Page 98 of A Rogue in Firelight

He shrugged. “Circumstances have changed.”

“The country dance gives us a reason to stay longer.” She met his eyes.

“You should do what you want, not what Corbie and your father want.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. She felt his tension, sensed a hint of anger directed at Corbie. “You know you need not follow their demands.”

“I know.” She looked away. “We should go to the cèilidh. I want to. But I know you are not anxious to be introduced as Lord Darrach. And Mr. Corbie coming up here to evaluate you as a gentleman just makes me so—so crabbit!” she burst out.

Ronan huffed a laugh. “Makes you what?”

“Something my granny used to say. Crabbit. His arrogance makes me angry, but if I tell him so, Papa will soon hear of it in a way that twists whatever I do.”

“Someone else needs to learn his manners,” he drawled, then sat forward. “Ellison, listen now. You have a gentle soul and a forthright nature, but you need not suppress one in favor of the other. Let them know your strong opinion. And that is my own opinion on your behalf.” He sat back.

“Do you think so?”

“It hardly matters what I think. What matters is what you think.”

She blinked. “Lady Strathniven tells me the same.”

“She is a wise lady. I apologize if I overstepped, but I am—protective of you. You have a fire in your soul, but you do not let it shine often enough.”

She felt her cheeks heat, felt a swell of pleasure. “If Corbie heard you incite rebellion in me, sir, we would have even more trouble.”

“I quake in my boots.”

“They have taken advantage of you for their own ends, Ronan.”

“More, I have taken advantage of them.” He spread his hands. “I am free.”

“But if this should go wrong, they will let you take the blame and claim you lied to them.” She stood, began to pace. “Oh, this horrible ruse! I hate it so!”

He stood. “But it is not a lie.”

She whirled. “I cannot blame you if you decide to disown us all, though I would worry about you, and your friends still in the jail. We can find a way. We must!”

“Ellison.” He stepped closer, his voice husky. “It is not a lie. I am Lord Darrach.”

She stared. “You—what?”

He took her hands, faced her as if they were about to dance a wild reel, and drew her toward him. “Hugh Cameron brought word. I am to be named Darrach’s heir.”

“But—how can that be?” She looked up at him, her fingers tightening in his.

“Darrach was my first cousin. He left no will. It went to the courts.”

“I knew that, but Papa said it would be delayed for months. Is it decided?”

“The court sent it to the clan chief. Another cousin. Under Scots law, a chief has the authority to absorb a title and lands into the chiefship, or he can recommend an heir. He decided in my favor.”

“So it is yours now?” Her head was spinning, his grip her anchor.

“The letters patent require the nearest blood kin to be named heir. I am that man. Sir Evan weighed the situation and recommended my name. I am to be confirmed.”

“Then what Sir Neill Pitlinnie said about your inheritance is true.”

“It was not true then, but it is now. This is good news, at least in part.”

“So you need no pretense.”