Page 88 of A Rogue in Firelight

“Whisky smugglers?” she asked.

She was astute—or hopeful—and he would not worry her. “Possibly. Do not fret.”

In answer, she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. “I am not afraid for myself. I fear for you, meeting them.”

“Worried I might run off and revert to my true ways?”

She bounced on the seat as they hit a rut in the road. “I fear they might hurt you, if they have heard that the king intends to honor Glenbrae whisky. They might want that honor for themselves instead.” The next divot in the road threw her hard against him. Shifting the reins to one hand, he put an arm around her to steady her.

“They would not know about that, nor care. They only want profit.”

“I want you to be safe, if they recognize you.”

“I want both of us safe, lass, so we will avoid them.”

But the cart lurched in another dip in the road, and he heard a crack. The vehicle pitched sideways, and Ellison slid against him. Ronan grabbed for her as the gig tilted.

Chapter Seventeen

Caught in hisarms, cheek pressed to his chest, Ellison groaned, tried to sit up. His arms supported her.

“Elly, are you hurt?” His voice was close in her ear, and his jaw, its slight growth of beard like warm sand, pressed against her cheek.

“Fine,” she breathed. “You?”

“Right enough. Come up.” He extricated himself from the tilted vehicle and reached to help her out with strong, certain hands. As she tugged on the hem of her skirt where the fabric caught on an iron fitting, he set it free, then straightened.

“Lean there and get your breath. I must see to the horse.” He stepped away to murmur gently to the beast as he checked its legs and haunches. Turning, he checked the vehicle and came back to Ellison’s side. “The horse is unhurt. But one of the wheels is bent. These old tracks need attention now and again, but have had none since—well, that’s as it may be,” he said, squatting to examine the wheel.

“Since when?” she asked.

“Since my great-grandfather was laird.” He was on the ground tugging at the wheel.

“He was laird here, on Strathniven lands?”

“Just our luck,” he muttered without answering her question. “The wood is cracked. Here is the trouble, see.” He knocked at the wheel rim. “The wood is split at one of the felloes”—he indicated the wooden rim between two spokes—“and the steel tire bolted here has come away. If I can fix the band back in place, it may hold long enough.” He stood, brushed his hands. “But this will take a few minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“Keep an eye out, lass. But stay near, do.”

She turned, feeling protective, determined, a helpmate, as if she had learned a new skill from his trust in her, his capable calm. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward to look around the curve in the road, back toward the meadow. Seeing only landscape and no men, she ventured ahead a few steps to look past the meadows toward the loch to one side, the hills to the other, beneath the indigo sky. She folded her arms and turned, a watchful sentinel while Ronan worked. After a few minutes, she ran forward a little farther, leaving the steep hill, the drover’s track, the man crouched in the road wrestling with a steel strip.

Then she heard the chink and jangle of harness, the thud of boots and hooves. Spinning, she saw men, ponies, glowing lanterns, rising from a dip in the field not far from where she stood. She whirled, aware that she was exposed on a stretch of meadow, too far from Ronan, too close to these strangers.

One of the men ran toward her. She spun away, but he grabbed her arm roughly, tugging her toward him. As she stumbled to a knee, he dragged her to her feet.

“Who areyou,lassie, hey?”

Swearing under hisbreath, Ronan pried and pulled at the steel band, trying to fix it in place along the cracked wheel rim. Pulling the small dirk from his stocking, he used that under the metal band. When it popped suddenly into place, he crowed in victory and sat up. And did not see Ellison nearby. He got to his feet, dirk in hand.

Then in the distance, he saw her—a graceful form, billowing skirt, rosy-gold hair flying out as she turned to run from the men surging over the meadow. One fellow was racing toward her. He knew the man.

“Pitlinnie!” he shouted, striding, then running.

“Ronan!” Ellison gasped, hauled close against her captor. Several other men gathered, some holding pony leads, crowding around in a half circle.

“Neill Pitlinnie,” Ronan shouted, coming near. “Let her go.”