Page 53 of A Rogue in Firelight

“If I can help, I will,” he said, and let the offer stand.

She poked her spoon at a bit of cake, mashed it about, then sighed. “I want to avoid a confrontation over the house. It is just a house. I want no harm to anyone.”

“Your rights are important too.” He should avoid involvement, he thought. Too soon he would see her for the last time, and then face legal problems of his own. He should not entangle himself in this.

Oh, but this lass, he thought; this strong, fragile, outspoken, yet soft-spoken lass. She was scrambling all his intentions.

Ellison set down her spoon. “Fine, sir. Do you have another suggestion?”

“Ask your lawyer to evict them from the property. Until the will is sorted out, they have no legal right to be there. The police can assist.”

“I cannot do that. They were his only kin.”

“She has a soft heart, you see,” the viscountess said.

“Then let the lawyer show a harder heart. Then you need not compromise your kind nature, Miss Graham.” He watched her eyes widen, then seek his.

“Could you—perhaps talk to someone?” she asked.

“The lawyer or the squatters?” Lady Strathniven interrupted.

“Either or both,” he agreed.

“Never mind. I will not trouble you.” Ellison paused. “But if eviction comes next, perhaps you would know what to say.”

“I can deliver a message to the lawyer.”

She nodded. “I just want no one harmed.”

“Of course. Your lawyer would handle it directly and then report to you.”

“Good, it is settled. This cake is delicious,” the viscountess said.

“Thank you.” Tilting her head in a sunbeam, Ellison’s gray eyes went silvery. She shone, he thought—beautiful, vulnerable, relieved. She looked suddenly hopeful too, as if she saw a light in the darkness. He gave her a silent reassuring nod.

And felt suddenly as if he were the one lost, reaching for a silvery light that could lead him to all he had ever desired. He looked away then, dipped into cake and fruit, sweet and tart, and hardly tasted it.

Chapter Eleven

“Thank you forinviting me to come along with you this morning,” Ellison said.

“A privilege on a beautiful day.” Ronan slowed his mount to allow her to pull even with him as she rode a stocky Highland pony, the best mount for negotiating steep, rough slopes as they progressed into the hills.

She smiled, savoring the sun’s warmth and the fresh breeze that ruffled the skirt of her black riding costume. She looked out at the expanse of rugged hills surrounding the bowl of a green glen ahead. “Where would you like to go today, Mr. Macgregor—er, Darrach? Likely you know the area well.”

“I do. Darrach is not necessary between us,” he said quietly. “I thought we might visit the Glenbrae distillery, just across this glen.”

“I would love to see your property.”

“Mine in a sense. The glen and distillery are part of the Darrach estate, but for a long while have been leased to my family, going back to my great-grandfather. I am a tenant.”

“And the laird. If there is no viscount, whose tenant are you now?”

“The estate’s tenant until the inheritance is decided. This way. See that branch of the military road?” He pointed ahead, where the cobble-and-dirt road forked, one north, one northeast toward forested slopes.

“I have ridden in this glen before, but have not seen a distillery. Is it far?”

“Not far,” Donal said, joining them to ride three abreast on the solid, shaggy Highland ponies. MacNie kept a few of the animals at Strathniven for riding on steep terrain. Ellison’s smaller mount suited her, but the taller men outsized the horses. Yet they looked natural, she thought, part of the raw strength and beauty of a Highland glen.