Page 18 of A Rogue in Firelight

“What do you want of me?” he asked stiffly.

“I have your welfare in mind with only good intentions. I was sent by my father.”

Ah.There it was. “We do not need saving by heaven’s grace. Goodbye, Miss.”

“Oh! Not that!” She nearly spilled her tea. “My father is the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh. Sir Hector Graham. He sent me here with a message for you.”

Ronan frowned. “Why would a father send his daughter to such a place?”

“He cannot be seen here himself. I offered to translate.”

“Miss Ellison, are you done?” This from Corbie at the grate.

“Not yet,” she called, adding in Gaelic to Ronan, “I trust I am perfectly safe here.”

He bent slightly. “You are safe, madam,” he replied softly. “But do not try to change me with charitable intentions or a churchy mission—or try to convince me of your father’s demands if he will not face me but sends a slip of a lass in his stead.”

“Change you and convince you?” She looked up. “But Mr. MacGregor, that is precisely what I mean to do.”

Her eyes were silvery gray, wide and limpid, her lips full and rosy, her gaze guileless and sparkling with intelligence. Ronan’s heart succumbed in that moment to her candid, whimsical, sensual charm. He stepped back against its subtle force.

“Miss Ellison,” said the fellow at the door. “Shall I come in there now?”

“I am fine, Mr. Corbie,” she said in English.

Intrigued by the girl and irritated by the fellow, Ronan leaned close. “Call off Sir Hound and tell me your business here. You and I are not acquainted. I would certainly have remembered you. Go on, deliver your father’s message.”

She looked up at him, face tilted, eyes bright. He was as wary of her innocent appearance as her mysterious mission. “You are the distiller of Glenbrae whisky?”

“I am.”

“Miss Graham.” Now the pesky escort grabbed the bars. “We have been here too long. Come out, please, or I will fetch you out for your safety.”

“One moment, Mr. Corbie.” Her gaze stayed with Ronan.

“Is he being discourteous, Miss Graham?” Ronan murmured.

“It is just his nature.”

“Since your young man is anxious, I assume your visit is unofficial and your father’s request clandestine.”

“Somewhat.” She glanced sideways at Corbie.

“The man is about to stuff himself between the bars,” Ronan said. A smile teased her soft, rosy lips.

“You there!” Corbie called. “Move away from the lady. I have my eye on you!”

Ronan thrust out an arm, palm flat, for silence. All the while he watched the Graham girl. Corbie bit off the next word and glared through the bars.

“What about my whisky?” Ronan asked.

“Do you have a supply hidden away? Do you smuggle whisky?”

“I will not answer either question. Hector Graham knows better than to ask.”

“Will you reveal where your whisky is located if it was to your advantage?”

“Advantage? That depends. Why these questions?”