Page 149 of A Rogue in Firelight

This time she felt a freedom unlike any she had ever known—fear abandoned, worries loosening their hold, thoughts dissolving like mist off a fairy loch. As he explored her body with gentle, knowing fingertips, she discovered his with awe for his sinew and firmness, each taut muscle and velvety stretch of skin moving with strength and certainty. When he surged, she arched, when he stretched, she softened, and when his body eased into hers, her body gloved his.

This time, as the old, plain bed dipped and creaked with their rhythms, they laughed and then grew serious, and when the blankets slipped away, he covered and warmed her. She felt stronger, safer than ever before—and she wanted to give him all that he needed too. She wanted him to know he was loved beyond love in the truth of who he was here and now. He was the hero in her life, the man she had dreamed of, the man she allowed into her heart, vital and real and powerful, embodying the warrior she had created on scraps of paper smeared with ink. Ronan MacGregor was her knight, her rogue, her defender, her dearest friend and tender lover, her rock and anchor. She wanted to be all to him too.

“Dawn,” he murmured after a while.

“Let it be,” she said. “We need not move.”

“Just a little,” he whispered, sliding his warm, slow, sleepy touch over her shoulder, his curious fingers finding the softest parts of her, his lips finding hers.

“But I am hungry,” she admitted.

“You ought to be, Lady Darrach,” he said, and she laughed into his shoulder.

*

Ronan adjusted theplaid draped over his shoulder, patterned in MacGregor blood red and forest green, tugged at his black coat, and straightened his bonnet with its fir sprig for the Gregorach, and the two feathers of a chieftain. The morning was already warm and humid, and gray skies foretold another bout of the rains that threatened to drench the royal visit. He looped a painted shield over one arm, checked the sheathed sword and pistol that he carried, and patted his horse’s neck. He smiled to himself, grateful to his core to be here, to be clear of worries, to be content and happy in the day and his future.

Behind him were fifty Highlanders replete in bright plaids, gleaming weapons, and feathered and sprigged bonnets. Donal Brodie stood proudly with them. The MacGregors would lead the enormous gathering comprised of over a thousand Highlanders that formed part of the procession set to escort the royal regalia, crown and scepter and more, from Edinburgh Castle down to Holyroodhouse at the foot of the High Street.

Beside him, magnificently dressed in the Highland gear of the chief, Sir Evan MacGregor sat his own horse. Between them, riding a pony, was Evan’s eldest son, all of twelve and proudly dressed in full Highland kit too.

“Are you ready, sir?” the MacGregor asked Ronan.

“I am. And I thank you for placing me here with you.”

“No one more deserving. I mean that.” His cousin smiled, his handsome face puckered with the deep scar running from brow to chin. His right arm lay still on the reins, limp fingers protected in a thick leather glove. Sir Evan MacGregor was known for leadership, pragmatism, kindness—and for surviving devastating injuries and returning to lead his clan. He was also famed in social circles for a singular physical beauty undimmed by scarring. The handsomest man in Scotland, they called him. And one of the most respected, Ronan knew.

“No one I would rather have here,” Sir Evan said. “I would not be here today if not for your actions in India. You saved my life—and dragged me back to Scotland when I was weak and vulnerable and furious, blaming you for my brother’s death on the battlefield behind us. But I was wrong about that, and it is past time I apologized for it.”

“Not necessary, Evan.”

“I held it against you. But I am alive because of you, and I will not forget that again.”

Ronan smiled, accepting the apology and shrugging away the compliment. “The memories are difficult, I know, and hard for me too.”

“I owe you more than I can say. I mean it sincerely. And I owe you congratulations as well. The deputy lord provost’s daughter, indeed! My wife is eager to meet her, and we would like you both to stay with us for a long visit after this infernal commotion is done in Edinburgh. Now—shall we get this moving?”

“If you are ready, sir, we are all ready.”

“Then let us show the king and all of Edinburgh the strength and majesty of the Scottish Highlanders.” Riding forward with Ronan and his young son, Sir Evan drew his sword and raised it high, looking over his shoulder.

“An Griogarach!”he shouted.

A huge clamor of voices echoed his cry as the Highlanders stepped forward.

Epilogue

Ellison sat inthe carriage, twisting her gloves in her hand.

“Do stop, Elly,” Sorcha said. “You are so nervous today.”

“Calm, dear,” the viscountess said. “He will do well in there.”

“I know. I just wish ladies were allowed to attend the levee too.” She looked through the carriage window and across the Holyrood courtyard. Dozens of carriages were parked along the graveled drive fronting the royal palace. In the vehicles, ladies waited for their gentlemen while others strolled up and down the drive, skirts billowing, bonnet ribbons flying on that windy afternoon.

“We are all waiting, including the very Duchess of Atholl and all the rest,” Lady Strathniven said. “Darrach will be praised as a perfect gentleman and an asset to Scotland, and this day will lead to good things for both of you. I am sure of it.”

Ellison smiled. “I do hope so, my lady.”