Page 102 of A Rogue in Firelight

“What did you hear?” Ronan asked.

“My wife had it from the kitchen maid at Darrach, who had it from her mother, who had it from an old man down the glen. The rumor is going about that Pitlinnie owns Glen Brae now.”

“He does not,” Ronan said curtly.

“Good. We want our own Glenbrae in charge. You, lad,” Tam told him.

“Would you sell it, ever?” Donal asked, distress cracking his young voice.

“Never. And tonight I just need to know who beat Geordie Muir, who took our stock of whisky, and where it is.”

“I also heard,” Tam said, “or me wife heard, that Pitlinnie was asking if the laird of Glenbrae has been named Viscount Darrach.”

“You have been waiting on the news, Uncle Ronan.”

Ronan drew a breath. “I have had promising news. But we will save that for later.” The men grinned but did not ask more, and he appreciated their focus.

“For now, all roads lead to Pitlinnie,” Rabbie muttered.

“Though he is a scoundrel,” Ronan said then, “he is no low thief, nor is he desperate for goods. Some of this does not make sense.”

“He has plenty whisky of his own to move,” Tam agreed.

“But he wants the Glenbrae distillery,” Rabbie said. “And he thought Ronan MacGregor would hang, so he has been planning to take over the business.”

“Good sirs and fair lads, we cannot solve this now,” Sir Ludo said in his grand and archaic manner. “What is important is to find the whisky. The king’s wish must be served.”

“Just so,” Ronan said, and swallowed the last, a mellow burn down his throat.

*

She woke inthe dark, startling out of a noisy tilt of a dream into a dim and rainy dawn. The dream clung as she pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, still in the thrall of climbing a steep hill in strong winds, seeing Ronan MacGregor far ahead amid a cluster of strangers. She struggled to reach him, calling out, slipping, sliding, but he did not see her. At last reaching the top, she found herself at the edge of a cliff and, in the way of dreams, Ronan even farther away, still beyond reach. The ground where she stood crumbled away beneath her feet then, and suddenly she was falling—and had to fly or perish. Somehow, she soared and tried to swoop toward Ronan. Seeing her, he reached out—and then she woke, still feeling an odd sense of floating that quickly dissipated as she sat up.

Had Ronan returned in the night? She had slept fitfully until the desperate dream had taken over. Pulling her dressing gown over her nightgown, she heard the dull rumble of thunder as she went downstairs. The house was dark and silent, the kitchen deserted but for Balor, asleep by the warm hearth. He raised his head to greet her with a low woof, then went back to dozing as she built up the fire in the grate, warmed the kettle, and prepared a pot of tea. Minutes later, she sat sipping a cup at the well-scrubbed table, listening to the whip of rain and the grumble of thunder.

Then she heard a sound over the predawn storm—horse hooves, shouts, and a distant voice, so familiar now that she gasped in relief. Going to the kitchen door, she angled to listen and to look toward the stables, just visible to her left.

She could hardly run outside in her dressing gown. Instead, she hurried to the hob to add more hot water to the teapot, then searched for scones, rolls, jam, butter.

Bringing a tray to Ronan’s tower room was something she could do now, an offer of plain before breakfast was prepared for the household. If she could see him for a moment, she would feel reassured that he was safe and well.

Soon she carried the tray along the connecting corridor to the old tower and headed for the stone steps, going carefully up the old, worn steps. A few of the treads bore wet prints just visible in the dim light from the narrow stairwell window. Ronan had come this way ahead of her.

At his bedchamber door, she hesitated, suddenly wishing she had written a note to leave with the tray—Dearest Ronan, she would have written. She bent to leave the tray outside the door, about to give a quick knock and flee. But the silver tray scraped over stone and the teapot clinked against the cup as she knelt on the floor.

The door swung open. She stared at two large bare feet, tracing her gaze upward past bare calves dusted with dark hair, past the folds of a dark kilt wrapped and belted over a loose linen shirt open at chest and throat to reveal a mat of dark hair. She looked up at his face, his dear face and scruff-bearded jaw, his dark hair wet and curling, his wide shoulders, all haloed by candlelight.

“Why, Ellison,” he said, and reached down to her.

Blushing like fire, she set her hand in his as he brought her to her feet.

Chapter Twenty

She looked flustered,delectable, sleepy, and the most welcome sight he could have imagined. He just wanted to pull her into his arms and bury his soul and troubles in her gentle, whimsical, comforting nature. But he let go.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” she said. “It is good to see you safe, and home.”

Home. That word, from her, was everything. Bending, he picked up the tray and brought it to the table, then gestured toward his bare feet and shirtsleeves in apology. “Pardon me. I had a wash and was dressing. It has been a long night.”