The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,110
he despises David Skene.”
The man bristled. “The MacPhersons skirted the law with their distillery for many, many years. Over my strenuous objections, they were granted a license last month.”
Indeed, John had helped facilitate it. He couldn’t have Annie’s family—his own family, now—at risk of being jailed for running an illegal distillery. But the MacPhersons had operated outside the excise laws for a long time, well earning the dislike of Sergeant Munro, which was why John and Annie were the ones paying him a visit. If Annie could refrain from revealing they were her family, John was likelier to get helpful answers than her father or brothers.
The officer continued, “I’ve no proof of their partnership, only a suspicion. But MacPherson control of Glenscannadoo is absolute. And I ken Skene’s support is centered there.”
“In Glenscannadoo? How do you know?”
“Last year, we intercepted his men transporting a load of French brandy between Inverness and Glasgow. One of the men carried a note from Skene to somebody in Glenscannadoo. Didnae say who. But every man, woman, and child in that village protects the MacPhersons no matter what. Excisemen come, their distillery is empty. My men and I go about askin’ questions, nobody kens anythin’. The MacPhersons are the only power in the glen.”
“What did the note say?”
Munro gave John a hard stare before rounding his desk and plucking a square of paper from beneath the sketch of Skene. He offered it to John.
The note contained a few sentences—no greeting and signed only with an S. As John read it, his blood went cold. “When did you obtain this?”
“September.”
Annie plucked it from his fingers. Her eyes widened with horror. “Good God, English. This is—”
He clasped her wrist gently and handed the note back to Munro. “You’re certain this was to be delivered in Glenscannadoo.”
Munro frowned. “Aye. Their route forked west when it should have continued south. One of Skene’s newer lads said they were meant to stop in the glen. He didnae ken where.”
Annie looked pale, so John thanked Munro and guided her back to the coach. As he gave instructions to the driver and climbed in behind her, she rasped, “Somebody we ken did that to Broderick, English. Somebody I ken.”
“We’ll discover who it was, love.” He offered his hand and instantly, she laced their fingers together.
“I must speak with Da.”
“Of course. We’ll speak with all the family.”
“That rat-faced piece of shite put his men in the Bridewell to kill my brother.” A tear fell down her cheek before she swiped it away angrily. “And somebody I’ve spoken to, perhaps somebody I fed at my table, paid for it to be done.”
The note had been chilling.
Twenty more in place at Calton Hill. Payment received. Delivery imminent. Best avoid Glenscannadoo ‘til all roads clear.
The MacPhersons had long suspected Skene, of course. They’d spent the past several months tracking down every man who had taken part in the beatings Broderick had suffered. They’d made those men pay dearly. Then, they’d systematically destroyed Skene’s smuggling operation. Piece by piece, route by route, town by town, they’d taken every resource he had and ground it to dust. They’d even discovered a rich cache of cognac Skene had planned to sell in Edinburgh—obviously intended to fund the rat’s escape.
That was how John and the MacPhersons knew Skene was still in Scotland. He hadn’t the funds to go anywhere else.
John gathered his wife gently into his arms. Immediately, she turned her face into his neck, wrapped her arms around him, and heaved a great sigh.
“We’ll find out who did this,” he assured her.
“Aye. Then I’ll kill him.”
He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Fierce Highland lass.”
She snuggled closer. “I dinnae understand. Dunston’s letter said the backer had to have been in Edinburgh round the time Broderick’s charges were dismissed.”
“True. The resistance came too swiftly for it to be otherwise.”
“And to have the necessary influence with the High Court, he’d have to be highly placed.”
“A peer, yes.”
“There arenae any peers in Glenscannadoo.”
John frowned, staring out the window as the wet streets of Inverness rolled past. “What of the laird? Not a peer, but titled. Perhaps he’s grown jealous of the MacPhersons having more land and vastly more respect in the glen.”
She snorted. “The laird is naught but a joke. Best thing he offers his people is the Gatherin’, and that’s