwina’s latest exploits and then disperse due to the advancing hour. She missed Edwina as well but realized she was living her dream, honeymooning with the unquestionably handsome Ashton Trewelyn. Some people were fortunate to find a life companion. Others, like herself, had to accept that theirs was to be a lonely lot in life.

Perhaps that was why she was determined to leave a mark on the world. Without a husband, she certainly wouldn’t have offspring to do it for her.

Movement caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as two women took seats at the table behind Faith. One of them was Mrs. Ledbetter, a woman younger than Claire, but her fiercest rival for the Sober Society purse.

Ever since she’d overheard Lucy Ledbetter laughing and joking about Claire’s spinster status, the other woman had become Claire’s bitter enemy. Even if Lucy traveled in high society, Claire considered her no better than those men calling her crow this morning. Lucy had a whole host of alcoholic relatives that she would trot out at various Sober Society meetings to talk about the woes of drinking. As impressive as that was, Claire hoped her pamphlet distribution in drinking establishments might have an equal impact on the judges. Still, she needed something extra, something to put her over the top in commitment. If she could think of a suitable project—

A sharp kick to her shin ended her woolgathering. Claire glanced to her side. Sarah’s face tilted toward Miss Townsend.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting with you, ladies. Especially you, Miss Starke.” She stood, maintaining a tight smile. “I appreciate your fierce warning and pragmatic advice.”

“You’re welcome,” Claire replied. As soon as Miss Townsend was out of earshot, she turned to Sarah. “Do you think she listened?”

“I don’t know.” Sarah shrugged. “It’s difficult to ignore the opportunity of improving one’s condition through the procurement of a husband.”

“The likelihood of finding a husband through a personal ad would be akin to finding a golden crock at the end of a rainbow.” Claire sipped her tea. “She’d be foolish to hang her hopes on this fellow.”

“I don’t know,” Faith said wistfully, watching the Crescent’s door close behind Miss Townsend. “Edwina followed her rainbow, and look what happened.”

Though tempted to point out that Edwina had not actually answered the ad that ultimately led to her marriage, Claire held her tongue. A whimsical milieu of hope and romance had surrounded the table, and Claire didn’t wish to dispel it with harsh reality.

***

The following week, Claire returned to the Crescent.

“They’re gone,” Sarah said, her voice cracking. She sat alone at the table where the three friends were to meet.

“Who?” Claire asked, suspicions already forming a lump in her throat.

“Faith and Miss Townsend. They left for Scotland on the nine fifteen.” Sarah gazed up at Claire with worry-filled eyes. “I have a bad feeling about this. I think Faith had a premonition as well. Why else would she send me the address where they were going? She must have wanted someone to know, just in case . . .”

“And where exactly did they go?” Claire asked, shocked by Faith’s involvement.

“A place called Ravenswood on Loch Rannoch.”

“Loch Rannoch?” There were so many lochs and glens in that godforsaken place.

“It’s in the Highlands. She mentions a place called Beckmore near Pitlochry.” Sarah pulled Faith’s letter from her reticule. “They’re to visit Miss Townsend’s cousin in Edinburgh first, then they’ll go on to Ravenswood.”

“Let me see.” Claire took the letter from Sarah’s shaking fingers, then examined it for the particulars.

“It gets worse,” Sarah said. Even through Sarah’s spectacles, Claire saw moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. “I saw that man again.”

“What man?” Claire asked absently. She mentally configured the timetable of the two women. Why would Faith go on such a foolish venture, especially to Scotland? Why, the place was rife with drunken sots full of the Devil’s whisky. Hadn’t she listened to Claire’s warning?

“The one with that awful scar,” Sarah said. “The one who placed the personal ad. I saw him after we met last week. I had planned to tell Faith about it today.”

“Tell Faith what?” Claire’s patience was truly wearing thin. Action needed to be taken, and yet Sarah was blundering on about men and scars.

“He was standing outside a brothel. I was thinking about what you said about Stead and his exposé, so when my carriage drove by Flower Street, I peeked through the curtains . . . and there he was, talking to one of those women.” Her tears brimmed over to track down her cheeks. “He’s a white slaver, I know it. We’ll never see Faith again.”

Never see Faith again. Those words carried a physical blow much like those she’d suffered at the hands of her drunken father. Claire gasped at the thought of losing her friend, her closest confidante. The white slavers would delight in capturing such a beauty, and Faith, dear Faith, would have no knowledge of how to extricate herself from their grasp. She hadn’t the experience of dealing with intoxicated fathers or the brutish barkeeps who ruled Oxford Street.

Claire folded the letter, then tucked the paper in her reticule. She stood to leave.

“Wait.” Sarah grabbed a fistful of her black skirt. “We have to talk. What are we going to do about this? Where are you going?”

Claire glanced down, surprised that the answer wasn’t obvious. “To rescue Faith, of course.”

Chapter 2

Cameron Macpherson sank his head in his hands. Even the colors from his office’s stained glass windows dancing across the wide ledger pages failed to brighten his distillery’s dismal bank results. Rebuilding Ravenbeck Whisky had taken all of last year’s profits. His extravagant mother’s move back to Scotland threatened to consume all of the current year’s profits. He’d need to talk to her again—not that she’d listened during their previous conversations.

Peat’s shaggy head lifted signaling imminent interruption. It was just as well. An interruption would be a welcome relief. As expected, a knock sounded.

Cameron bid them enter while he slipped the foot-long ledger into a desk drawer and locked it with a key. There was no need for anyone else to worry about the sad state of Ravenbeck’s finances. When he glanced up, it was directly into a young laddie’s face. The boy’s stubborn jaw lifted defiantly, while his angry eyes desperately tried to hide his fear—qualities Cameron himself knew well enough. Those eyes were too old for one so young. His gaze drifted higher, to the man with a firm grip on the lad’s shoulder.

“What’s this about?” Cameron asked quietly.

His foreman slapped a long copper tube topped with a string and a cork onto the scarred wooden desk. “We’ve a thief in our midst. I caught him sneaking out the gate. A young ’un, to be sure, but a thief no the less.”

The lad looked no more than twelve. Yet he had a dog, as the device was commonly called, which was used to pilfer small quantities of whisky. At the moment, the lad’s gaze fixed on a different sort of dog. Cameron’s massive deerhound opened his mouth to let his tongue lull.

Cameron removed the cork and sniffed. Fumes of fresh spirit tinged his lungs. Years in an oak cask would eventually turn this fiery liquid into a mellow whisky, but at this stage, the liquid was barely palatable. Cameron squinted at the lad. “A bit young for a hardened criminal. Do ye have a name?”

When no immediate answer was forthcoming, Hamish shook the lad and snatched the filthy cap from his head. “Show some respect. That’s the laird who’s asking.”

Cameron bit the inside of his lip to control the resulting flinch. Even after seven years, the reference to a title that by rights belonged to another still stung.

“Ian,” the boy mumbled. “Ian Docherty.”

“Docherty?” Hamish scowled. “Didna a Docherty drown three months ago?”

The boy’s gaze drifted back toward Peat, but not before Cameron noted his hollowed cheeks and thin arms. The lad hadn’t had a full stomach in some time. “My da.”

“Should I call the magistrate?” Hamish raised his eyes to Cameron. “A thief is a thief. A stint in reformatory will do the lad some good.”

Ian’s head jerked up, his eyes widening. “Please, sir. I won’t do it again. I stole it for my ma. With my da gone and the bairns hungry, we needed money.”

“You won’t be getting money where you’re heading,” Hamish said with a stern shake of the boy’s shoulder. “Thieves go to prison first, and young thieves to reformatory after.”

Cameron held up a restraining hand to Hamish, but directed his gaze at the boy. “You’d be more help to your ma if you stayed in school and got an education. Then you could get an honest job. Did ye consider that?”

“Aye,” the lad replied solemnly. “But my ma says I need to earn more than I need to learn.”

Self-sacrifice for one’s family—another concept with which Cameron was painfully familiar.

“I don’t abide ignorance in my employees,” he said. “If I hear you’re no trying your best, or if I find you here when you ought to be in school, then Hamish will dismiss you first, and then feed you to my hound.” He nodded toward Peat, who instinctively licked his lips.

“Dismiss?” Confusion chased the anger from the boy’s face.

“There’s always more work than men to do it,” Cameron said, though it was questionable whether this lad would qualify as a man. At issue wasn’t so much the quantity of work available but rather the money to pay for it. The dismal state of the financial records bore witness to that. Years of inherited debt, combined with rebuilding the distillery, had taken a toll difficult to repay.

The boy pushed his shoulders back and stood a little straighter. An honest wage did that for a boy as well as a man. Hamish removed his heavy hand from the boy’s shoulder, but lightly cuffed the lad on the side of his head. “You’ll thank the laird, Ian Docherty, if you know what’s good for you. Not everyone gives a thief a second chance.”

The boy mumbled his gratitude with a sharp nod of his head.

“Wait in the hallway while I speak with Mr. Gilchrist. He’ll show you who to report to in the yard and where to collect your wages.” The boy’s eyes widened at the mention of wages, but he turned and left the room as he’d been instructed.

Cameron tossed some pound notes across the desk. “Feed the lad, Hamish, and see that he gets some food for his family. Hunger causes desperate acts among honest men.”

Hamish scooped up the notes. “Aye, I will. But don’t be surprised if I bring him back by the scruff of the neck. I think he’s a rebel, that one.”

A nostalgic smile crept across Cameron’s face, remembering that he’d been called the same once or twice. “We’ll have to see about that.”

The foreman squinted his way. “You all right? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Cameron wasn’t aware that his restless nights had left a mark. “Strange dreams. Nothing of concern.”

The man turned to leave but stopped at the door. “I almost forgot.” He fished a folded blue linen note from his pocket, grinned, then after sniffing the paper, handed it to Cameron. “She’s at it again.”

The tips of Cameron’s ears heated. All of the men at Ravenbeck knew of his mother’s efforts to find him a wife. She only sent her distinctive notes when she’d lured another desperate, spineless Englishwoman to ride the train to Scotland.

Hamish left the office, but not before Cameron heard him grumble, “You’d think a Scottish lassie would be good enough.”

Which was the crux of the problem. While Cameron hadn’t the time to seek out a wife of any particular nationality, his mother continued to lure Englishwomen to Beckmore. The village folk thought she did so at his direction, as if he didn’t value the local lasses, and questioned his loyalties. No matter how many times he mentioned the problem to his mother and requested she leave his marital plans the hell alone, she continued to place those ridiculous ads in a London paper.

He opened the note, which, as expected, carried a plea for him to return to the house in a timely manner. Two women would be arriving from London to make his acquaintance. Two! Rather than cease this ridiculous pastime, she’d gone and doubled her quota! Cameron crumbled the note in his hand.

As much as he loved his mother, the time had come for sterner measures to end her interference. Action, as opposed to talk, was warranted. He looked about the office, trying to devise some sort of plan.

His gaze came to rest on the copper dog, containing potent new spirit and . . . inspiration. A shameless plan began to form, a brazen and rude undertaking that might shock and embarrass his determined mother. But if the scheme worked to end this endless parade of pale but p