A stunned silence followed her declaration in which she seemed to take great pleasure. However, instead of saying something smug, which he’d fully expected her to do, she turned to Andrew, and dismissed them altogether.
“This all looks so exciting.” She addressed Andrew with a cheeky smile. “I’ll bet you’re enjoying working with your father rather than conjugating your French verbs.”
Andrew shrugged, turning to address his sister. “What are ye doing down here?”
“I wanted to see what this is all about,” Rhianna insisted. “It isna fair that only ye get to work at the distillery.”
Russell chuffed Rhianna under the chin. “The lad is going to inherit Ravencroft someday. He needs to learn the business. Ye’ll move into yer husband’s house, so there’s no need to worry yer pretty head about the dirty work done here.”
Russell’s words chafed Liam, even before he saw the governess surreptitiously reach for his daughter before Rhianna gave words to her mutinous look.
Liam could see that Mena’s conciliatory smile was of the practiced variety, and didn’t reach her eyes. “That might be so, sir, but I am of the opinion that it does all individuals credit to understand the operation that is responsible for their livelihood, be they lads or lasses.”
Liam’s eyes crinkled with amusement at his people’s colloquialisms spoken in her unmistakably crisp British tongue. He also had to admit that this particular lass had a point.
All eyes looked to him for his blessing or refusal, but Liam could only feel one gaze, in particular, and all the hope contained within its verdant luminosity.
“Russell,” he said, finally coming to a decision. “Gavin is in with the stills. Take Rhianna to him. She can start there.”
Rhianna’s pleased and victorious smile warmed him. “Oh, thank you, Father!” She moved to embrace him, then seemed to remember how dirty he was. “Come, Miss Lockhart.”
“Miss Lockhart will remain here.” Liam enjoyed the drain of color from her face. “I need a word.”
“Yes, Father.” Rhianna bounced away, scrambling after Russell.
“Can I go now?” Andrew asked.
Liam glanced at him sharply. “Nay, ye canna go, there is work yet to be done, and ye doona quit until it’s finished.”
“Ye’re quitting.” Andrew threw his arm out toward Campbell. “And this is the cooper’s work, not ours.”
Liam set his jaw against his son’s impertinence, his hands curling at his sides as the rage that had been his one constant companion simmered through him. “I’ll have no son of mine be a useless laze-about. If ye’re to run this business, ye’ll have to learn every detail, and have done every job.”
“But—”
“It’s past time, Andrew, that ye learn to be responsible for something other than yer own selfish desires,” Liam snarled. “Mark me, lad, ye’ll not leave here until these barrels are assembled, do ye ken?”
The visible ripples of heat in the air between them could have been caused by their clashing wills as much as the open barrel flames.
“Aye,” his son said through bared teeth, then turned his back.
Liam nodded to Thomas Campbell, who smirked with both knowledge and approval, being the father of his own three sons.
“Follow me, Miss Lockhart,” he barked, and stalked through the square toward the warehouse.
Her shoes made quicker sounds than his on the earth beneath them, but she kept pace with his punishing march until he stalked under the wide arched entry to the brick warehouse. Liam let the perpetual chill generated by the brick cool his work- and fire-heated body, as well as his ire. Halting mid-march, he whirled about and nearly knocked over his startled governess, who caught herself just in time.
“That lad is going to be the death of me,” he raged, running his hands through his hair. “He stomps around the castle like a dark cloud, glowering at everyone in his path. Stubborn, angry, obstinate, willful…” He trailed off as that dimple appeared in her cheek once again. “Ye find this amusing, do ye?” He scowled down at her, crossing his arms over his chest.
She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders, and lifted a meaningful brow. “I’m sorry, my laird, I’m just confused as to which of the Ravencroft men you are referring.” A soft smile teased at the corner of her full mouth, and lessened the effect the veracity of her words had on him.
And just like that, his anger dispelled into a vapor, much like the angel’s cut of Scotch would once any one of these barrels were open. How did she manage to do that? It was like some queer sort of feminine magic, a spell she worked with a flash of that dimple and a merry twinkle in her eye. Suddenly the flames of his wrath were doused, and he could breathe again.
A caustic sound escaped his throat, half amusement, half bewilderment. “Am I truly such an ogre?”
“Not an ogre, per se.” Her smile deepened. “But I recall a story I read as a child about a rather distempered troll—who lived under a bridge and frightened all who crossed it—to whom I could possibly perceive a resemblance.”
A laugh warmed his throat but didn’t quite escape, as a hopeless sound of frustration smothered it. He rubbed at a blooming tightness in his forehead, then noted the soot still on his hand. Covered in the filth of the day, he must, indeed, appear like a troll.