Page 7 of A Rogue in Firelight

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“A zoo indeed,”Iain said.

“And you a wretched bear,” Linhope said. Iain grunted.

Narrowing his eyes, Ronan watched the young woman in lavender and a straw bonnet, all golden curls and porcelain. She understood Gaelic, he was certain.

“Careful,” he warned the others. “Your angel knows what we are saying.”

“Oh!” said the angel, confirming it.

“What is it, dear? Did they say something wicked?” The older lady, plump and handsome, turned. The angel’s mother?

Rosy color spread into the girl’s cheeks. “They mentioned an angel.”

“You do look quite pretty today, Ellison.”

Ellison.He liked the name. Feminine, with a tenor of strength. So this young lady of apparent privilege understood Gaelic; perhaps she was Highland. Not many bothered to learn Gaelic these days, and her group was separate from the daily crowd, indicating a special position. Ronan frowned.

Iain, the beast, had a poet’s heart; the lass was angelic, even enchanting. Willowy and petite, with golden hair spiraling under her bonnet, she was all creamy skin and easy blushes. Despite a china-doll prettiness, her gaze was intelligent and interested.

Pity she was just another who paid a fee to gape at the Highland prisoners.

She looked at him directly and he tilted his head to acknowledge it. Her lips quirked in a smile as she turned away. He felt a tug of attraction, but would not allow himself to show interest in a haughty society girl.

An uncomfortable thought struck. He wondered if he had met her at some occasion in the city, though he would have remembered her, of that he felt sure. Generally he avoided such events, but as a lawyer, son of a chieftain, cousin to a clan chief, and an available bachelor, Sir John Ronan MacGregor had some value in social circles. Possibly he had met both women; the older one looked familiar.

The girl turned to the others. “Mr. Corbie, Lady Strathniven. Shall we leave?”

“Of course,” the young gentleman replied.

Strathniven.He had met the viscountess several years previously in a solicitor’s office when he and his cousin, John MacGregor, newly Viscount Darrach, had engaged in a heated discussion with Lord Strathniven over land rights, explaining their family’s legal and moral claim to the land. Ronan had nearly snapped at the lady’s husband, a truculent gentleman. The Crown-awarded viscount had spouted the letter of English law and claimed a property to which Ronan and his cousin had the traditional right.

They had lost. Strathniven had prevailed. Ronan recalled the lady’s apparent embarrassment at her husband’s insistent and rude behavior.

Just now, he had heard the ladies’ escort mention Sir Hector Graham, Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh. Ronan had met the man in passing on more than one occasion, and found him a terse fellow uninterested in others’ viewpoints. Was the girl related to him?

Slumping, he hoped his outward aspect as a possible criminal, bearded, unkempt, unimportant, would obscure his real identity if they had seen him before.

“Fascinating. True, we should go.” Lady Strathniven fanned herself. “But I would like to see these Whisky Rogues again.”

“Best not return, my lady,” Corbie said. “Best call them what they are—scoundrels, ruffians, brigands, roughshod savages, Highland devils.”

“That is excessive even from you, Adam,” she replied haughtily.

“But accurate. Miss Ellison, do you feel well? You have gone pale.”

“We must not stand here staring at them so. It is rude.” She had been watching and listening in silence, and had indeed paled.

True, Ronan thought. Gawking at prisoners could only amuse for so long.

Standing, he went to the iron grate. The viscountess smiled up at him. No spark of recognition there, just curiosity. Lifting a hand, he waggled his fingers. She fluttered her fan and nearly giggled.

“My lady, come away from that rascal,” said Corbie.

“Oh bother, Adam. They have nice manners and are no threat.”

“My lady.” Miss Graham took the woman’s arm. Her glance met Ronan’s.