Page 1 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“Oh, what a tangled web weweave

When first we practice todeceive...”

—Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, 1808

Scotland, the Highlands

May 1, 1822

M oonlight and mist gleamed over cobblestones as Ronan MacGregor approached the tavern, wary as he went, boots echoing on the dark street. The old port town of Culross, known for coal and salt exports, favored smuggling traffic too. Free traders swept down from the hills to move clandestine goods swiftly out the harbor of a night. Soon another such cargo would go out.

He had numbered briefly among those rascals, but it was time he returned to life as laird, lawyer, whisky distiller. New-minted viscount as well, dare he claim it. That could bring an estate and suspicion too; some might assume he wanted the property that much. What he wanted was justice.

Tonight, traveling north from Edinburgh to his home in Perthshire, he intended to meet friends in a tavern. He had sent a message; what he had heard in the city made it imperative he find them.

Light glowed in the tavern’s crown-glass windows as he stepped into a haze of smoke, noise, and lamplight. His Highland gear—belted plaid, old jacket, tartan waistcoat—stood him in good stead here. In the city, he preferred well-tailored clothing of dark superfine, for the Courts of Session and Justiciary would look askance at a lawyer in Highland kit. Even so, he wore his hair longer than most and kept to the stubborn note of a tartan waistcoat. If a Whig eyebrow twitched here or there, so be it.

When attending to matters of whisky and transport, he and his companions kept to the tartan and the Gaelic as well. They knew the value of caution.

Entering the main room, he felt a prickle along his neck thanks to the watchful habit he had formed in war and occasional smuggling. The patrons looked ordinary enough; old men in plaids and bonnets sharing ale and playing cards, perhaps down from the hills for the cattle market; a weary family eating supper; the tavernkeeper, a maid. No excise officers here.

He pushed through a curtain into a smaller room. Two Highlanders sat at a table, one lean and fair, the other brawny and dark. They looked up.

“Glenbrae, here at last,” said the tall blond fellow in Gaelic.

“Greetings, Stewart. MacInnes.” He sat. The table held glasses, a squat brown crockery jug, and a plate with leftover crumbles of cheese and oatcakes.

Iain MacInnes reached for the jug and poured a dram into a small glass, handing it to Ronan. “How was the city?”

“Grand and busy. Filled with rumors of the king’s visit this summer.”

“His visit has been dangled and canceled for more than a year.” Arthur, Viscount Linhope—simply Mr. Stewart here—broke off a bit of cheese. “He may not come at all.”

“It seems likely in August.”

MacInnes raised his glass, amber liquid gleaming. “To King Geordie, may he learn to love the Scots, which he does not. How was court?”

“A verdict of ‘not proven’ for my client, so he is free. But the lad never should have been arrested. Remember,” Ronan added low, “John R. MacGregor, advocate, was never here. Nor were his friends, a doctor and an engineer. Just MacGregor, Stewart, and MacInnes. Three reprobates.”

MacInnes lifted his glass. “To rogues and reprobates.”

Linhope saluted too. “And here’s to Will MacGregor and John, Lord Darrach, who began this sore adventure.”

Ronan drew a breath against the names, the tug in his heart. His brother. His cousin. He took a sip.

MacInnes indicated the glass. “Tell us what you think.”

Ronan swirled the liquid. “It is not Glenbrae whisky, I know that.”

“Glenbrae has no equal,” Linhope laughed. “This is new.”

Ronan tasted again; malt, heather, peat, a hint of earth and stone in the water source, he decided. He cupped it on his tongue, seeking an elusive taste. Grass and wild garlic. He swallowed the sweet burn of it.

“Pitlinnie,” he declared. “Over three years in the keg.”

Iain butted Linhope with an elbow. “No one can tell the whisky like the laird of Glenbrae.”

“Pitlinnie does not trim the burnside that runs past his still, so his whisky tastes of what grows there. This is good.” Ronan turned the jug to read the handwritten label. Pitlinnie. Fine Highland Whisky . “It will sell.”

“He is shipping this out tonight. The English pay well for Highland whisky,” Linhope said. “Northern whiskies made with good barley malt are heaven’s nectar compared to Lowland liquor made from cheap grains. Pitlinnie will profit.”

“But we are not here to talk about Pitlinnie.” Iain watched Ronan. “What news?”

“If you wonder about the Darrach estate, the matter remains unresolved since my cousin died intestate. Now it goes to the courts.”

“Go to Darrach Castle and look for his will yourself,” MacInnes suggested.

“I hear the housekeeper stayed on to wait for the new lord. Mairi Brodie told me,” Linhope added, “when she wrote for advice in treating a tenant’s persistent cough.”

“Ah.” Ronan had made his peace with Mairi Brodie, but he felt guarded. A deeper love he would never find, though she had married his brother instead of himself. He shrugged.

“Hugh Cameron went to Darrach Castle to search. It is his task as my solicitor. Not my place. We must keep the matter clean.”

MacInnes nodded. “Something else on your mind? You sent word to us.”

“Aye. The time has come to retire our concern. But you know that,” Ronan said.

“We all knew the risks when we took this on after your kinsmen were killed,” Linhope said. “We agreed to finish their work to honor them. It has gone well so far.”

“We have completed their work, and I am grateful to you both.”

“We would never abandon you to danger.” MacInnes grinned.

“Both of you like a risk,” Linhope said. “Not me. If Ronan says we are done, good then.”

MacInnes huffed. “What then of the Wild Whisky Rogues? I like the name, and the reports of us in the news.”

“It makes us seem like heroes. We are not,” Ronan said.

“We provide a service. We move goods about, collect funds promised to your kinsmen, and share it with their families.” MacInnes shrugged his big shoulders. “It is an honor to be called Whisky Rogues by the Bard of the North himself.”

“Sir Walter Scott christened Will and Darrach the Whisky Rogues for their escapades, not us,” Ronan pointed out. “He called them Highland heroes in plaid, defenders of their people, saving the ancient Celtic brew. But we all know it could all go black as the Earl o’ Hell’s waistcoat.”

“Could. But wait. Pitlinnie wants a new arrangement,” MacInnes said. “Very lucrative.”

“Pitlinnie wants what benefits him. We refused him before.”

“Nor is he pleased to have to move his lot this night,” MacInnes said.

“Better we go back to what we do best,” Ronan said. “Doctoring, building, defending—and making whisky legally. The Glenbrae distillery is doing well. You are welcome to join me.”

“The Whisky Rogues will soon be forgotten,” Linhope said. “We finished what Will and Darrach began, saved their names and that of Glenbrae. It is done.”

“They took bullets for us,” Iain said grimly.

“And we wish those two brave fools were here now. But they are not. It is time to end it, just as Ronan says,” Linhope replied.

Ronan glanced at the doorway, seeing nothing unusual. “I hear the laws will change in January. Highlanders will no longer benefit from free trade. Licensed distilleries will profit. We are gentlemen, not thieves. My grandfather forfeited his lands and title for loyalty to Prince Charlie, and plunged his family into poverty. But my father raised us to have manners and education, and began to rebuild that legacy. I intend to continue that, not destroy it.”

“Not just a lawyer, but a war hero who never runs from risk,” Linhope said to MacInnes, who nodded.

“We need to be wary, lads, with more excise officers and more arrests and penalties ahead. We did what we agreed to do,” Ronan said.

“Aye, then,” Linhope said, nudging MacInnes, who nodded reluctantly.

“Good. We will talk later.” Ronan stood, leaving coins on the table. Heading for the door, he felt a prickle on his neck, dread in his gut. “Go. Now, ” he growled to his friends.

He stepped outside first, leery, seeing only empty tavern steps, moonlit street, and dark buildings. Down the way, two carts. Horses. Something was not right—

Footsteps, shadows, the glint of pistols as men swarmed out of the darkness. “Stop!” a man called. “His Majesty’s excise officers. Which of you is Glenbrae?”

Whirling, Ronan felt a pistol poke hard in his back. He spun away, but meaty hands grabbed, yanked, punched, held him. A shot rang out and whizzed past his head. He struck out an elbow to catch a jaw, ducked to evade a clubbing. Beside him, Linhope and Iain took and gave blows as the fierce brawl escalated on the tavern steps.

“Stand fast!” Two men had MacInnes by the arms now, the big man nearly wrenching free. Others knocked Linhope to his knees. Feeling cold steel press against his temple, Ronan went still. Two men grabbed his arms from behind.

“MacGregor of Glenbrae,” another man growled. “Aye, you are the one.”

“Where is your warrant?” Ronan demanded. “On the very steps of this tavern, you need permission to invade its boundary or threaten its patrons.”

“Talks like a long-robe! Hah! You lot are the ones we seek. Whisky Rogues, found at last!” The man spit. “MacGregor of Glenbrae, with cronies Stewart and MacInnes. We are the excise, arresting you for crimes.”

Held fast, breathing hard, Ronan recognized Peter Dawson, an excise officer who had come close to catching them twice before. His late brother Will had believed that Dawson was in the pay of others set on taking down the Whisky Rogues. Suspecting Dawson was responsible for the deaths of his brother and cousin, Ronan felt sure of it now.

“Specify the crimes you witnessed,” Ronan said. “We have done no wrong here.”

“We had word you three are moving illicit parcels tonight. A load o’ peat reek just left by secret transport. Take ’em,” Dawson ordered.

Someone shoved Linhope forward. MacInnes bellowed, his arms pulled hard behind him. Ronan felt a slam to his head, cobbles lurching toward him. Blackness.