Page 87 of A Rogue in Firelight

“The fairy queen—or perhaps it was a princess—fell in love with the human, a fine MacArthur warrior, and they married. But he could not keep her for long. It is the nature of fairies to be free, is it not? After a while she left him. But he looked for her every day, mourning his missing bride, always hoping she would return.”

“True love,” she said, and sighed. Ronan looked down at her for such a long moment that she glanced up. He smiled and continued.

“I suppose. They had a wee son in the care of the father’s kin. Then one day the fairy bride came back to see her son, and her husband brought his child to the shore, near where we stand, perhaps, to let her see him. But when his beautiful wife appeared on the island, he set the child in its grandmother’s arms, and swam out to the isle.”

“And then?”

“It disappeared within moments. He was never seen again, even when the isle reappeared in the water.”

“Gone in blissful happiness with his bride,” she said.

“Well,” he drawled, “they say he drowned. Though it could have been fairy magic. Either way, the fellow left his wee son, which is sad.”

“There is that.” She frowned. “But love and magic together is a reckoning force.”

“I suppose so,” said Ronan MacGregor.

“And the tower? Is there a legend about that as well?”

“Remember the bride I mentioned back at the Lealtie Burn? On the day her husband was murdered by her kinsmen on this shore, they say, she rowed out to the isle, perhaps hoping for that magic you speak of. That love. But it was too late. Her kinsmen came after her to bring her back. But she vanished before their eyes on the little island. They could not find her and left. Later, they discovered that she had thrown herself from the tower.”

“That is so tragic!”

“She also left a wee son in the care of kin. Both legends are part of my kin’s old legacy, as it happens. They say those of our blood can see the isle even when it disappears for others. A kind of magic doorway, they say.”

“This is fascinating!” She wished he would go on talking about it. She loved not just the tale, but his deep warm voice, and his elegant profile in the gathering luminous darkness.

“A good tale. But stuff and nonsense, my lass.”

She touched his arm. “A fairy spell on Strathniven lands, and you with the blood of a fairy prince in your veins. Lovely,” she said.

“That blood is fair dilute by now, I would think.”

“I can see fairy blood in you,” she said softly. “Like a prince.”

“Like a lowly smuggler.” He smiled, quick and light.

“Not you,” she said. Her heart lifted, soared, with the slightest smile, glance, touch. She was falling for a man who might never be welcome in her father’s house. Or was she falling for the idea of a romantic hero like the one in her manuscript?

“So, you have your fairy legend, Miss Graham.” He took her arm to turn her away from the loch and guide her toward the drover’s track.

“Ellison,” she reminded him. “Your legend is enchanting.”

“It is,” he murmured, as he helped her step up into the gig.

In the glowof a violet sky, he saw the men approaching, heads and then shoulders first, then forms striding forward as they crested a hillock and moved over turf and meadow; three, then six, eight. Three led ponies bearing panniers; others carried lanterns gleaming gold in the twilight.

He knew the big, broad man in the lead. Slowing the gig, he narrowed his eyes.

Neill Pitlinnie—Sir Neill, as the man preferred, for he had a knighthood that rumor said was obtained with a generous gift to the Turnpike Trust to help fund the work of Telford and McAdam in Scotland. The building of roads would benefit all, including the free trade. However his title had originated, Pitlinnie liked it well and no one questioned it.

But what the devil was Pitlinnie doing out here with men, ponies, and goods? The man rarely did the work of transport, hiring others to take those risks.

Ronan glanced at Ellison, who had lifted a hand to her straw bonnet as she watched in the distance. The open gig offered scant protection, Ronan realized, and the old horse from Invermorie was not in much of a hurry.

“Do you know them?” Ellison asked quietly.

“Some. They are not fellows we want to talk to.” More lanterns were swinging now, bright dots all along the ridge of one slope and across the meadow.