Taming The Lion. Suzanne Barclay

an heirloom of even greater age. The chalice.

      The tiny scallop shells on the base were white and worn smooth from use. The bowl formed of rock crystal was so clear the torchlight passed right through the dark amber liquid in it. Centuries ago, a restless ancestor, Henri of the Boyd, had returned from trading in the Mediterranean with the chalice and the recipe for distilling spirits from grain. Each succeeding generation of Boyds had improved upon the original.

      Family pride and a sense of destiny filled her as her eyes moved from the chalice to the kinsmen assembled in the golden circle of light. Each man was here because tradition dictated it, and because he had a stake in the whiskey’s making. Roland the brew master’s narrow face was tight with anxiety. If the whiskey was found lacking, he could lose the position held by his father and his father before that. His son and apprentice, Wesley, grinned at her with the confidence of youth. Gordie the cooper stared at the small keg on the floor beside the table, grateful, no doubt, to see it did not leak.

      Lastly Catlyn looked at Adair, the craggy-faced captain who was mentor to her as he’d been friend to her father.

      Oh, Papa. Pain squeezed tight in her chest. Even after a month, it was hard to accept the fact that he was gone, the bluff, generous man who had guided her steps as a babe and taught her the craft when fate decreed she would succeed him.

      “’Tis time, lass,” Adair said gently. In his level brown eyes she saw grief held at bay by the prod of duty.

      Catlyn nodded, took a steadying breath and moved to the table. Without hesitation, she lifted the chalice and let the pungent fumes waft up her nose. Strong and so sharp they nearly stole her breath. Just as it should be for whiskey that was only a year old. She had been bred and raised for this, educated in the ways of marrying barley mash and fire while other lasses learned needlework and housework.

      It was time to put theory into practice.

      The cool liquid burned in her mouth. She tilted her head, let it slide achingly down her throat to set her belly afire. The heat lingered on her tongue then receded. In its wake subtle nuances tickled the back of her pallet. Earth and smoke and fire. Intriguing, but it was the underlying hint of sweetness that soothed away the sting and demanded to be sampled again.

      “How can ye tell if it’s fit?” demanded Roland, scowling.

      Catlyn jerked, swallowed a second sip too quickly and choked, something she had not done since she’d had her first taste at age five or so.

      “That strong, is it?” Adair plucked the cup from her hand and clapped her on the back.

      “Whiskey’s a man’s drink,” grumbled Roland. “Laird Thomas should have left one of us in charge of the stills.”

      The implication that she was not fit to succeed her father dried Catlyn’s tears and brought her chin up. “I worked by Papa’s side from the time I could walk.”

      “Watching and doing’s two different things.” Old Roland filled a plain horn cup and drank. The others, even Catlyn, held their breath. “It’ll do,” he growled.

      Wesley let out a whoop and grabbed up a cup of his own. He filled and drained it, then sucked in air. “Dod,” he wheezed, eyes round and wet. “It fair steals yer breath, it does.”

      “Just as it should.” Roland took the cup. “And ye’ll be showing more respect for my brew, not swilling it like a drunken sailor in a dockside alehouse.”

      “Aye, Da.”

      “Best in several years, I’d say.” Adair took another sip, rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed.

      “And why not? Laird Thomas knew what he was about. Had the touch, he did. And experience.” Roland looked down his hooked nose at Catlyn, clearly hinting she lacked both.

      “I know I am young,” Catlyn said, her gaze meeting each man’s in turn. “But Papa said I had the nose and pallet.”

      “Ye’ll need more than that if ye’re to keep Hakon Fergusson from taking everything we’ve got,” Roland said darkly.

      Adair glared at the brew master. “Kennecraig has never been taken, and it won’t be while I’ve breath in my body.”

      “Brave words. Laird Thomas said much the same when Hakon came sniffing around. Look where he is,” Roland muttered.

      “Dead,” Wesley whispered.

      Catlyn shivered, fighting sorrow and fear. “We have Hakon over a barrel. He cannot attack for fear we will destroy the distillery and the whiskey he covets.”

      “He’s stymied for the moment,” Roland allowed. “But—”

      “Papa said he was the sort of bully who expects his victims to roll over and give him what he wants. When he sees he cannot best us, he will go off in search of easier prey”

      Roland grunted. “Well, last year’s whiskey is ready for the kegs and the four-year-old is ready for market. But how will we get it there with Hakon lurking about like an evil spider?”

      “That is my worry,” said Adair. “If we had the coin, I would hire mercenaries to guard the shipment.”

      “We are over a barrel of our own. Till we sell some of the Finglas, we’ve no money. Not even for food, and God knows if we do not get supplies soon, we will all starve and save Hakon the trouble of attacking the keep.” Roland looked almost pleased.

      Did he want her to fail so badly he wished them all ill? Catlyn wondered. The weight on her shoulders felt even heavier, yet she dared not show any weakness. “I will find a way to—”

      A knock sounded at the door. For a stunned instant, they all looked at one another. It must be something important to interrupt the sacred ceremony.

      Adair scowled, then went to open it a crack, revealing Eoin’s handsome face. “I told you that you were not welcome here,” Adair growled.

      Catlyn’s former betrothed lifted his chin. “There’s a party of men at the gate seeking shelter from the storm.”

      “Fergussons,” Roland whispered. The word echoed ominously off the stone walls.

      “Nay,” Eoin said quickly. “They are travelers. I think—”

      “No one cares what you think,” Adair snapped.

      Catlyn laid a hand on her captain’s arm. He could not forgive Eoin for supposedly breaking her heart, but this bickering divided them when they most needed to pull together. “Thank you for bringing word, Eoin. I’ll come see for myself.”

      Up the steps from the distillery she went, down the dimly lit corridor and out into the courtyard. The wind tugged at her skirts and whipped her hair about, carrying with it the damp promise of rain. Overhead, thunder rumbled and lightning raked through a sea of bilious gray clouds.

      “Best hurry before you get wet,” Eoin advised. He trotted along beside her like a faithful hound.

      Nay, not faithful. He had betrayed her with the woman who had once been her dearest friend. Despite her best efforts, Catlyn could neither forgive nor forget their treachery. Dora had accepted this and stayed out of Catlyn’s way as much as possible. Perversely, Eoin seemed determined to win her back.

      “Careful, the steps are steep.” He reached to help her up the stairs of the guardhouse.

      Catlyn neatly avoided his grasp. “I have been climbing them all my life,” she said through clenched teeth. Clinging to the wall with one hand, she battled through the wind to the top of the tower. Looking down, she spied a group of men huddled in the lee of the gate. “Oh, dear, we must do something.”

      “We cannot let them in,” Adair said.

      “I know, but Papa is doubtless spinning in his grave to see us turn travelers away in such weather.”

      “If we let them in and they prove to be Fergussons, we’ll be moldering