Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge
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tea?’ O’Banyon asked. ‘Or can I pour you a dram of whisky?’
‘Perhaps you would like to try a drop of what Dunross has to offer.’ He snapped his fingers. Tammy stepped forward smartly as they had practised and handed Logan a bottle of the whisky put down in his father’s time. O’Banyon looked surprised and pleased.
Tammy returned to his place. Growler eyed him, measuring and weighing. Tammy returned the favour.
Noticing the direction of Logan’s gaze, O’Banyon chuckled. ‘Shall we dispense with their services?’
It was what he had hoped when he had given Tammy his instructions. ‘Certainly.’
‘Take Mr Gilvry’s man down to the servants’ hall,’ O’Banyon instructed. ‘Offer him some refreshments.’
Whatever he was offered, Tammy would stand by his word and only take tea. He would not let O’Banyon’s man out of his sight until he and Logan were reunited. Logan took the chair opposite Mrs West. Charity. Now there was a name for a woman who looked like sin personified.
‘I will take tea,’ he said, surprising himself.
‘With a dash of whisky in it?’ O’Banyon asked, pouring himself a glass at the table near the window and holding out the bottle to Logan.
‘No, thank you. It is your gift from my brother.’
‘Charity, my dear?’
‘No, thank you, Jack,’ she murmured in a voice that made Logan think of skin sliding against skin.
Glass in hand, O’Banyon wandered back to sit at the other end of the sofa, facing Logan, while Mrs West poured tea in the style of a well-born lady. Come to think of it, her voice was also that of a lady, not the rough accents of the street or the drawl of the country. She spoke much like his brother’s wife, Lady Selina. But accents could be learned.
She smiled at him and once more his body tightened. ‘Your tea, Mr Gilvry.’ She held out a cup and saucer and he rose to take it from her hand. Somehow their fingers touched, though he was sure he had been careful enough not to do anything so clumsy. The heat of that brief touch made his hand tremble and he had to catch the cup with his other hand to prevent a spill.
Not that she seemed to notice. She was pouring another cup for herself and he could see only the crown of artfully arranged curls the colour of toffee as she bent to the task.
O’Banyon was busy gazing at the whisky in his glass.
Logan sat down and, getting command of himself, took a sip from his cup. Tea. He’d far rather have ale any day of the week.
The Irishman took a slow sip, swirled the liquid around his mouth and then swallowed. His eyelids lowered as he slowly nodded approval. ‘Fine. Very fine. And expensive, I am thinking.’
‘Naturally. It is the best we have. Old. But we have grades to suit all tastes and purses.’ He waited for O’Banyon to rise to the bait. There was a reason Ian had sent Logan to woo this man from London. Over and over again they had proved that one look at his face and men trusted him to speak the truth. And he did. But trust was hard-won in this necessarily illegal business of theirs. The English Parliament continued to keep a boot on the neck of Scotland.
‘I could see serving this to some of my special customers,’ O’Banyon said, his gaze direct, chilly, fixed on Logan’s face. ‘But I’d need to taste the other stuff, too. The Chien serves gentlemen who might not want to be paying for the very best, but it has to be decent.’
Despite the hard gaze of the man he was facing, he could feel the woman’s eyes upon him, too. She was looking him over, as if waiting for him to fail to impress. Why he had that impression or why he was even aware of her, when this deal with O’Banyon was so important to the clan, he could not fathom.
He took another sip of his tea, let the pause grow just enough to make O’Banyon’s shoulders fractionally stiffen. He loved the twists and turns of this game. The risks, whether it was in the taverns where the deals were done, or on the heather-clad hills where gaugers lurked behind every bush.
He put down his cup. ‘You were drinking it tonight. Archie served you this year’s distilling.’
O’Banyon’s eyes widened. ‘Did he now?’
Got you. ‘I delivered it yesterday.’
The Irish man’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I heard it was only McKenzie whisky in Edinburgh.’
‘It appears you heard wrong.’ Logan shrugged. He glanced at Mrs West. There was a look on her face he could not quite interpret, her lips were parted and he could have sworn a smile lurked in her misty gaze, but she had already turned that gaze on O’Banyon as if waiting for his reply.
‘And what makes you think you can do business with me?’ O’Banyon asked.
‘The Laird looked into the Chien Rouge through his contacts before he answered your enquiry.’
Her gaze dropped down to her teacup as if to hide her thoughts, but then she looked back up at Logan. ‘Your brother is a clever man, Mr Gilvry.’ Her voice held a trace of amusement, but whether at his expense, or his brother’s, or even O’Banyon’s, he had no way of knowing, because her expression was quickly one of indifference. The woman kept her secrets well in hand.
But he was not one to avoid a challenge.
‘He would not remain in business long if he was not, Mrs West.’
O’Banyon grinned. ‘It seems we may be able to do business, Gilvry.’
Logan did not like the word ‘may’. With Edinburgh mostly shut off to them by McKenzie’s ruffians, they needed to get an outlet in London as soon as possible. But smuggling held risks not to be taken lightly. ‘What more is required?’
‘Naturally, I will want to see your terms.’
‘I can bring the documents around in the morning.’
‘I will also need to consult my partner in London.’
Not what he wanted to hear. He had not planned to linger. Other customers were waiting. ‘I understood you had carte blanche, Mr O’Banyon. Perhaps it is your partner to whom I should be speaking.’
O’Banyon ignored the jab. ‘A letter giving my positive opinion is all that is required. And of course the transfer of funds. A payment sent on account for the first shipment. Unless you wish to dispense with such formality.’
This was the problem doing business outside of Scotland. He acknowledged the other man’s hit with a slight nod. ‘Certainly not.’ Knowing his propensity to work on nothing but a handshake, Ian had warned him to agree to nothing without money up front. Such trust was all well and good between Scotsmen, Ian had said, but Sassenachs, other than his wife of course, were not to be trusted.
‘And besides,’ O’Banyon said, ‘Mrs West is anxious to catch a glimpse of Edinburgh’s welcome of the King.’
‘His ship arrives the day after tomorrow, I understand,’ she said, becoming animated. ‘The first visit of a reigning monarch to Scotland since Charles the Second. There are several grand spectacles planned. Cavalry, Highland regiments in their kilts, the newspapers are saying...’
For the first time, her eyes were sparkling. No longer did they remind him of heather at dusk, instead they were as bright as amethysts in sunlight, her lips curved in a smile so lovely it stole his breath.
‘Mr McKenzie has offered us a place at his window overlooking the Golden Mile from where we can watch a procession later in the week,’ she said, looking pleased.
O’Banyon shot her a silencing look. She dropped her gaze and caught her lip with white teeth. ‘It was kind of Mr McKenzie to offer, but I expect it will be nothing of consequence.’
The heat of anger at that small gesture of submission flared in Logan’s chest. His fists wanted