Page 10 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“I so enjoy a cup of tea in the morning rather than coffee.” Lady Strathniven took a sip from a china cup. “Ellison, you have had two cups already. Are you fatigued?”

“I am fine. Strong tea is so bracing early in the day.” Ellison glanced at the man standing by the sideboard and recalled their meeting last night. Dressed in the black suit that closely fitted his tall, muscular figure, with his dark hair swept back and his beard all but gone—just a shadow this morning—he was not just handsome. He was perfectly distracting.

Her gaze kept sliding toward him, her awareness keen. Standing in the sunlight filtering through ivory silk draperies, MacGregor was a powerful masculine contrast in the pink and cream dining room. He opened the spout of a silver samovar to pour himself more coffee, and then glanced up to meet her gaze. She looked away quickly.

“Glenbrae, is the coffee to your liking this morning?” Lady Strathniven asked.

“Very much, my lady.” He stirred cream into the cup. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He resumed his seat on the other side of the table.

“Of course. Mrs. MacNie was very glad to prepare breakfast this morning for a gentleman with a healthy appetite. All we usually take is tea and toast or porridge.”

“It is a delicious breakfast.” He took up knife and fork to slice into a fat sausage.

“Better than prison fare, I trust!” Lady Strathniven leaned forward. “What did you eat there? Moldy bread and old beer?”

MacGregor stifled a laugh. “You have a vivid imagination, my lady. Bread, cheese, thin ale or weak tea. Porridge. Soup. Occasionally meat.”

“Oh dear. We shall feed you well, I promise.” Lady Strathniven tipped her head. “I must say, your English has improved overnight.”

Ellison began to translate into Gaelic, but he caught her eye and shook his head.

“Lady Strathniven, I have a confession,” he said.

“That you speak excellent English after all, and do not require an interpreter?”

“I speak both English and Gaelic fluently.”

“Glenbrae found Gaelic more useful in his previous situation,” Ellison explained. “Papa and Mr. Corbie assumed he needed a translator. It is not necessary.”

Lady Strathniven clasped her hands. “Well, this will make our conversations easier! Oh! Is he aware of the arrangements? Did I speak out of turn?”

“I am aware, my lady.” MacGregor inclined his head.

“Since you speak like a gentleman, may we assume you require little tutoring?”

“My mother taught her children excellent manners, and our parents ensured that my siblings and I were well-educated, regardless of diminished fortune. Like many after Culloden, my great-grandfather lost his lands and title,” he added.

“How unfortunate. I am sorry,” Lady Strathniven said.

“Nonetheless, I would benefit from instruction. I have not met royalty before.”

“Most Scots will require lessons in royal protocol, I think,” Lady Strathniven said. “Sir Walter has written a book of advice. For example, ladies are told to wear gowns with trains several feet long, with nine ostrich feathers in their headdresses. Elly,” she added, “we will need to study his etiquette guide carefully.”

“We will,” Ellison agreed. “Papa gave us copies of Sir Walter’s pamphlet,” she told MacGregor. “It is written by an ‘anonymous citizen,’ but we all know it is Scott.”

“He does enjoy anonymity,” MacGregor agreed. “He still denies being the author of the Waverley novels and prefers to be called a poet.”

“Some think novel writing is not as respectable an occupation as writing poetry,” the lady said. “Ellison writes lovely poems. Though I do love a good novel.”

“Poetry?” MacGregor quirked a brow, looking at Ellison.

“Some.” And a novel she was secretly writing. She felt a fierce blush growing.

“I too prefer a good novel.” He sipped his coffee.

He was more educated than he let on, Ellison thought. He was no ordinary Highland smuggler, to be sure, and had secrets. She could only hope nothing would complicate this lunatic scheme, as he had called it.

“Let the pageant master help us prepare for the king’s visit,” the viscountess said.

“Pageant master?” MacGregor asked.

“Sir Walter. It is not meant in a flattering way, my lady,” Ellison clarified.

“Well, his wee book will be useful. Glenbrae, you can borrow my copy to read the details. Then you can tell me what I must know. I will leave my copy in the library for you.”

“The library in the tower?” he asked. Ellison avoided his glance.

“My late husband’s library, just along the corridor. Not the musty old tower library that Ellison prefers.”

“I saw the tower library last night, madam. A fine collection of old volumes.”

“Feel free to explore both collections, sir. My husband took great pride in his books and was pleased to share them. You enjoy reading and scholarship, I think?”

“I do,” he murmured.

“Ellison, your task will be an easy one, I think. Sir Hector and Adam will see quick progress when they arrive to judge for themselves.”

Sipping her tea, Ellison sputtered a little. “They are too busy to come north.”

“Your father said he may send Adam up to be sure everyone is prepared.”

Her stomach sank. She did not want that scrutiny. “We will be ready.”

“Glenbrae.” Lady Strathniven looked at MacGregor. “I have the utmost confidence in you and your excellent tutor. But let us be honest here.”

“Madam?”

“This venture is chancy, but may be the best solution.”

“I wonder for whom it is best, my lady,” he murmured. “If we are being frank.”

“True. I see no reason for them to know that you speak English as well as anyone and already comport yourself as if born to the peerage. I, for one, will not mention it. Let them be pleased with Ellison’s work, and with you.”

“If we are fortunate, my lady.” Catching Ellison’s glance, he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. He was enjoying this too much, she thought. “Please excuse me, ladies. I thought to find Donal Brodie this morning to see if we can ride out. I would very much like some air and exercise.”

“Donal is at your disposal, and so is Mr. MacNie. We have horses, a carriage, a gig, and an estate you can explore. I hope you will be back in time for luncheon.”

“I will do my best. My lady. Miss Graham.” He stood. “Will lessons begin today?”

“After luncheon,” Ellison replied. Nodding, he left the room.

“My dear,” Lady Strathniven said, “I believe your work is done before it has begun.”

“He does have the makings of a gentleman,” she agreed faintly.

“Now that we know MacGregor’s secret about speaking English,” the lady whispered, “we must keep it safe.”

Nodding, Ellison felt sure the Highlander had far greater secrets.

*

“How are your mother and Sir Ludovic?” Ronan asked as he and Donal walked toward the stables. Pausing in the shade of a few birch trees, he turned.

“Mother is well. She is busy with herbal concoctions and helping those who come to her. She is much needed in the glens, at Strathniven too at times, and she sells her potions on market days. Grandda Ludo helps keep her healing garden.”

“Is Sir Ludo still writing his history of the clans?”

“Aye. It is enormous now. He hopes to publish the manuscript someday, though Mother thinks he will never finish. He constantly adds more, but it keeps him content.”

“I am glad they are well.” He clapped a hand on Donal’s shoulder. At sixteen, the lad was tall, black-haired, and handsome, with his mother’s brown eyes. Ronan had known him since his birth; he was Mairi’s only child with her first husband, who had succumbed to a fever when Donal was small. In the years Ronan had been at university and thinking himself in love with Mairi, his brother William, a year younger, had married her. He had managed to accept the shock of it. Will had been a good father, the only one Donal knew. Since Will’s death, Ronan had done his best to take care of the family.

Although he held Invermorie Castle as Glenbrae’s laird, he had invited Mairi to live there with her son and her father, Sir Ludovic Brodie, an impoverished knight; Ronan had moved to a cottage on the distillery grounds. Invermorie Castle needed a family, not a bachelor. And he wanted distance from Mairi Brodie, far enough for his heart to recover, close enough to keep an eye on William’s family.

He had thought to marry someday, but now, thirty years old and recently a prisoner, he had suspended thoughts of the future. Time would tell.

“I help at Invermorie and here at Strathniven, and the distillery too,” Donal was saying. “I bring in some coin since Da died—and then your arrest.”

“Lad, whatever happens, I will always take care of you, your mother, and your grandfather. Now, tell me what you have heard.”

“We knew last May that the Whisky Rogues were taken, though only we knew exactly who you were. The reports said excise men grabbed you unfairly in Culross.”

“More or less.”

“Then how are you here at Strathniven, Uncle?”

“Liberated on a detail of the law, but temporarily, if Sir Hector Graham and his secretary have their way.”

“I know them. Sir Hector is decent enough. His clerk is another sort.”

Ronan huffed in agreement. “Your work here is appreciated, I am sure.”

“Mr. MacNie sent a message last week asking me to work at the house for a while to act as valet to a guest. I agreed. Luckily it was you!”

“Lucky for both of us, even if you do not know how to tie a cravat.”

“Grandda and Mother gave me advice. Will you visit Invermorie soon?”

“If there is time. I suspect you were hired as my guard more than my valet.”

“But you are a free man now.”

“It is complicated. Best keep watch over your rascal of an uncle,” he teased. “How goes it at the distillery?”

“The Muir lads are well. We set up a new batch—made three hundred pounds of barley into mash, and got a fine barley brew sealed in oak casks and kegs to wait at least three years, as you prefer.”

“Or longer if we can. Excellent. You could be a distiller one day too, though you wanted to be in school soon. You heard from Saint Andrews?”

“Aye, I am to start next year. But I am needed at home.”

“My brother set the fee for your schooling aside.”

“But I am undecided. I might like to study medicine like Lord Linhope. I spoke to him about it before you went off to Edinburgh. How is he, and MacInnes? Free as well?”

“Still held, but it will be resolved soon.” He smiled flatly.

“Mother will be pleased. She and Linhope were corresponding about treatments, but his letters stopped. She was worried.”

“He will write again.” He knew he must talk to Mairi soon, though he had not seen his gifted, stubborn, beautiful sister-in-law for months. His habit of avoiding her still stuck. After Will’s death, time and need began to heal the gap, yet he still felt hesitant to see her.

He felt he had failed as a brother-in-law, uncle, friend, protector. Though he was a lawyer with a strong sense of justice, he had ventured into smuggling. Frowning at his thoughts, he caught Donal watching him.

“Uncle Ronan, do come up to Invermorie soon.”

“I will. Lad, call me Glenbrae here at Strathniven. If you are told to call me Darrach, do so.”

“Darrach? Why? Is there good news of the title and estate?”

“Not yet. It may never fall to me. But they know very little about all that, so I need to be careful.”

“Is there some trouble, Unc—Glenbrae?”

Ronan leaned a shoulder against a birch tree, considering what to reveal. “You know the king is coming to Scotland?”

“Everyone in Scotland knows that!”

“He likes Glenbrae whisky quite a bit and wants to meet the distiller. The Scottish government is eager to please him, so I am to be presented.”

“To the king!” Donal widened his brown eyes.

“So I must behave myself, and need your help.” As Donal nodded eagerly, he continued. “For now, keep the truth close. There is something else.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Fetch me my good boots, lad.”

Donal looked down. “Miss Ellison wanted you to have those fine boots. Too tight? The other things too? They were her husband’s. He was tall, but not as big as you, sir.”

“I believe that. In the cottage at the distillery, there is a chest of my things. Bring my good boots, and my plaids and Highland kit stored there, if you will.”

“I will. Better to wear your own gear than a dead man’s, hey.”

“Huh,” Ronan agreed. “Did you know him? Her husband?”

“Colin Leslie? I saw him a few times. A polite man. Young and shy. He would always thank me for doing something. Not everyone thanks a servant,” he added.

“True. What happened to him?”

“An accident. Fell from a horse when out with friends, they said. Nearly two years now, and Miss Ellison has still not come full out of her mourning.”

“A tragedy.” Ronan frowned, realizing what the girl must have endured. He also had the sense she was under her father’s thumb, which seemed counter to her delightful nature. He felt a wrench of sympathy, understanding why she sometimes seemed lost or uncertain. Yet he also saw glimmers of strength and spirit in her, as if her true self was on the verge of bursting forth, if only she would allow it.

“Son of a Lowland viscount, I heard,” Donal went on. “A poet or some such. Mrs. Barrow said they eloped and Sir Hector was angry. Miss Ellison is not the same lass as before, Barrow says. All quiet and meek now.” He shrugged. “How long will you stay?”

“A fortnight or so.”

“I will fetch your things today. Is there anything else?”

“Can you get word to the Muirs? I need to talk with them.”

“I can do better. You wanted to ride out today. Aleck Muir often goes up and down the Lealtie Burn that flows through the distillery, making sure the water is clear of debris. We may see him if we ride that way.”

“Aye, then.” Ronan headed with Donal toward the stables.

Within the half-hour, Ronan saw a young man strolling along the edge of a fast-flowing stream: he knew Geordie Muir, younger of two brothers, by the rangy build and red hair. Spurring his horse forward, he cantered across the meadow, Donal following.

Geordie looked around as Ronan called, and then waved to another young man further down the stream. With a shout of elation, Aleck Muir came running.

Dismounting, allowing the horses to graze on sweet grasses, Ronan slid from the saddle as he and Donal met the Muir brothers under some nearby trees.

“Ronan, God above! I hardly knew you at first!” Geordie said. “Dressed like a city gentleman. We heard you were taken in Culross. You are released?”

“Aye.” Ronan shook hands, patted shoulders. “You both look well. Donal says you are looking after the distillery in my absence. How is Auld Rabbie?”

“Grandda is well, or nearly so. Getting older,” Aleck said.

“You were checking the burn?” Ronan looked past them. “Wild garlic and such?”

“And making sure the flow isna blocked where it turns toward the property,” Geordie said. “Some say the water doesna make a difference to the whisky, but it all goes toward the taste, as Grandda and you have taught us. For the latest batch, we kept the peat fires hot to dry the mash longer than usual, as you prefer, for a good smoky flavor.”

“I have left the place in good hands.” Ronan smiled.

“We do our best. But sir—while you were gone, you should know Pitlinnie is taking an interest, coming around with questions, wanting to buy up our kegs. I do not like it,” Aleck said.

“How much has he purchased?”

“More than he needs. We canna trust the man,” Aleck said.

“How much is stored? If I want to send kegs down to Edinburgh, what’s there?”

“Enough. Tell us how many and we will see to it,” Geordie said. “There are various casks at the distillery, many still aging. Our best store is set aside and not at Glenbrae. You know.”

“Aye. Still safe where it is?”

“Auld Rabbie checked it recently. Pitlinnie also asked what we have in store, how many casks in the barn aging, how many elsewhere, how old, and such.”

“The longer those casks are undisturbed the better. He knows it will be years before they are ready. Make sure he stays unaware of the other lot. What does he want?”

The brothers exchanged a grim look. “He offered to buy all of it.”

“The kegs?”

“All of it. The distillery, the property, casks, kegs, the lot,” Aleck explained. “We think Pitlinnie wants to merge Glenbrae with his distillery.”

“Lord save us. Tell me you agreed to nothing.”

“Aye. Something else he wants.” Geordie glanced at Donal. “Mairi Brodie.”

“Indeed.” Startled, Ronan did not show it. “Donal, did you know?”

“He comes around and acts the charmer. I did not think much of it.”

“The man is smitten,” Geordie drawled. “Mairi Brodie may mention it.”

“Perhaps.” Ronan glanced upward to see rain threatening in high gray clouds. He had promised to return to Strathniven for luncheon. The horses whickered. A light drizzle began. Time was passing. “I must go.”

“Where can we find you?” Aleck asked.

“At Strathniven for now. I will find you,” he added. “Better yet, I will come to the distillery. We need to count how many kegs can be sent out.”

“To be taken over the hills by night, with a fine profit for all?” Geordie smiled.

“None of that now, lads.” He lifted a hand in farewell.