THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

her arms clutched around her bent legs. They’d not tupped in days.
    Wishing Beth hadna witnessed Mary’s birthing was of little use now. More worrisome was her endlessly twisting of her wedding band.
    In a flood of tears, she had told him her people would have sliced wee Mary’s womb and taken the babe, so the babe wouldna have had a damaged arm as he did now. Though he had heard it done when a woman was lost, he had difficulty believing both mother and child could survive such barbaric treatment. But she swore it was true, and he worried even more.
    He knelt behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Believing he already kenned the answer, he still asked, “Lass, what are ye fashin’ on now?”
    Staring at the sea, she leaned back against his chest. “Whisky.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Do you know how to make it?”
    “I dinna ken the art myself, but Ol’ John does. Why?” If he lived to be one hundred, he wouldna ever understand this woman.
    “Whisky will make you rich.”
    He chuckled. “Ladywife, ‘tis nay a way in hell John’s wee still will make me a wealthy man.”
    “Exactly. You need bigger stills to make more. And some of the whisky needs to be put up in oak barrels and stored for five years, some even twenty.”
    Ack! The poor wee thing had gone totally daft from fashing, just as he feared. He stood, lifting her as he did so. “Come, lass, ye need rest.”
    She spun in his arms. “Listen to me. The longer whisky ages, the better it gets. Where I come from and in England, a rich man thinks nothing of paying fifty dollars—-pounds—for a bottle of aged whisky this big.”
    His jaw dropped as he studied the small space between her hands. “Ye canna be serious?”
    “Aye, Duncan, I am. As serious as your priest is about his sacraments.”
    He expelled a great whoosh of air contemplating the possibilities. He had heard rumors some English were quite fond of the water of life . Of course, he’d not tasted aged whisky because they drank John’s brew as fast as he made it, but...
    Then there was the problem with the land. His wouldna support large crops, but he could negotiate for grain or finished whisky from the lowlanders. He could sell a bit and put away the rest. Too, he’d have to engage in a bit more smuggling, something he’d been reluctant to do of late, but better that then going to France. Hmm.
    “Lass,” he kissed her soundly, “we need go speak with Isaac.”
    ~#~
    Flora grinned as Beth settled in the boat. “My lady, we’re finally off to Drasmoor.”
    Beth nodded. With her husband sequestered with Isaac, Rachael engrossed in mending—-Beth’s idea of purgatory—and the keep in good order, she’d been in sore need of a distraction. “Thank you for suggesting this outing.”
    “My pleasure. We shall visit the babe and Wee Mary first, then go to Kari’s cottage and watch her work the Eire loom.”
    As they drew closer to Drasmoor Beth asked, “Do you look forward to having children?”
    “Nay.” Flora’s gaze shifted out to sea. “I watched my sister die trying to birth and heard too many tales to want such.”
    “I’m sorry.” She placed a hand of Flora’s arm. “I hadn’t meant to open wounds.” After a long pause she garnered enough courage to ask, “Is that why you refused the men who have asked for your hand?”
    Flora’s brow furrowed. “In part.”
    Lost in their own thoughts, they didn’t speak again until the boat beached.
    At her cottage door, Wee Mary wobbled a curtsey. “Good day, my lady. And to ye, Mistress Flora.” She ran a worried hand over her plain and spot-stained kirtle. “I hadna expected visitors. Please come in.”
    Beth smiled and handed Mary a basket laden with a beef stew, bread and jam. “I just came by to see how ye fared.”
    “Well, thank ye.” With her free hand, Mary waved to the cottage’s one chair. “Set ye and I will fetch ye a drink.”
    “Thank ye, but nay. I just wanted to see your beautiful son again.”
    The worry in Mary’s face dissolved at the mention of her babe. “Come then.”
    Beth’s gaze drifted over the soot-covered rafters, the unadorned whitewashed walls and settled on the wooden cradle in the corner.
    The child was wrapped snugly in a woolen blanket so Beth could only make out his face. But such a pretty face he had now, all the swelling and redness had vanished. “Is his shoulder healing?”
    She nodded. “We keep him bound but he can now move his hand.”
    Beth sent a prayer