Page 43 of A Rogue in Firelight

“The Muir lads are well. We set up a new batch—made three hundred pounds of barley into mash, and got a fine barley brew sealed in oak casks and kegs to wait at least three years, as you prefer.”

“Or longer if we can. Excellent. You could be a distiller one day too, though you wanted to be in school soon. You heard from Saint Andrews?”

“Aye, I am to start next year. But I am needed at home.”

“My brother set the fee for your schooling aside.”

“But I am undecided. I might like to study medicine like Lord Linhope. I spoke to him about it before you went off to Edinburgh. How is he, and MacInnes? Free as well?”

“Still held, but it will be resolved soon.” He smiled flatly.

“Mother will be pleased. She and Linhope were corresponding about treatments, but his letters stopped. She was worried.”

“He will write again.” He knew he must talk to Mairi soon, though he had not seen his gifted, stubborn, beautiful sister-in-law for months. His habit of avoiding her still stuck. After Will’s death, time and need began to heal the gap, yet he still felt hesitant to see her.

He felt he had failed as a brother-in-law, uncle, friend, protector. Though he was a lawyer with a strong sense of justice, he had ventured into smuggling. Frowning at his thoughts, he caught Donal watching him.

“Uncle Ronan, do come up to Invermorie soon.”

“I will. Lad, call me Glenbrae here at Strathniven. If you are told to call me Darrach, do so.”

“Darrach? Why? Is there good news of the title and estate?”

“Not yet. It may never fall to me. But they know very little about all that, so I need to be careful.”

“Is there some trouble, Unc—Glenbrae?”

Ronan leaned a shoulder against a birch tree, considering what to reveal. “You know the king is coming to Scotland?”

“Everyone in Scotland knows that!”

“He likes Glenbrae whisky quite a bit and wants to meet the distiller. The Scottish government is eager to please him, so I am to be presented.”

“To the king!” Donal widened his brown eyes.

“So I must behave myself, and need your help.” As Donal nodded eagerly, he continued. “For now, keep the truth close. There is something else.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Fetch me my good boots, lad.”

Donal looked down. “Miss Ellison wanted you to have those fine boots. Too tight? The other things too? They were her husband’s. He was tall, but not as big as you, sir.”

“I believe that. In the cottage at the distillery, there is a chest of my things. Bring my good boots, and my plaids and Highland kit stored there, if you will.”

“I will. Better to wear your own gear than a dead man’s, hey.”

“Huh,” Ronan agreed. “Did you know him? Her husband?”

“Colin Leslie? I saw him a few times. A polite man. Young and shy. He would always thank me for doing something. Not everyone thanks a servant,” he added.

“True. What happened to him?”

“An accident. Fell from a horse when out with friends, they said. Nearly two years now, and Miss Ellison has still not come full out of her mourning.”

“A tragedy.” Ronan frowned, realizing what the girl must have endured. He also had the sense she was under her father’s thumb, which seemed counter to her delightful nature. He felt a wrench of sympathy, understanding why she sometimes seemed lost or uncertain. Yet he also saw glimmers of strength and spirit in her, as if her true self was on the verge of bursting forth, if only she would allow it.

“Son of a Lowland viscount, I heard,” Donal went on. “A poet or some such. Mrs. Barrow said they eloped and Sir Hector was angry. Miss Ellison is not the same lass as before, Barrow says. All quiet and meek now.” He shrugged. “How long will you stay?”

“A fortnight or so.”

“I will fetch your things today. Is there anything else?”