From the bestselling award-winning author of The Good Wife of Bath comes this rollicking historical adventure that celebrates the art of whisky distilling, the defiant spirit of the Scottish Highlanders and a woman’s fearless quest.
1780 Scottish Highlands
In every glass of whisky lies a small act of rebellion…
When Greer MacAlister’s despised husband dies, she and her young daughter Fen find themselves in a remote whisky smuggling community in the heart of the Highlands. Here, illicit whisky making is a means of survival in a Scotland under occupation by the British, decades after the disastrous Battle of Culloden. The villagers are suspicious of the widow, but when Greer tricks excise officers away from their illegal stills with a courageous and daring act, they warm to her.
But the excise men are out for revenge, smuggling is a dangerous business, and whisky – a drink that has long ignited passions, songs, stories and danger – is at the rebellious heart of it all. Greer and Fen have no choice but to fight for the life they want.
This rollicking story of bravery, adventure, love and murder brings alive the Scottish Highlands of long ago. It is a poem to the art of whisky distilling and a world now lost to us, as well as a eulogy for those who were forced to leave it.
Remorse and Trepidation, unwelcome companions at the best of times, shadowed me as I strode down the main street of the port town of Montrose attracting, as incomers are wont to do, curious looks and whispers. My daughter Fen and I had arrived the day before. It was the first time either of us had left Edinburgh, and now I was a stranger in what I was swiftly beginning to understand may as well have been a foreign land. Not only did people speak Gaelic – a language impossible to comprehend at the best of times – but dressed distinctively. Defiantly, I thought, spying yet another lad sporting a kilt. No-one dared style themselves that way in the Lowlands, that mode of dress having been banned since Culloden. Not that it being illegal made a whit of difference around here.
Hadn’t everyone warned me Highlanders were a law unto themselves? A bunch of savages with no respect for authority and more likely to draw a dirk (which every lad seemed to carry) than offer a helping hand.
Edinburgh may affectionately be known by its inhabitants as Auld Reekie, but by God, this place was just as malodorous. It was also crowded. Stalls, carts and trestle tables had been set up along each side of the road, forcing everyone else into the middle. A break in the weather had coincided with the local market day, and farmers and tinkers had swarmed down from the surrounding hills to sell their wares. Dogs barked joyously, tails wagging, chickens clucked and fluffed their feathers, horses jangled their harnesses and shook their manes as vendors shouted and cajoled, luring folk to examine their hides, eggs, fish, ribbons, combs, and the tastiest of neeps. Promises and lies were chanted thick and fast.
I weaved my way through the crowds, careful to avoid bumping into anyone, and continued down the hill towards the water.
Small compared to Edinburgh with its high mouldy walls, moss-ridden castle and many alehouses and kirks, Montrose was bordered by a dark green loch on the land side and the singing sea on the other. The houses, with red pantile roofs and window boxes, were tidy and quite large. There was a school, a fine-looking kirk, a sinister-looking tolbooth, shops aplenty, and taverns, too. Above me, clouds drifted like dreamy sheep. Gulls cawed and bickered, vying for a chance to steal the salmon being prepared for export down by the docks. Part of the River South Esk formed a natural harbour that provided shelter from the wild autumn seas for the cutters of the excise men. Where it joined the ocean, larger sloops weighed anchor. Fishing boats bobbed between them.
Fen and I had come down to the river the evening before to stretch our legs after being squeezed in a coach for days, and to locate the Customs House. Men repairing nets and creels had watched with interest as we wandered the sands in the fading light. A friendly dog had scampered over, enjoying a quick pat before answering his master’s whistle. It was the first time in days I’d seen Fen smile.
A hefty reminder of the king’s laws and the long arm of authority, the Customs House squatted on the banks of the river at the end of a cobbled road called Pier Wynd. Weathered by rain, wind and sea-salt, the building dominated its surroundings. I’d paused at a distance to regard it and note the entrance, still busy even late in the day.
Is that where Da worked? asked Fen, tapping my arm to gain my attention.
Startled she’d addressed me after stubbornly pretending I didn’t exist, I nodded and waited to see if she’d more questions.
She gave the Customs House a lingering look then, without so much as a glance in my direction, walked away.
I’d repressed a sigh and followed.
Fen hadn’t wanted to accompany me today, choosing instead to remain in our room, reading. I was relieved. Not only because she’d be spared any details about her father’s death, but because of the way things were between us ever since I announced we were leaving Edinburgh.
It was like living with a thunderstorm garbed in my daughter’s clothes – unpredictable and likely to cause destruction. Naught I said or did made a whit of difference. Such a contrast to how she’d taken the news of her da’s death, delivered only weeks earlier by Captain Neville of His Majesty’s navy. I may as well have been telling her a tree had fallen near Grass Market for all the impact it had. But when I told her we were leaving the city for good, she first flew into a rage, followed by tears and sulking and, later, begging. Once she understood naught could change my mind, she churned with fury, then fell into a deep melancholy.
I hate you, she told me, not once, but many times.
‘Well,’ I’d reply, swallowing hurt, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, chick, ’cause I love the very bones of you.’
And I did. What I regretted was the effect my actions had upon her. I was taking her away from everything and everyone she’d known in her short life: friends, the little remaining family we had, and most of all, her beloved school.
I suffered Fen’s silence, her cruel words followed by stubborn indifference, her attempts to extract a bargain from me (‘If we stay, I promise to practise my exercises every day’; ‘I’ll always do what you tell me’; ‘I’ll never go beyond the markets on my own again’). I wore her efforts like a flagellant of old, whipping myself periodically, because a part of me (and no small part) was relieved to be going, despite the circumstances and the dread of leaving behind the familiar.
Truth was, I could have stayed if I’d really wanted. Why, I could have moved to another part of the city, married again (Captain Neville had made his intentions clear), lived out my life to a ripe old age. But I knew if I didn’t leave now, use William’s death as the public reason, I never would. I’d be like a rat who’d swallowed poison. I’d die a few streets away from where I’d been born, never having gone anywhere or experienced anything.
So, I uprooted myself and Fen and went to find fresh soil to plant us in.
And for my hasty plan to succeed, I needed one final thing from my late (un)lamented husband …
A group of men deep in conversation were gathered near the entry to the Customs House, several barrels at their feet. All except one were swathed in long plaids, belted at the waist. The exception, who wore trews and a dark green coat, had his back to me, blocking my passage.
I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
The man turned and looked directly at me. He had a wide, sun-kissed mien, with a broad forehead that was only partially concealed by his bonnet. Dark hair laced with silver was pulled back into a neat queue. His beard didn’t quite disguise full lips, nor the scar that cleft the upper one and ran across his left cheek. But it was his eyes that deserved the most attention. A clear grey-green, they were like a rockpool reflecting a stormy sky, a contrast to his black lashes. Yet, within their crystal depths I saw sadness and something else … For a moment, I forgot where I was, imagining this tall, solid man reaching inside my head and gathering my thoughts. I glanced away before he could access any more.
‘Forgive me, lass,’ he said. His words were English, educated, but his voice had the deep melodic burr of the Highlands. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ With a slow half-bow, he stepped aside, directing me to precede him through the large double-doors. The other men snickered, whether at his fine manners or me, I couldn’t be sure. My face burned and I wanted to level some tart words, unleash my tavern wench. Only, I didn’t want to leave the gentleman – for that’s what he was – with a poor impression. Instead, I muttered a thanks and, ignoring the other lads, scurried inside, my heart beating erratically.
The heady buzz of business and the hum of voices greeted me as I entered the Customs House. Divided in two, its front faced the river and was reserved mainly for officialdom. There were rows of desks piled with papers, lanterns and unlit candlesticks dumped atop stacks of pages to prevent them flying away in the breeze that blew up from the water. The light was dim – what reached the desks coming only from the open doors and the high barred windows. There was a clerk with a pinched face and beetling brows bent over a large ledger, his finger tracking columns. Two merchants were in heated discussion over his head. Behind them, where the light didn’t quite reach, was the warehouse. Men, mainly tidewaiters who boarded ships to check the cargo, were busy hauling sacks and piling them against a tower of barrels. Some lads in the blue uniforms of the excise were untying the sacks and inspecting the contents.
I waited for the clerk to acknowledge me. The gentleman from the entrance swept past, heading for a desk where a rather pillowy-looking man was squeezed into a chair behind it. A book was propped open before him. He was pretending to read, but even from where I stood I could see that his eyes were shut, and his mouth had fallen wetly open. How he could sleep with all the racket going on was a wonder. The fact no-one disciplined him suggested he was the most senior man present, and thus the one I needed to face.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ asked the clerk, finally lifting his head. His voice was high, very English.
‘I’m not sure,’ I began, looking past his shoulder. ‘I wish to see the collector. Mr Warburton?’ I pointed just as the gentleman reached over and gave the sleeping man a shake.
‘Wakey wakey, George,’ he said.
The collector’s arms shot out, the book landing on the floor. ‘How dare you—’ he began. Then his eyes widened. ‘Oh, Mr Gordon, it’s you.’ Mr Warburton sat up, brushing his arms, smoothing his jacket. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until the morrow.’
‘Aye,’ drawled Mr Gordon, bending to retrieve the book. He glanced at the cover before placing it on the desk. ‘That was what we agreed upon … yesterday.’
‘What?’ said Mr Warburton, blinking. ‘Is it Tuesday already?’
‘Was when I woke this morning.’
‘Thought you’d be in court.’
‘There’s been a delay. The procurator arrives from Banff on Thursday.’
‘Banff? Then you can be confident of the outcome.’ The collector glanced about, eyes narrowing. ‘Have you brought the goods?’
Mr Gordon sighed. ‘Why else would I be here – and with a judgement hanging over my head?’ He gestured to where the men waited near the barrels outside.
‘What? You brought them here!’ Mr Warburton squeaked and leapt out of his seat. ‘For godsakes, man, I’ll not allow you to drag me into your …’ His next words were lost to me. He jerked his chin towards the doors. ‘Get them out of sight.’
Mr Gordon gave a wry smile and crossed his arms. ‘When I’ve got what I came for.’
Mr Warburton fixed Mr Gordon with a look, grumbling as he stood and lumbered deeper into the Customs House. Shocked at what I felt sure was an illicit transaction occurring so openly, I was also afraid I was going to lose my chance. Without waiting for permission, I brushed past the clerk.
‘Madam. You can’t go back there—’
‘Mr Warburton?’ I called, squeezing between two desks, ignoring objections. ‘Mr Warburton!’ I repeated more loudly.
The collector spun around. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No, Mr Warburton.’ I bobbed a small curtsey. ‘But I’ve come a long way to see you.’
Mr Warburton released a weary sigh, flapping his hands so I was forced to return the way I’d come. When we reached his desk, I moved to the other side.
‘Mr Warburton. I’m Mrs Reed. And I need a word with you about a private matter.’ I tightened the hold on my burlap and resisted the urge to adjust the kertch on my head, tidy my hair. I must look a sight, all windblown and thought-tossed.
The collector regarded me with annoyance. ‘Private matter?’ He rolled his eyes towards Mr Gordon who, much to my chagrin, had followed and was only a matter of feet away. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. But the commissioners in Edinburgh said—’
Mr Warburton made a disparaging noise. ‘I’m afraid I can’t see you without one. You Gaelic-sort never respect the rules. As you can see, I’m a busy man. Speak to Collins over there.’ He waved a careless hand. ‘I may have something in a few days. Now,’ he said officiously, turning back to Mr Gordon. ‘Before I part with anything, Gordon, I must ensure the quality of the goods. How about we retreat somewhere more conducive to that?’ He cuffed Mr Gordon on the shoulder, as if they were friends. I could tell they weren’t.
Gaelic-sort, hey? Well, I’d been called worse and by better than this overweening Englishman.
‘Mr Warburton,’ I said loudly, striding around the desk and gripping his forearm, forcing him to heed me. ‘I do not have a few days. I’ve travelled far to speak with you on a matter of some urgency.’
Mr Warburton shook my hand off. ‘Listen here, woman, I don’t know who you—’
‘Look after Mrs Reed, Warburton,’ said Mr Gordon firmly. ‘Our business can wait. I can wait.’ As if to demonstrate, he pulled up a stool and sat upon it, crossing one leg over the other.
Mr Warburton’s face grew red. There was a brief stand-off between the two, then Mr Warburton relented. He all but slumped into his chair.
I didn’t want to be grateful to this stranger, but I was. I flashed him a half-smile and without waiting to be asked, sat down as well.
Up close, I could see crumbs littered not only the surface of the desk, but the front of Mr Warburton’s uniform. A rather large mustard-coloured stain decorated his cravat, and a half-eaten pie lay in ruins on top of a cracked saucer. The book he’d fallen asleep reading was by Adam Smith. With a shaking hand he picked up a mug, swirled it briefly and downed the contents. ‘Well, what’s so important?’ That wasn’t tea he’d just swallowed. I almost keeled over from the fumes.
Ignoring the fact Mr Gordon was listening, I told him. ‘Just over a month ago,’ I began, pleased my voice remained even, ‘word came to Edinburgh – from here – that excise officer William Reed had died.’
Mr Warburton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Edinburgh? I’m not sure what business the fate of the former deputy comptroller is of yours.’
‘Deputy comptroller?’ That gave me pause. William had been promoted. I never knew. My stomach clenched with – what? Hurt? Choler? It quite unsettled me. ‘Let me explain, sir.’ Now came the difficult bit. The bit I’d rehearsed in my mind ever since the commissioners in Edinburgh told me that as William’s wife I was entitled to his outstanding wages, but there was some confusion. To receive them, I needed to speak to the collector in Montrose. He had to sign the necessary paperwork before the monies could be released.
Aware Mr Warburton’s patience was wearing thin, I nevertheless had to ask the question that had been plaguing me ever since Captain Neville delivered the news.
‘I must ask, sir. How did Mr Reed die?’ For all that we’d lived apart for many years, William was still my husband. Still Fen’s da. A part of me hoped he hadn’t suffered.
Too much.
I chided myself for such an uncharitable thought.
With a click of exasperation, the collector slid a pair of spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and reached for a thick ledger. ‘He was before my appointment, so I’ll have to check.’
While the collector searched through the ledger, I did what I could to avoid looking at Mr Gordon, all too aware that the entire time I’d been talking, his gaze had barely left me. In a shadowy corner, I could discern some rusty pot stills and worms, illicit distilling equipment no doubt seized by zealous excisemen. William was oft finding similar pieces around Edinburgh, but when a raid was unsuccessful …
I buried the memories deeper.
Valuable contraband would be stored behind the door with the huge padlock at the rear. Three keys were required to open it: the comptroller’s and his two surveyors’. William had come to Montrose to take up the post of key-holder, a junior surveyor.
‘Ah,’ said the collector, stabbing a page with his finger. ‘Here it is. William Reed was washed overboard during a storm en route to—’ He squinted. ‘Sorlandet – Norway. Officials weren’t notified for some weeks, not until the ship returned.’
So, that was how William met his end. In the North Sea. Born in Middlesex, William once told me he didn’t like the ocean.
‘His body was never recovered.’ The collector shut the ledger with a snap. ‘He’s drint, as you Gaelic-lot say.’ He flicked a piece of crust from his coat. ‘He fair drowned. Lies in a watery grave.’
Gaelic-lot. Gaelic-sort. Is that how this man thought of all Scots, whether Lowlanders or Highlanders? One great collective. Was he uncaring about the many contradictions, the hostility among us, the lingering resentment between Jacobites and Hanoverians? Between those who benefited from the Union of Crowns and those who loathed the merger? Or was he just wilfully ignorant? It was hard not to feel piqued as he showed his clueless colours, a bold or foolish move considering he was a Sassenach working in the heart of Scotland. Then again, as a collector, a representative of the king, he wielded a great deal of authority. Maybe not so stupid after all. Just bold. Just self-important.
Like William.
‘If that be all.’ Mr Warburton rose and pushed back his chair. ‘Time to get on with our business, Gordon. Lord knows, I’ve waited long enough. I’ve the, er … means to satisfy our arrangement.’
Means. The word was sharp, cruel, a dirk-thrust that drew blood and pain. I quietly hissed. Means was what I lacked. It was also what brought me here.
Mr Gordon was watching me. A look passed between us. He gave the slightest nod of encouragement.
‘Excuse me, Mr Warburton.’ I stood, determined, firm. ‘That’s not all.’
Mr Warburton fixed his pebble eyes upon me. ‘I can’t think what other business you have with me, madam. I’ve told you all I know or can.’
The fuse of my anger, ever primed these days, began to smoulder.
‘Because Mr Reed lost his life in performance of duties for the Crown, I believe I’m entitled to any outstanding wages he accrued.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ Mr Warburton snorted.
I tried to stay calm, swallow my desperation. ‘The authorities in Edinburgh assured me there were monies to be collected, only there’d been some confusion.’
Mr Warburton harrumphed. ‘On the contrary, there was no confusion. Mr Reed was owed a considerable sum.’
My heart fluttered as a little bird of hope took flight. ‘Then, Mr Warburton,’ a small smile of triumph escaped, ‘I wish to formally apply for it.’
There was a beat. ‘You can’t.’
The little bird gave one last flutter.
‘I’m well within my rights.’ I reached into my burlap, scrabbling through the contents. ‘I’ve the correct papers.’ On the advice of a sympathetic commissioner, I’d brought all the required documents and signatures, proof of my status.
Stumpy, hairy fingers rested against mine, stilling my foraging.
Slowly, as I stared hot coals, Mr Warburton removed his hand. ‘Rights aside, you can’t apply for what’s no longer there.’ His voice had become brittle, his slate eyes colder than the dreich day.
Mr Gordon slid off the stool and stood.
‘But you said there was a considerable sum.’ It was hard not to sound haughty or wretched.
‘Oh, and there was. There was. It’s just that it’s already been claimed.’
‘It has?’ As far as I knew, William had no other family. His parents were long dead, his brother as well, may God rest their souls. ‘By whom?’
‘By his wife.’
Ice-water struck me full in the face. ‘His what?’
‘I said,’ the collector enunciated each word, as if speaking to a numpty, ‘his wife claimed them. She came here a few days after his memorial service and was paid in full. I issued the monies myself – to Mrs William Reed.’
The new 2025 rollicking historical Scottish Highlands adventure from a bestselling, award-winning author.
On Sale: 02/07/2025