Page 12 of A Rogue in Firelight

Ronan huffed. “Be glad we are not there.”

“Horrible place,” Linhope agreed. “That handsome new building is already a hellish prison. Worse than the old Tolbooth it replaced.”

“It is a pretty fortress on its high hill, all towers and turrets,” Iain said. “A fine design. Visitors even mistake Calton for the Castle.” He threw down a couple of cards and crowed. Ronan groaned, seeing them.

“Last year I visited the Calton infirmary with a colleague,” Linhope said. “We could do little for the men there. The guards are not allowed to summon medical assistance except in severe cases. The Deputy Lord Provost is in charge of the constabulary, but either he is unaware of the conditions, or does not care to improve them.”

Hearing footsteps out in the corridor, Ronan glanced up as that afternoon’s crop of visitors walked away. “Someone dropped a news journal.”

Linhope went to the wide grate to stretch an arm through the lower bars, managing to grab the paper. Returning to sit and study the pages, he laughed.

“We are mentioned here. Smugglers, ruffians, brigands... Hah! A sketch of three hairy beasts in plaid.” He held up the page.

“A fair description,” Ronan grunted. “What’s the date?”

“Thirtieth of July,” Linhope said. “Have we been here that long?Tempus fugit. And look here. The king is expected to arrive in August.”

Iain huffed. “I shall get my best Highland kit ready.”

“By God,” Linhope said then. “‘The Duke of Atholl will be returning to Perthshire from his property on the Isle of Man. He plans to attend the funeral of a friend.’” He glanced up. “Sir John Murray MacGregor. A kinsman, Ronan? I am sorry.”

Ronan felt a clench of sadness. “A cousin, aye. Chief of the Gregorach, the MacGregors. My father grew up with him. Sir John was tough as old leather but a fair man. We admired him, even as boys.” Memories flew past, some happy, some tainted with regret. He scowled.

“Sir Evan is now chief of the MacGregors,” Iain said. “Your second cousin, that one.”

“A good man. The clan will do well by him.”

“Thanks to you. He owes you his life, Ronan. A hero’s stand, they say,” Iain added.

Ronan shook his head. “Evan was the hero that day in India, facing the odds as he did. We fought to save him and each other. Not everyone made it out,” he murmured, thinking of lost kin and friends and recalling courage and grief on a day he wished he could forget. Years ago, he had sailed to India to join his cousin, exchanging out of a Highland regiment to the dragoons to be at Evan’s back. Since then, feelings had gone sour between them.

“Once the Darrach estate is yours, you will have the right to be part of the chief’s tail,” Linhope said. “A full chieftain of the Gregorach.”

“The matter still needs sorting. And Sir Evan will not welcome a kinsman accused of smuggling. But he will be a fine leader.” He threw down his cards, and now Iain groaned.

Linhope picked up his fiddle again to begin a slow tune. The music seemed to draw the sadness out of the very air, transforming the mood. Ronan leaned back, closed his eyes. Thoughts of his Highland home past with the melody—the breeze over the hills, the heather in summer, the cool drench of a stream, the honeyed fire of whisky down the throat. He imagined lying in a meadow in clear, fresh air, laughing, a woman in his arms, soft and warm. Nameless, faceless, but someday—

He frowned as the imaginary lover became the delectable Miss Graham.No.If he had a future at all, he would not trade a Highland life for life with a city lass, especially one whose very kinsman held the fate of prisoners.

Dreams were a long way off. For now, his concern was how to avoid a hanging.

Chapter Three

“Ellison,” Sir Hectorsaid, “we must discuss a delicate matter. Mr. Corbie is aware.”

“Papa, I have explained and apologized for the visit to the dungeons.”

He came around the desk to lean against it, crossing his arms as he scowled down at her. Adam Corbie stood nearby, frowning too, as if in imitation. Seated, Ellison straightened her posture against their intimidation. Yet her father looked troubled rather than angry.

“This is more serious,” he said.

Had he found her novel? She smoothed the skirts of her gray muslin trimmed in indigo ribbon, colors reflecting the morning rain. No matter what she did, she struggled to retain her father’s love and approval, once so secure.

She took a breath, prepared to defend herself. Her marriage three years ago to a viscount’s son, romantic but hasty, had been followed too soon by his fatal fall from a horse. Her widowing had stirred sympathy among family and friends, but Sir Hector could not forget her lapse in judgment. Mr. Corbie echoed that opinion.

“I will need your assistance in a difficult situation,” her father said.

Ellison blinked. “My—assistance?”