30. Scotland, 1853“What’s that?”
Harold Fearmòr’s exasperation was visible in his eyes, fixed on the bottle his brother had put on his desk, as well as in his tone of voice.
“The future,” Robb replied, with a smile fit to burst.
He’d wanted to say, “My revenge,” but had stopped himself in time. Robb was thoroughly relishing this moment. It was finally clear to him where the whisky industry was heading had finally become clear to Robb, and he was perfectly positioned to take advantage of it.
“Which whisky is it?” Harold asked, irritated as always by his brother’s hackneyed theatrics.
“It’s not a single malt whisky like the Glen Dubh, nor a simple grain-based whisky—it’s a blend.”
Judging by his brother’s intonation, Harold surmised that his words had to be important, even though he di
