Page 8 of A Rogue in Firelight

“Slàraich, mo aingeal,” he murmured.Farewell, my angel.

She blinked, gasped, eyes wide.

“Ah, tha i a‘ tuigsinn,”he murmured.So she understands.

She whirled away, and the man called Corbie took her arm.

“Miss Ellison, did he insult you? I will have a word with him!”

“Do not. He was polite. We shall go.”

Ronan stepped back, aware that he would never see Miss Ellison Graham again. Soon he and his friends would be sentenced and either imprisoned, banished in servitude, or hanged. Only a miracle would save them. He knew the law, and knew their poor chances.

An angel might have visited, but a miracle was unlikely.

Chapter Two

“‘People visit theCastle dungeons just to see the prisoners, while ladies brave enough to venture there are alarmed, fanning themselves madly, distressed at the sight of these dangerous Highland rogues—’”

Ellison paused, reading aloud from that day’s edition ofThe Edinburgh Observer.Her attention was caught by the illustration showing the smugglers in the dungeon: three bearded men in plaid. More, the article provided names.

Stewart, MacInnes. MacGregor of Glenbrae.But which was which?

“Read on,” her younger sister Juliet said impatiently. Ellison glanced up to see Juliet, Lady Strathniven, and Adam Corbie all waiting expectantly.

Rain pattered at the windows as they sat together at breakfast in the dining room of the Graham home on George Street. Despite the morning’s downpour, Corbie had arrived early, as usual, to work with Sir Hector in the study. Lady Strathniven had arrived soon after, eager to escape some renovation work in her home on nearby Charlotte Square.

“Go on,” Corbie picked up his cup of coffee. “Distressed ladies, etcetera.”

“We were not distressed in the least, Adam,” his aunt replied.

“We?” Juliet squeaked. No one answered.

Corbie huffed and rose from the table to refresh his coffee at the sideboard, then heaped sausages onto a plate. He returned and sat.

“I would like to see the prisoners,” Juliet said, “but Papa will not allow it.”

“You are thirteen, dear,” said Lady Strathniven. “None of us would allow it.”

“Ellison, I nearly forgot,” Juliet said. “Papa wants to speak with you this morning. I came down earlier and saw him going to his study.”

“Thank you, dear.” Ellison’s stomach sank. Did Papa know about yesterday’s visit to the Castle—or, worse, had he learned about the novel she was writing? But she kept the manuscript locked away, and Sir Hector rarely ventured into his daughters’ territory.

“He seemed displeased. But Papa is hardly ever pleased,” Juliet added blithely. “Do finish reading before you go.”

Ellison resumed. “‘Despite being rough and uneducated, the Whisky Rogues are strong, healthy, and pleasing in visage,’” she read.

“And very polite,” Lady Strathniven added, then nibbled at her toast.

“Don’t stop, Ellie.” Juliet leaned forward. Rain sluiced against the windows, diluting the sunny cheerfulness of the floral wallpaper and golden damask curtains chosen by their mother. For a moment, Ellison wondered what Lady Graham would have thought of her visiting the dungeons. Likely she would have approved, sweetly and firmly overriding her husband. But Mama had passed just after Ellison’s fourteenth birthday.

As she narrated, Corbie demolished his sausages. “Yes, yes—they fiddle, read, play cards, but they are thieves,” he said then. “The noble Highlander is a myth.”

“Every Highlander I have ever met was polite and intelligent,” Ellison defended.

“Clearly, you have not met enough of them, Miss Ellison.”

“I spent my childhood in the Highlands and we still go there often, you know that. To a one, they are considerate and kind. I am sorry you have a different opinion.”