Page 48 of A Rogue in Firelight

“He is not my suitor! And he did not want me to teach you to dance. Mr. MacGregor,” she said, standing too, tilting her head to look up at him. “I know you are not happy with this situation. And I see there is little I can truly teach you.”

“On the contrary, there is much I can learn from you. And perhaps you can learn a little from me,” he murmured, gazing down at her. His way of focusing intently, of listening closely, was compelling. She felt noticed, important to him, even if it was only a passing illusion.

A swirl in her midsection drew her toward him like a lure. She raised her chin. “What,” she said softly, “would you have me learn?”

He touched her shoulder, lifted away. “Just this—to straighten your spine as you do now. To know you are strong and intelligent. And to tell your Papa and his clerk that you are not at their beck and call.”

“Oh,” she breathed. Shivers chased down her spine. “Oh.”

“Until later, Miss Graham.” He strode for the door.

In the half-lightof dawn, Ellison tiptoed through the silent, sleepy house. Seeing a maid stoke the fire in the parlor—even in summer the house could be cool in the mornings—she passed the library, where tall windows showed gauzy shawls of mist draping the hills. She half-expected to see Ronan MacGregor in the library, rising early as she had, but the room was empty.

In the kitchen, bacon crackled on the griddle as Mrs. MacNie chopped fruit into a bowl. Ellison murmured a greeting and plucked a fat strawberry, eating it as she went to the door. Balor jumped up from beside the hearth to trot after her.

Grabbing a straw bonnet and a red and black tartan from hooks by the door, she tossed the plaid over her lavender muslin gown, now cleaned and pressed. She could leave mourning behind and thought of it often, but somber colors still suited her. She was not ready yet. Fastening the dog’s leash, she opened the door.

Mist obscured the gardens and the surrounding hills, but the pleasant air promised sun and warmth soon. She walked past the gardens, letting the dog tug her along. Something inside her craved freedom this morning.

Perhaps the feeling stemmed from Ronan MacGregor’s words yesterday.Know you are strong, he had said. How unsettling and yet liberating to be seen like that.

Balor pulled ahead and she let him take the lead as he headed past the gardens and away from the hills toward a grove of birches and a path to a lochan on the property. Through the trees, the water shone like glass and she could hear ducks gently calling and splashing. Ripples arrowed through the water as ducks swam past reedy patches. Stepping into the clearing, she felt as if she entered an enchanted world.

Balor pulled her ahead, earnestly following whatever trail he had picked up, while she kept a tight hold on the leash, unwilling to let him off the lead again. Ronan MacGregor was not here to rescue the pup today.

The man was never far from her thoughts. Truly he was a mystery: an educated man, a gentleman, a man of integrity and secrets contradicted what she had expected.

Then Balor lurched forward, barking, dragging her toward the water’s edge. He was deceptively strong for his size; beneath his long peppery coat, he was all muscle and determination. And he was on a mission.

His noisy barks caused a commotion of flapping wings as ducks rose from the water, quacks echoing in the quiet. Balor jumped, furiously yelping as if he wanted to snatch the birds out of the air.

Tugging on the leash, his head smaller than the breadth of his neck, he slipped free and ran along the shoreline. Calling out, Ellison stayed close on his heels. The dog slowed to explore the slow sweep of the water where stones gleamed and reeds thrust upward. He drank a little, trotted along, dancing in and out of the shallows. More ducks flapped up and away, quacking loudly.

“Give up, you cannot catch them,” she said, approaching with the collar and leash. Then Balor barked wildly and leaped into the water, surging ahead to paddle after something that caught his attention.

Kicking off her slippers, Ellison lifted her skirts to step ankle-deep into the water, gasping at the chill as stockinged feet found purchase on stones and muck.

“Madam,” came a deep voice. “Please stay where you are.”

Startled, she looked around. No one stood on the grassy shore or in the lacy screen of nearby birches. Whirling, she gasped as a man rose out of the sun-sparkled water like a selkie from the sea. Water sluiced off his dark hair and wide, bare shoulders.

Ronan MacGregor stood chest-high and shirtless in the water.

“Madam!” He held up a deterring hand. “Come no further, if you please.”

“Mr. MacGregor!” She stood calf-deep in water, skirt bunched in her hands.

“Go back. I will get your wee dog.” He dipped lower in the water and pushed toward the little black dog paddling earnestly toward him. Reaching out, he grabbed Balor close. “Here, lad. Aye, there we go.” With one arm treading water, he waved toward Ellison. “I’ll send the dog toward you. Wait there.”

She was already surging forward. “I will come to you.”

“The water is deeper here than you are tall. And I am not in a state for company.”

“I will not look.” She came forward. The water rose higher around her, though for him it was at mid-chest. Watery reflections danced over his muscled shoulders and chest, lapped at his hair and broad neck.

“Do not come closer!” he called, while Balor busily licked his chin.

“A man in bathing attire does not frighten me. I was married, sir.”