Page 119 of A Rogue in Firelight

The men were expecting at least one more man, likely Pitlinnie. No one else would steal and hide a stock of Glenbrae whisky. Perhaps Sir Neill had heard it would be sent to the king. But why would that even matter to him?

The broch was widest at its base, and enormous cracks in the old stones revealed the double stone walls where interior rooms had once existed, now filled with rubble and risk. Moonlight picked out uneven shapes and shadows.

Yet she could see regular shapes in some of the niches. Those had to be crates and kegs. Moving cautiously, she went toward them and gasped.

As clouds shifted overhead, cool moonbeams brightened the space to show stacks of casks, kegs, and crates.

Heart pounding, she knew she had to get out—and find Ronan. Whirling, she ran, stumbled, her knee hitting stone. She rose up and ran on. A line of light appeared in the shadows, an opening in the immense and partially collapsed retaining wall.

Then her dancing slippers met a wooden ramp and she was outside in the night air. Overhead, a canopy of stars sprinkled across an amethyst sky and a bright blur of the moon. Down the hill, mist floated over the dark loch like a cloud.

Recalling which direction led to Invermorie, she ran through the grass keeping the narrow loch to her right, the broch behind her, and miles of meadow ahead.

Hearing shouts and the thud of horse hooves, she stopped short. As she stood there exposed in moonlight, the splash of oars sounded in the water. Someone was crossing the loch toward the hillside bank where she stood.

Spinning, she hurried back to the broch. Her best chance was to hide in a shadowy niche and hope the thugs would think she had escaped the ancient tower.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Securing his horseunder trees in the moonlight, Ronan patted the steadfast bay and headed toward the loch. Donal and Aleck would soon return with a cart, but he wanted to explore to see if the whisky was hidden in the tower despite its precarious state. Instinct had drawn him here like a lodestone, and he had to know why.

Hearing hoofbeats, he stepped back under the dark and leafy canopy, then eased out to see two men ride across the moorland toward the loch. When he realized they were not Donal and Aleck, he drew back.

The riders dismounted, leaving their horses to graze, and walked toward the water. Their voices floated back in the quiet.

“There should be a wee boat here—” said one.

“Further down,” said the other.

“We left that lass too long. Something might have happened.”

“That scrap of a lassie is tied snug and fears for her life. She will be there.”

“The reward for this better be worth the trouble,” the first one complained.

Ronan felt his heart sink, then anger flame. Ellison. He had to do something quickly. If he could distract them, he could get to the boat and cross the loch shielded by the mist on its surface. Slipping out of the grove of trees, he ran to the grazing horses, released their pegged leads, slapped their hindquarters, and sent them whickering and cantering in an opposite direction.

Shouting, the men frantically chased after the escaping horses. Fast and silent, Ronan went down to the lochside to find a small rowboat nudged among the reeds. Fog swirled thick over the water as he pushed it free and set off over the smooth, quiet water.

The loch was a narrow stretch here, and soon he passed the little island, hardly seeing it through the mist. Reaching the shore in the darkness, he berthed the boat among reeds and stepped to the bank. Cautious, glancing about, he climbed the slope to the broch’s curving foundation, looking for the old entrance, wary of falling stones.

A crude wooden ramp creaked beneath his boots. As he edged through the tumble of stones in the entrance, his footsteps crunching over pebbles and earth, he glanced about in utter darkness. The only light came from far above as moonbeams filtered into the center depths. Just to his left, he glimpsed the movement of a pale shadow.

“Ellison?” he whispered.

Just as he spoke, a missile flew toward him. He ducked barely in time as a stone crashed into the wall behind him. Another followed swiftly. Ronan put up an arm to protect his head from falling debris as he sidestepped the onslaught.

A wraith flew out of the shadows, a fairy bit of a girl in a pale gown with pale hair, arms out now as she ran toward him, sobbing. He pulled her into his arms, every fiber in him infused with gratitude, relief, love. “Ellison!”

“You came for me, you are here, oh, Ronan,” she sobbed against his chest.

“I am here,” he whispered, kissing her hair, her brow, her lips, cupping her face in his hands. “What happened? How did you get here? Did those bastards—”

“They did not hurt me. They only tied my hands and took me in here. Gagged me, too, when I screamed—”

“Was that you I heard out on the moor? I did not know it was you—but that shriek brought me here. Who took you? You were at Duncraig when I saw you last.”

“Pitlinnie,” she said breathlessly. “He loaned me his carriage, and was so polite. He apologized and I believed him. I am such a fool. I am sorry. His men took me here, but they left and I got free. And now you are here, and oh, Ronan, I must show you!”