Page 63 of A Rogue in Firelight

“True. I should ride out with my band of smugglers to make a whisky run before I meet the king and return to prison where I undoubtedly belong.”

“Stop it, Mr. MacGregor,” she said, half-laughing.

“I will take you fishing, how is that? We will look for this loch. Miss Beaton and Donal Brodie could go too. The lad will ensure my good behavior.”

“We could make a picnic of it.”

“You must teach me picnic etiquette in case the king wants to picnic with me.”

She laughed again. “We could do that. What other fairy legends do you know?”

“I have a cousin who makesuisge-beatha sìthiche.”

“Fairy whisky?” She tilted her head, a curl sliding down. “I have not heard of it.”

“You may have the Gaelic, but you were not raised in the Highlands.”

“Is this it?” She lifted the whisky glass.

“This is good stuff, but hardly magical. Fairy whisky is made to an ancient recipe known only to a few. It is a carefully-guarded secret in my cousin’s family. He has the knack of making it.”

“Does everyone in your family make excellent and very illicit whisky?”

“Not all of us. My cousin’s branch has kept the recipe secret for generations. Not many have tasted it, for it is neither sold nor traded, just given away to a select few.”

“Have you tasted it?”

“I have. And Glenbrae brew does not hold a candle to it.”

“Best not let the king know about it, then.”

He laughed, delighted. “True! Even the king could not obtain this stuff. Only those who are born with the Sight can tell what it is. To others, it is just an excellent Highland whisky. There is some magical secret in the process. My cousin’s ancestor once saved the life of a fairy, so the legend goes, and the recipe was his reward. When I was a lad, I thought my family rather dull by comparison to my cousin’s.”

She smiled. “Were your kin free traders too?”

“Oh, we were a very respectable bunch.” He would not tell her more, for they now sat in a tower that had once belonged to his ancestors. “No fairy legends, alas.”

Her smile was pure whimsy. “Fairy whisky sounds very romantic.”

“Include it in your story. But I do not know the recipe.”

“That would be wonderful.” She lifted her glass, drained the trace there. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed, felt a pull inside, leaned back as if to distance himself.Be careful, he thought, as the yearning began.

“Perhaps one day I can get some for you.” But that day would not come if her father had his way. Yet Ronan’s desire to be near her was strong and astonishing.

“I could add a legend, and complicate my story.”

“Aye, do weave legends and magic into the story.”

“You should write this, Mr. MacGregor.” Her wider smile showed a dimple. She glanced out the window, then stood, skirts whispering. “It is very late.”

He stood quickly. “I enjoyed our chat.”

“So did I. Though I had a bit too much of the magical whisky, I fear.”

“You will sleep well.” As she proceeded him to the door, he blew out the candles. Then he reached past her to draw the door wide. Light from a narrow window in the stairwell flowed gray-purple into the darkness.

She moved past him, shoulder brushing his chest. Ronan set a hand briefly to her elbow. Pausing, she looked up.