Will and Josette traveled to Kilmorgan alone, though Will decided at the last minute to take Beitris along. Bhreac, this time, chose to stay behind.

“The ladies need looking after,” Bhreac said. “Protecting.” His gaze strayed to Lillias, his expression troubled.

Henri asked to stay as well. “I can help here,” he said to Will. “You won’t let me kill Sir Harmon, and this is a good place. But hurry back.” Henri’s eyes sparkled with angry determination. “I won’t wait forever.”

“We won’t be long,” Will promised, meaning it. He was ready to destroy both Sir Harmon and Macdonald. That such men should be living in soft comfort while Lillias’s husband had succumbed to a fever in a hard prison drove him on to the final stage of his plan.

He took Henri aside to explain a few tasks he had for the lad. Henri looked mollified when Will finished, and promised to do his best.

Will had spoken to Bhreac too, Josette knew, given him who-knew-what instructions. She knew Will wouldn’t share these with her until he was ready, so she didn’t bother to ask.

Glenna wanted to accompany them, and was furious when Josette refused. Will waited while mother and daughter argued in the courtyard, their voices echoing up to the hills and down to the loch.

Josette hated to leave her, Will knew, but Kilmorgan would be far too dangerous for Glenna. She’d be much safer in this remote ruin, with Bhreac and the fierce ladies to look after her.

It was far too dangerous for Josette to come as well, but Will didn’t want her out of his sight. He also knew that he needed her help.

Glenna lost the argument. She burst into tears and stormed inside, but a moment later was back to fling her arms around Josette, her face wet.

As Will helped Josette mount her horse, Glenna turned on him. “If you get her killed or hurt, I will hunt you down.”

“If I do,” Will said, drawing the girl into his embrace. “I’ll deserve it, lass.”

Glenna’s tears continued, but she waved them off with the others. Will turned them northward, his body humming with the knowledge that he was going home.

Josette sensed that this journey would be the most important of all. It was also the most perilous. They went north into the heart of the Highlands, skirting villages, this time avoiding crofters. Not all men in this area had joined the Jacobites and might be happy to turn in a Mackenzie and collect their reward.

The other danger was from desperate Jacobites in hiding, ready to fight anyone who crossed their paths. Will muffled anything metal on bridles and saddles with strips of cloth, once going so far as to wrap the horses’ hooves as well. Beitris seemed understand the need for stealth, and stayed close to them, watchful and silent.

They slept in hollows in the rocks, Will and Josette wrapped together in a worn plaid. Josette snuggled into Will, enjoying his kisses on her neck as he drifted to sleep. They didn’t make love, needing to stay alert, but Josette gathered to herself the joy of simply lying with him.

Will approached Kilmorgan from the north, riding well around the firths, following the coastline south. The track he used was deserted, any house they passed either burned out or empty, its roof sagging.

Josette felt Will’s sadness each time they passed one of these derelict cottages, and his anger. The people of his land had fled or been captured or killed. Will blamed himself, but Josette never would. She blamed the Highlanders who’d rashly joined a war they couldn’t win, and she blamed the Duke of Cumberland for exacting his swift and cruel vengeance. Not for nothing did they call him The Butcher.

Will paused on the edge of a clearing several days after they’d departed Strathy Castle. Before them a hill covered in sapling trees and thickening brush stretched to the sunset sky. On the top of this hill sat the stump of a building, walls open to the wind, windows that had once held glass gaping and empty.

Kilmorgan Castle. Josette had visited it long ago, when she’d first known Will, when he’d invited her here to show off his ancestral home.

Their father, the duke, had shouted that he didn’t want the castle overrun with “Will’s women.” But once the brothers, including Alec’s twin Angus, had made Josette welcome, the duke had unbent.

The duke had taken to Glenna very quickly—Josette had caught him on his knees on the drawing room floor one day helping as tiny Glenna soberly built a wall out of books. The duke steadied the expensive tomes she’d pulled from the shelf as they built stairways and curtain walls, ready to defend their fort from all comers.

Josette’s breath caught as she beheld the ruin, tears in her eyes.

“Aye,” Will said, the word quiet. “’Tis a sad thing.”

They studied the castle a few silent moments before Will turned down a hill, putting the ruin behind them.

He led them to a steep glen about a mile from the castle and down a narrow path along this. At the end of the valley they came to a house built into the sheer side of the hill—black stone like the cottages, but with whole glass windows and a stout front door.

This was the distillery, constructed to house the family at the end of the seventeenth century while the castle was modernized, later turned over to brewing whisky. Covertly at first, though the Mackenzies had never considered themselves in the wrong. The rules, they said, had been created so the government could take a hefty tax and leave little for the whisky makers.

The house was so hidden that even other Highlanders weren’t aware of its existence. The family had moved here when the castle had been destroyed, setting up a makeshift home. It was inhabited even now, Josette sensed, feeling watchers from windows and from a crack in the stable’s door.

As they clattered into the courtyard, Beitris looking around vigilantly, Josette felt the tension, people ready to fight. Then Will pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face, and stood in his stirrups, showing himself for all to see.

The stable door banged open and a boy streaked out. He screamed something in Erse and flung himself at Will as Will swung to the ground.

“Ewan!” Will caught him up, the boy’s legs swinging, then thumped him back to his feet. “Your screeching could make my eardrums bleed. How are you keeping, lad?”

Ewan’s grin lit the dying day. “Ever so glad to see you, sir.” He stared at Josette in curiosity—he’d have been a babe in arms when Josette had visited nearly ten years before.

Others poured from the house as Will lifted Josette from her horse, about half a dozen in all, men and women both, surly looks turning to smiles of welcome. Beitris milled about them, tail wagging, happy to be meeting so many people.

“’Tis good to see ye home,” one man said.

“Errol,” Will greeted him. “Is there a room to be had for the lady?”

“Of course.” Errol was a big man with a shaggy brown beard and giant hands, but his smile was almost shy as he glanced at Josette. “The wife will see to her, don’t ye worry.”

“The wife,” was a woman half his size, who once had been plump but whose skin now sagged—Josette suspected that feeding themselves this last year had been difficult.

“I’m Isla, this big lump’s wife,” the woman said. She might be small, but her voice was robust. “We’re clan Mackenzie. A distant branch, but Mackenzie all the same.”

She said it proudly as she led Josette inside, out of the wind and fine rain that had begun to fall.

The interior of the house was dark, lit only by a small lantern inside the front door. The main hall, which ran back into the hill, rose several stories, a staircase reaching far into the gloom. Another wide hall ran the length of the house, rooms opening from it.

Will had showed her this place briefly on her visit, and she remembered it bustling with activity, lights in every room.

Now the house echoed, the halls silent. The soldiers who’d razed the castle had blown up the still and destroyed many barrels of whisky, Will had told her, leaving the distillery to burn. The retainers had quickly doused the fire, and the house had been too solid to fall, but it was a ghost of what it had once been.

Isla led Josette up the stairs to a chamber that was cold but had been made comfortable. The boy Ewan soon had a fire flickering on the hearth, the air filling with the scent of burning peat.

Josette heard Will’s voice below, but he did not come up as Isla assisted Josette out of her wet and mud-spattered riding things and into her everyday gown, lacing her with competence. A sip of ale and a bit of bread made Josette feel much better—along with finally being warm and dry, and she went back downstairs in search of Will.

She found him in the still room, a vault of a chamber set back into the hill. Will gazed at a heap of blackened copper, his man Errol mournfully beside him.

“No one has the means to make another,” Errol was saying. “Getting enough supplies together—with no one being the wiser—isn’t easy. Lord Malcolm knew how to pry things out of the right people, bless him.”

“Aye,” Will agreed. “But do not stand there and tell me, old friend, that there is no still here at all. A Scotsman will brew whisky in a kettle beside a creek, and you know it.”

Errol looked abashed. “’Tis only for us,” he said in a small voice. “To stave off the chill. It’s nothing like Mackenzie malt—nothing you can sell.”

“Ha!” Will bellowed in true mirth. “I knew it. Well, it’s a start. What about the barrels? Cumberland’s men didn’t get all of them did they? They weren’t exactly stored in the open.”

Errol flashed a grin. “Funny you should ask. Come with me.”

He made for a door in the back of the still room. A cool tunnel of natural rock opened behind it, the tunnel’s roof high enough for a man like Errol to walk through without stooping.

Errol took up a lantern and led Will inside.

Josette hurried after them in curiosity. Will caught her hand, tugging her along as he followed Errol. No telling her to stay behind or admonishing her that this had nothing to do with womenfolk. Such thoughts never occurred to Will, another reason she loved him.

A long way back into the hill, the tunnel widened. Racks had been set into this open space and piled with small oak barrels, about thirty in all. Beyond them, the tunnel narrowed and twisted into the darkness.

“Now, here’s a fine sight.” Will put a fond hand on one of the barrels. “Not been broached?”

“Nay, lad.” Errol waved a hand at the nearest rack. “These have been waiting three years—nearly ready. Behind those… ”

“The twenty-year,” Will said, his tone reverent. “Mal’s special reserve.”

“Untouched,” Errol said proudly. “We’d not drink that up. That’s Lord Malcolm’s.”

“Aye.” Will’s gaze went remote, which Josette knew meant wheels were turning in his head. “You’re a good man, Errol. Before long you’ll have new clothes to wear and plenty of food in your bellies.”

Errol looked surprised. “Are you going to sell the reserve? Who to? Your license can’t be worth much now that you’re all dead.”

Will sent him a knowing look. “Never stopped my grandfather, or his father before him. The rarer the malt and the more secretive a man has to be to get it, the more in demand it is.”

Errol made a grave nod. “Aye, ’tis true.”

“How’s the barley this year?” Will caressed the stave of a dusty barrel. When Errol flushed and didn’t answer, Will asked with alarm, “Are the fields lying fallow? Was there no seed at all to plant?”

“No, no,” Errol said quickly. “There’s a crop waving in the fields. We saved enough from the last harvest to sow this year.”

Will watched him closely. “But ye planned to sell it for cash.”

Errol bowed his great head, guilt-stricken. “We need to eat, m’lord.”

Josette’s heart squeezed in distress for him, but Will glared at Errol.

“Did ye think I’d begrudge the food in your mouth, man? Of course ye’d sell the crops. What else would ye do with them—let them rot? But save some grain for the mash, will you? I’ll have this still up and running by harvest time, never you worry.”

Errol sent him a doubtful look. “No one’s got the copper,” he said. “We have a small still, aye, but as you say, it doesn’t brew much more than a kettleful, and the stuff’s raw. We drink it for warmth.”

“I didn’t think ye were pouring your kettle whisky into good oak,” Will growled. “Don’t flog yourself, man. Ye’ve done what ye can. We have barrels, in any case.”

Errol perked up. “Aye, the empties. Those can be rebuilt and charred.”

“And I can have Alec and Mal send over more wine barrels.” Will glanced at Josette. “Old wine barrels re-cooped are good for whisky. And if we have to drink up the wine to empty them, all the better.”

Errol grinned, his moroseness gone. “’Tis good to have you home, lad.”

“But it’s not my home.” The light of the feeble lantern threw Will’s huge, broad-shouldered silhouette behind him. “I’ll put it to rights, but the Runt gets everything. He’s the one with all the ambitious plans.”

“Best take care,” Errol said darkly. “Gents dressed in dainty suits come around to the crofters, saying the Mackenzie land is for sale, and they’ll soon have to move off or accept a new landlord. Even some Scots are trying to push you out, damn them for eternity.”

“Scots like Clennan Macdonald?” Will asked in a deceptively mild voice.

“Aye, he’s been ’round.” Errol spat on the floor. “Loyalist, he calls himself. Bastard, I call him. If Prince Teàrlach had been sure to win, Macdonald would have followed so close in the lad’s footsteps he’d have stolen his shadow. Now the man’s in thick with Englishmen, pushing Scots off their own land.”

“I’ve heard,” Will said tightly. “Do not worry, my friend—I have a notion he’ll lose his standing soon. That is, if I have anything to do about it.”

Errol flashed another grin. “I will watch with pleasure. I’ll take ship to the far reaches of the world before I let myself be a tenant of Old Bastard Macdonald.”

Will thumped his shoulder. “You’ll do more than watch. “You’ll help me reduce him to rubble. Now—let’s take one of these three-year and a day casks and give it it’s birthday.”

Will and Errol lugged the cask Will chose back to the distillery, gathered the Mackenzie retainers who bowed their heads a moment in prayer, then Will broached the cask.

He dipped the first cup, handing it to Josette to taste. Josette wasn’t one for spirits, but she accepted it, closed her eyes, and drank.

A smooth liquid danced over her tongue before it burned a warm trail to her belly. She tasted wind and smoke, heather and rain—the wild lands of the Highlands.

“Excellent,” she pronounced, then coughed.

Laughter and cheers burst through the hall. Will dipped cup after cup, filled glasses, goblets, tankards—whatever the men and women had to hand. He even gave what he called “a wee drop” to Ewan.

Ewan drank the whisky with a swift, practiced gulp. “If that’s the three-year,” he said in admiration. “The twenty will be mighty grand.”

A festive mood took hold. Fiddles and drums emerged. The men and ladies linked hands and began dancing in a circle.

Josette found herself joining in, caught in the dance and holding tight to Will’s hand. The tiring journey fell away.

For now, there was no struggle, no cold and hunger, no defeat. Families and friends came together to celebrate, sharing what food they had, the fiery whisky to wash it all down.

Will had resumed his plaid. They others brought theirs out as well, the Highlanders hidden from all eyes in the halls of the old distillery. Free of restraint, they danced, shouted, reveled. They embraced Josette as Will’s lady, throwing Mackenzie plaid around her shoulders.

During the lull in the dancing, Josette bade everyone good night, her exhaustion taking over. She tiredly made her way to the chamber she’d been given, undressed herself from her simple garments, and climbed into the high bed. She drifted to sleep, hearing the strains of fiddles below.

Josette dreamed she floated over the Highlands. She gazed down at its fields of heather, rocky peaks covered with snow, dark green trees marching to the sea. She saw Will Mackenzie, wrapped in a great kilt with a sword at his side, striding through the land, the wind in his hair.

She liked this vision of him, and even better, of Will coming upon her as she touched to earth, gathering her up, and pressing her into his hard body. He laid her down in the heather, unwrapping the kilt to reveal his bare strength, then rolled the both of them in the plaid warmed by his body.

Josette swam awake to find that part of her dream was true. Will lay beside her, naked and strong, his plaid enfolding them both.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, lass,” he whispered, touching a kiss to her hair.

Josette rolled to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him with quiet desperation.