Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay

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СКАЧАТЬ through the middle of the room and thence through the second-story cooperage.

      Bypassing the shelves, Catlyn took the lantern from the table and continued on to her counting room. The door was always locked unless she was inside, not out of fear someone would steal the records but because it had been done so from the beginning and the Boyds were great ones for tradition.

      She took the key from the pouch at her waist, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Immediately she felt her remaining anxiety melt away. Small and cozy, with a fireplace to keep the damp at bay, the chamber had served the lords of Kennecraig as a record room for generations. Ever since her great-great-grandfather had added this building to house the distillery.

      The shelves lining two of the walls of the record room were crammed with the leather-bound ledgers and crumbling parchment rolls that chronicled every step of the distilling process for each year going back six generations. Some were written in Latin, others in French.

      As a child, Catlyn had sat on the floor and fashioned dolls from wood curls while her brother, Thom, studied the languages and ciphering essential to every lord of Kennecraig. She’d been far more interested in his lessons than the silly dolls, which was fortunate. When Thom had died at age fifteen, Catlyn had assumed the heir’s role. There had been grumblings among some of the men, but her father had stood firm. “The lass has my head for details and her grandsire’s nose for the brew.”

      That she’d stepped in to fill her papa’s role far too early saddened her. Yet she loved this craft. Every step held its own fascination. The earthy pleasure of visiting the fields and assessing the barley, of judging when the grain was at its peak and ready to be married to the purest burn water. The careful mixing of barley and water, in just the right portions, appealed to her sense of order. But nothing equaled the thrill she felt when the first drop of liquor fell from the coil of hammered steel tubing.

      A grating sound from the main room had her spinning in the doorway.

      “Who is there?” she called, raising the lantern. Its pale golden light bounced off the nearest kegs but was swallowed up by the darkness beyond. A shiver worked its way down her spine. She had never been afraid to come here, even at night and alone, but that was before Hakon had come to the mountains.

      She thought about the barrels of black powder sitting next to the stills in the cellars. Her father’s desperate scheme to keep Hakon from attacking them. Thus far it had worked, but what if one of his men sneaked into Kennecraig and moved the barrels away? It would take time and many strong men.

      Like the Sutherlands.

      She swayed for a moment, terrified. Then she remembered the injuries Hakon had inflicted on the Sutherlands. Nay, Ross was not a danger to them. At least not that way. And the doors to the cellars were kept locked except when Roland and his men were working there.

      Still it might be wise to post guards here until the Sutherlands were gone.

      Catlyn felt a bit better till she glanced at the papers piled on her worktable. She should spend an hour or two on them, but her eyes were gritty, her nerves frayed. And she had one more duty to perform before she retired. Resolving to be down here at first light, she shut the door and locked it.

      

      Ross crouched down behind one of the keg-laden shelves and watched Catlyn walk past, confident the shadows would hide him. Still he did not let go the breath he had been holding till he heard the door clang shut.

      “Dieu, that was close,” he whispered into the gloom. He had found what appeared to be the distillery by following his nose. Surprised there were no guards outside, he had cautiously opened one side of the door and eased inside. The stench of whiskey had made his eyes sting and his belly roll. He’d ignored both.

      Used to sneaking about in darkened places, he had slipped into the cavernous room and started his search for the stills themselves. Only a small amount of pale light came in from some openings high above. A locked set of double doors just off the entryway looked promising, but he had moved on, down row after row of kegs. The neatness impressed him. He rapped his knuckles gently on a few and judged them to be full. Full of whiskey. If Hakon knew the Boyds had so much on hand, he’d have worked harder to get inside and steal it.

      Then he had seen the light spilling from a chamber cut into the wall. It drew him, but before he could get close enough to see what was inside, an incautious step betrayed his presence.

      Ross looked toward the door, then back to the one Catlyn had so carefully locked before leaving. Possibly it led to the stills, or to a room where the accounts were kept. Orderly as everything was, he did not doubt that the Boyds, had a scribe who kept a record of how much whiskey was produced and sold. Tempted as he was to see if the lock would yield to the tip of his dirk, the time was not right.

      Keeping to the shadows, Ross retraced his steps down the long corridor, out the back door and around the side of the tower. Up the rope he’d left and onto the ledge.

      Tomorrow night he’d come prepared, with parchment and charcoal to sketch the stills.

      

      Catlyn paused outside the chamber that had been her parents’, dreading what she’d find when she entered.

      On the day Adair brought her father’s body back to Kennecraig, Catlyn had also lost her mother. Jeannie Boyd had taken one look at her departed husband and faded into a stupor from which she had yet to emerge. The pain of watching her mother retreat further and further into herself was almost more than Catlyn could bear.

      She bowed her head, her heart aching. She would give all she owned, aye, even the precious stills, to have her mother whole again. “Please, please let me find her better.”

      Bracing herself for disappointment, Catlyn knocked softly. She did not expect an answer. Even before her husband’s death, Jeannie Boyd had been considered a bit fey. She would immerse herself so thoroughly in the scenes she created with needle and thread, that she paid scant attention to the real world around her. Now her mind seemed to have permanently retreated into one of those imaginary worlds. A better world, where her husband was not dead, just away.

      Catlyn pushed open the door and immediately spied her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her husband’s clothes chest. It was empty now, every garment Thomas had possessed arrayed around Lady Jeannie in neat piles.

      “Mama, how nice to see you up.” Hope buoyed Catlyn’s steps as she crossed the room. Could it be her mother had regained her senses and was finally setting Papa’s things to rights?

      Jeannie raised her head, her once glorious mane of chestnut hair dull, her eyes red rimmed. “Thomas is due back any day, and I cannot find his best plaid.”

      Catlyn’s knees went weak, and she sank down beside her mother. They had buried her father in his bloodied tartan. “He may not need it with the weather so warm,” she said gently.

      “He counts on me to keep it in good repair. He teases me sometimes...says ’tis the only practical thing I do. And now... I—I can’t understand where it’s got to.” She picked up a saffron shirt and shook it, as though expecting the eight-foot length of plaid to fall from it onto her lap.

      “It will turn up.” Catlyn captured her mother’s fluttering hands, found them icy cold and painfully thin. She chafed them between her own hands. “Let me put you to bed, Mama.”

      “I cannot sleep till I’ve found СКАЧАТЬ