Things Have Changed

GLENGEáRR, SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS

" T hey'll soon put paid to his ambitions of empire," Payton King told his wife as he took her into his embrace. He understood the wretched anger contorting Alba's beautiful face. After Napoleon's abdication and exile to Elba, they'd discussed the possibility of returning to his wife's native Spain to help rebuild the Castillero family's sherry bodega, destroyed by the French. Alba's father had never seen the grandson named for him.

Tucked into a cradle beside their bed, Peter King slept peacefully. Payton admired his wife's restraint. She'd been determined not to allow her bairn to sense her despair.

Glengeárr was a small village in the Scottish Highlands but, even in this remote place, the news that Napoleon was again at large had shocked the community. His escape threatened renewed war in Europe which wasn't good for the whisky business. The Kingdom Distillery was the only major employer in the vicinity. The once-vibrant cottage weaving industry had more or less ground to a halt.

"Wellington's been called upon to once again lead the fight against Bonaparte," Payton continued, in an effort to reassure Alba.

"It sometimes seems the world will never be rid of Napoleon," she replied dispiritedly.

He shook his head. "It will probably take another war, but we have to believe the nations of Europe will finally unite to defeat him once and for all."

"But they will need bigger and better armies. More lives will be sacrificed, more countries laid waste, like mine."

He had no answer for that. During the brief time he and his cousin had spent in Andalucía fighting alongside Alba's band of guerrillas, they'd seen first hand the devastation, brutality and heartbreak wrought by the French invasion of Spain. As the long night wore on, all Payton could do was hold his grieving wife.

After a sleepless night, Alba resolved to pull herself together. Her sobs had kept Payton awake and now he'd gone off to work in the distillery. A hardworking husband needed his sleep. An unhappy mother made for an unhappy child. She wanted Peter to grow up in a happy home and must not allow her anger and distress to affect the unborn ni?o she carried. "Your Papa does not yet know of you, little one," she cooed, smoothing both hands over her stomach. "One day, we will take you to Spain with your brother. Peter is named for your abuelo , Pedro. What name shall we give you? I think you are a ni?a . Perhaps Olivia after mi madre . She was a Scot, you know."

Resentment threatened to surge again. Her hopes of an early return to Spain had been cruelly dashed. Allotted only a minor role in the Congress of Vienna, Spain would now have to rebuild without help from the major powers who would be too busy dealing with the new threat.

Movement and gurgling noises from the cradle next to the bed alerted her and banished the morose thoughts. Sighing, she rose, lifted Peter from his cradle and sat in the rocking chair. "Listen to me, talking to your wee sister," she said as she nestled her son and held him to her breast.

Payton had never made any comment about her breasts being too small and he certainly loved to put his mouth on her. However, her sister-in-law, Tavish's wife Piper, had confided that, at one time, Payton was only attracted to big-breasted women. In any case, since the birth of her son, things had changed. "I think your Papa is right," she whispered. "My breasts are bigger, thanks to you, my darling boy."

"I understand why you're upset," Piper King said to her husband as they lay in bed looking up at the ceiling.

"Upset?" Tavish replied, punching his pillow. "I'm livid. For years, me and my brothers have worked ourselves to the bone to produce a superior whisky."

"Nobody could have worked harder," she murmured, kneading his bicep.

Tavish couldn't help himself. He had to vent to somebody. "We inherited a mediocre blend from our parents who were too busy quarreling with each other to care about the quality of their whisky."

Piper laced her fingers with his. "Payton told me they took their mutual dislike out on their three sons until you were old enough to protect your brothers."

"Aye. Da was handy wi' his fists. Ma too, for that matter."

"Right from the start, your brothers recognized your skill as a master distiller."

In turn, Tavish recognized his wife's efforts to calm him. As usual, her touch was easing his agitation but arousing his body. "Aye, and I havena given them enough credit for always goin' along with my ideas and experiments. Payton and Niven harvested field after field of barley, willingly turned malting barley by hand and dug peat for the kilns."

Piper cuddled into him. "Payton even risked his life to retrieve your special barrels from war-torn Spain."

"Aye."

"As a result you produce a single malt whisky endorsed by a royal warrant from the Prince Regent."

"Aye," he chuckled. "And our wee distillery attracted substantial investors, thanks in large part to connections provided by my English cousin—who unexpectedly turned out to be the Duke of Ramsay."

"And Kenneth's associate, the Duke of Withenshawe, provided free shipping from Dundee to London. Napoleon didn't make it easy to grow the sales of Uachdaran whisky in Europe, but we've been successful despite him."

Piper was right. They had much to be thankful for. Since settling in Scotland, Payton and Alba had taken a significant portion of the workload off Tavish's shoulders. Their younger brother, Niven, was working hard in London to find new markets, all the while apparently running Withenshawe's shipping empire. Kenneth's and Withenshawe's investments had provided a welcome boost to the growth of the business. Both dukes had played a significant active role in the marketing of Uachdaran until the Congress of Vienna necessitated curtailing their personal involvement. However, just when Tavish thought things were looking up, the French bastard had escaped and was apparently up to his old tricks.