Newly appointed Detective Inspector Gemma James has never thought to question her friend Hazel Cavendish about her past. So it is quite a shock when Gemma learns that their holiday retreat to a hotel in the Scottish Highlands is, in fact, Hazel's homecoming -- and that fellow guest Donald Brodie was once Hazel's lover, despite a vicious, long-standing feud between their rival, fine whiskey distilling families. And the fires of a fierce and passionate affair may not have burned out completely -- on Brodie's part at least, since he's prepared to destroy Hazel's marriage to win back his "Juliet." But when a sudden, brutal murder unleashes a slew of sinister secrets and long-seething hatreds, putting Hazel's life in peril, Gemma knows she will need help unraveling this very bloody knot -- and calls for the one man she trusts more than any other, Duncan Kincaid, to join her far from home ... and in harm's way.
If there's a sword-like sang
That can cut Scotland clear
O a' the warld beside
Rax me the hilt o't here.-- Hugh Macdiarmid,
"To Circumjack Cencrastus"
Carnmore, November 1898
Wrapped in her warmest cloak and shawl, Livvy Urquhart pacedthe worn kitchen flags. The red-walled room looked a cozy sanctuarywith its warm stove and open shelves filled with crockery, but outside thewind whipped and moaned round the house and distillery with an eerilyhuman voice, and the chill penetrated even the thick stone walls of theold house.
It was worry for her husband, Charles, that had kept Livvy up intothe wee hours of the night. He would have been traveling back fromEdinburgh when the blizzard struck, unexpectedly early in the season,unexpectedly fierce for late autumn.
And the road from Cock Bridge to Tomintoul, the route Charles musttake to reach Carnmore, was always the first in Scotland to be completelyblocked by snow. Had his carriage run off the track, both horse and driver blinded by the stinging wall of white fury that met them as they came upthe pass? Was her husband even now lying in a ditch, or a snowbank,slowly succumbing to the numbing cold?
Her fear kept her pacing, long after she'd sent her son, sixteen-year-oldWill, to bed, and as the hours wore on, the knowledge of her situationbrought her near desperation. Trapped in the snug, white-harled house, shewas as helpless as poor Charles, and useless to him. Soon she would noteven be able to reach the distillery outbuildings, much less the track that ledto the tiny village of Chapeltown.
Livvy sank into the rocker by the stove, fighting back tears sherefused to acknowledge. She was a Grant by birth, after all, andGrants were no strangers to danger and harsh circumstances. Theyhad not only survived in this land for generations but had also flourished,and if she had grown up in the relative comfort of the town, shehad now lived long enough in the Braes to take hardship and isolationfor granted.
And Charles ... Charles was a sensible man -- too sensible, she hadthought often enough in the seventeen years of their marriage. He wouldhave taken shelter at the first signs of the storm in some roadside inn orcroft. He was safe, of course he was safe, and so she would hold him inher mind, as if her very concentration could protect him.
She stood again and went to the window. Wiping at the thick pane ofglass with the hem of her cloak, she saw nothing but a swirl of white.What would she tell Will in the morning, if there was no sign of hisfather? A new fear clutched at her. Although a quiet boy, Will had astubborn and impulsive streak. It would be like him to decide to strike offinto the snow in search of Charles.
Hurriedly, she lit a candle and left the kitchen for the dark chill of thehouse, her heart racing. But when she reached her son's first-floor bedroom,she found him sleeping soundly, one arm free of his quilts, his much-read copy of Kidnapped open on his chest. Easing the book fromhis grasp, she rearranged the covers, then stood looking down at him.From his father he had inherited the neat features and the fine, straight,light brown hair, and from his father had come the love of books and thestreak of romanticism. To Will, Davie Balfour and the Jacobite AlanBreck were as real as his friends at the distillery; but lately, his fascinationwith the Rebellion of '45 seemed to have faded, and he'd begun totalk more of safety bicycles and blowlamps, and the new steam-poweredwagons George Smith was using to transport whisky over atDrumin. All natural for a boy his age, Livvy knew, especially with thenew century now little more than a year away, but still it pained her...
DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. She is a bestselling author in Germany, and her novels are also published in Japan, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda's College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd.
You can visit her website at www.deborahcrombie.com.
