Page 133 of A Rogue in Firelight

He left the house to walk toward the bridge and up the High Street. The city teemed with people, with the tantalizing smells of food cooking, bread baking, with the pandemonium of merchants and visitors, soldiers and errand-boys, flags and tartan and heather wherever he looked. The sound of bagpipes and drums filled the air.

Scottish pride had overtaken the city. Sir Walter and his Celtic Society’s design of a magnificent, exhilarating spectacle infused every corner, every sound, the very air.

Walking along, shouldering here, begging pardon there, Ronan enjoyed the anonymity and the freedom. He was just another tall gentleman, another lawyer, another husband, just another Scotsman heading up the High Street. He smiled as he went.

“Do stop, Ellison,I nearly lost my slipper,” Sorcha said. “You are in such a hurry!”

Ellison slowed as she walked beside Sorcha up the High Street. They were surrounded by pedestrians bumping, pushing, edging past each other. Bells pealed overhead, and the haunting skirl of bagpipes filled the air.

“Such a warm day, despite the rain. Look, Saint Giles!” Sorcha pointed to the high spires of the cathedral on the High Street. “Let’s go inside. It will be cooler there.”

“Not yet. I have to do something,” Ellison said. She locked elbows with Sorcha as they crossed the wide earthen street, avoiding calamity with other pedestrians and a constant stream of carts and horses. Walking past the cathedral, she led the way toward the wide square formed by the cathedral and the massive Scottish Parliament building behind it that held courts, offices, a law library, and more. Papa would be in his office there, but she had another purpose in mind here.

She adjusted the heather sprig in her bonnet and the fat blue bow under her chin, then smoothed her dark blue skirt and tugged at her spencer jacket of blue-and-green tartan. The elegant outfit would lend her the look of a lady of merit. She would need that today.

“Now to gird the lion in its den,” she told Sorcha. “Thank you for coming with me. I did not want to do this alone.”

“After what you told me after we left the hat shop, I would not miss this for the world! What a kerfuffle!”

“I hope it will not take long.” Ellison pushed through the doors to enter the bright, high-ceilinged hall of Parliament House. Sorcha stopped to read a brass plaque. “Court of Session, this way. Court of Justiciary, over there.”

“Justiciary,” Ellison said, and marched toward a huge polished door to push through. Inside a waiting area with a large desk and some chairs, she approached the young clerk behind the desk.

“Yes, Miss—?”

“Miss Graham. I wish to file a complaint.”

“Then you want the constable’s office. I can direct you.”

“I have spoken to the chief of the constabulary.” Partly true, for she had not yet seen her father that day. “I wish to see a lord justice regarding a legal matter.”

“I could refer you to an advocate to discuss it. It is not necessary to see one of the justices.”

“But I am in such a hurry, Mr. Robertson.” She smiled sweetly, reading the name plaque on his desk. “And quite desperate. If you please, I must see a justice.”

“Well—first, provide your name and address and the reason for your visit.” He handed her a paper. “There is an inkstand on that table. But those who are still here will likely refuse to see you. We are closing early today. May I ask the nature of your legal matter?”

“I wish to report a kidnapping,” she said.

Walking across theenormous entrance of Parliament Hall, with its marble floors and soaring walls, Ronan strode toward wide oak doors trimmed in brass. Hugh was beside him as they passed several men strolling through or gathered in conversation. He pushed through the doors leading to Court of Justiciary.

“Let us hope it is still open,” Hugh said.

“We have a little time yet.” As a nearby door opened, a few men came through deep in discussion. Ronan paused.

“Blast it,” Hugh muttered. “Of all the luck.”

Steeling his spine, Ronan waited as Sir Hector, Adam Corbie, and Sir Neill Pitlinnie crossed the vast hallway. Neither of the men, at first, looked around.

When at last they did, Ronan would have given any amount for a sketch of Corbie’s expression in that moment. The man looked stunned, then alarmed, then frightened. He stumbled back as Sir Hector and Pitlinnie looked around too.

“Lord Darrach!” Sir Hector said in a booming voice.

Ronan inclined his head as all three came closer. “Sir Hector,” he said. “Good to see you. Mr. Corbie. And Sir Neill. What a surprise.”

“MacGregor,” Pitlinnie muttered. Corbie gaped like a fish.

“I believe you know my solicitor, Mr. Cameron,” Ronan said, as Hugh nodded.