Page 11 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

O f all the rooms in Strathniven House, Ellison loved its large library almost as much as the one in the old tower. Standing in its expansive formal space, waiting for Ronan MacGregor, she inhaled the scents of wood and leather, old paper, the earthy scent of linseed oil polish used on the wood furnishings. The table’s walnut surface was a smooth, dark gloss under her fingertips.

She loved the soaring bookshelves crammed with volumes; loved the reading nooks set with comfortable chairs, and the balcony level accessed by a wrought iron spiral stair. She strolled through the library choosing books suited to etiquette lessons and set them on a small table between two sage green upholstered chairs beneath a tall window draped in gold damask. She felt ready to begin.

She glanced at the portrait of Viscount Strathniven over the fireplace; he looked stern but kind, overlooking his beloved library. She suspected Lady Strathniven spent little time in the room simply because she felt sad to see his likeness.

Had there been a portrait of Colin Leslie, Ellison thought, she might have avoided it too. The wound, the regret, the conflict still hurt. She had been young, foolish, believing she was in love. Yet she had brought only grief to her family in the end.

Hearing a knock, she turned as Ronan MacGregor entered the room. He looked fine in the black suit that had once belonged to Colin, though he filled out every stitch of it with muscle and brawn. Amused, she saw he wore his old boots again, buffed but frayed.

“Sir,” she said, and set a hand to her midsection, feeling a flutter that no other man had caused in her. Not even Colin, despite her love for his intellect, his art, his elegance. Yet this man, a stranger, stirred excitement with an undercurrent of safety. Near him, she felt steady. Invigorated.

“The rain has stopped.” He approached.

“Aye. Did you and Donal have a pleasant ride?”

“We did. Highland air is refreshing in any weather.”

“It is. I thought to walk out later with Balor. As long as there is no thunder!”

He smiled. “Where is the wee rascal?” He looked around.

“Napping elsewhere. He is banished from the library. He has a taste for carpet fringe. Shall we begin? I thought we might look through some books on etiquette.” She indicated the table and chairs, the stack of books.

He made a wry face. “My assigned reading? What a fine library.” He turned to survey the expansive room. “Two libraries in one household? It is a scholar’s paradise.” He glanced at her. “Is Lady Strathniven so fond of books?”

“She appreciates the collection but is not overly fond of studying. This was Lord Strathniven’s project.”

He nodded, moving to examine a tall section of shelves. “Poetry, mythology, botanical studies, sciences, medicine. And novels,” he murmured. He paused here and there to pluck a book, sift through its pages, slide it back into place.

Ellison moved beside him, her gray skirt shushing along the wooden floor. In the rainy light, his eyes were intent as he looked through books, caressed gilded leather, flipped pages, his touch tender and sensual. Suddenly she felt a sweet chill, as if he had touched her with the same affection. A love of books radiated from him like a current, a yearning. She caught her breath, recognizing the feeling.

“You truly appreciate books.” Her heart swelled with an impulse to share her favorites, see his pleasure. For a moment she glimpsed the true man, peered into his secrets. He wanted others to think him a simple man, laird, crofter, smuggler. He might be those, but he was far more. Educated. Complex. Thoughtful.

He touched another book. “Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry. My mother had a copy. I read it as a boy.”

“I loved it as a child too. I still go back to it.”

He moved on, looking at matching sets of black and red spines. “Law books,” he murmured. “Erskine’s Institute of the Laws of Scotland. All four volumes. Burnett’s Criminal Law ... excellent.”

“You are familiar with those?”

“A rogue must understand the risks,” he drawled. “How many books are here?”

“A count was done for the estate when Lord Strathniven died. Four thousand, two hundred ninety-eight volumes. I remember because Lady Strathniven bought two books to make it an even number.” Ellison smiled. “I have added others since.”

“You and I have something in common.”

Her heart quickened. “I love to read, love to write, too—” She stifled an effusive urge to say more. “Well. Browse and read as you like in both libraries.”

“Thank you. Perhaps someday you will tell me what you like to read—and write,” he added. “The viscountess mentioned you write poetry?”

“Some.” Feeling silly and hopeful, she only shrugged. “But we are here for tutoring. Shall we begin?”

“Aye, or greatly disappoint your Mr. Corbie.”

“He is not my Mr. Corbie,” she said stiffly, and led him toward the chairs by the window. She sat, as he did, and reached toward the stack of books.

“We need only review these. Most books on manners address what is proper for girls and women. I found just one or two that address gentlemen’s manners.”

“Both genders need sensible advice.” He took up another book.

She opened the volume in her hands. “This one discusses how a worthy gentleman must act... Ah, here. Social encounters.”

He shifted to lean an arm on the chair, which was snug for a man of his height. The chair she had was too large, her toes barely touching the floor. Suddenly she felt conscious of the room’s fussy formal setting; neither she nor MacGregor could relax.

She began to read. “For most social occasions, standing is acceptable and common for a gentleman, except at meals. While standing, it is frowned upon for a gentleman to thrust his hands into his pockets or warm his back at the fire.”

He stood then, towering over her, a smile teasing his lips. He lifted a side flap in the black coat. “This has an actual pocket. Excellent. What is proper to keep there? A wee page with what I should say to the king?”

She stood too, laughing. “Do take this seriously.”

“Trust me, I do, for your sake and mine.”

“No hands in the pockets, then. When you take a seat, remember that a gentleman never drops down loosely. Especially a tall man. It is most unbecoming.”

“I shall try to remember.” His eyes sparkled. “Next? Shall we practice going into dinner?” He extended his elbow. “Miss Graham?”

She wrapped her hand lightly around his offered arm, sensing hard muscle beneath smooth wool. He walked her forward, turned, came back. “Neatly done, sir. A gentleman never jabs out his elbow in case he should hit the unsuspecting lady.”

“I would never hurt a lady.” His eyes caught hers. She felt herself blush.

“Common sense. Most good manners are.” She looked away, cheeks hot, too aware of his closeness, his strength—and glad of his charming willingness and droll humor. His upbringing had been proper indeed, which only raised her curiosity.

“We only need to review the protocols relevant to meeting royalty,” she said. “Though more might be expected of you.” But if Papa and Mr. Corbie knew how easy this was, she thought, they might take MacGregor back to Edinburgh sooner, even back to prison if they could. She would not be the cause of that. “We will take our time.”

Seated again, she chose another book. “Lord Chesterfield’s letters to his son.”

“The infamous Chesterfield. My father gave me a copy as a boy, advising me to take some to heart and reject the rest. The author’s sour attitude actually shows us how not to behave.”

“Oh dear. I have not read it, I confess.”

“Nor would you. But if you have a son someday, be warned.” He took the book from her. “Chesterfield emphasizes hard work, persistence, truth, and honor. What is worth doing is worth doing well, and so on.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

He skimmed his fingers along a page. “A man should keep his eyes open and mouth shut and avoid gossip. Also sensible. But he advises gentlemen to impress others of superior rank by copying their dress and mannerisms, even if those are foolish fashions.”

“That will not do!”

“His thoughts on women are interesting as well,” he added, turning pages.

“I can hardly wait.”

He chuckled. She loved the sound of it. “‘Women are only children of a larger growth; they have an entertaining tattle and sometimes wit; but for solid, reasoning good sense, I never in my life knew one that had it.’”

“What! You invented that.” She reached for the book, but he held up a hand.

“On my honor, madam. Listen. ‘A man of sense only trifles with women, humors and flatters them... but neither consults them nor trusts them with serious matters.’”

“Let me see!” As she reached for the book, her fingers grazed his. A gentle thrill ran through her.

“There is more. He says women love to dabble in business, which they always spoil, and believe they are beautiful even when they are ugly.” He glanced up.

“What a hateful man!”

“None of this, by the way, applies to you.”

“Or anyone!” But her heart gave a little fillip with the sweet, casual compliment.

“Trust me, I disagree with Chesterfield in most things.”

“I should hope so. Give it here, sir.” She extended an open palm.

“One last piece of advice. ‘One must be careful never to laugh in company. It is rude and unfashionable.’” He looked up. “Do not dare laugh, Miss Graham—”

Too late, laughter bubbled up in her even as he waggled his finger like a schoolmaster. His lips pinched to suppress his laughter. “Such a rude wee lass!”

“Give me the book!” She took it with two fingers as if it were vermin and set it aside.

“It does not describe you,” he said, sitting back. “You are exceeding proper and very capable, it seems to me.”

“Not quite, though my father wishes so,” she said quickly. “Most of these other books advise that a woman’s chief purpose in life is to make a perfect and comfortable home for fathers, husbands, and children. I am not very good at that, I think.”

“You would be. But women are capable of far more.”

“We are as capable and intelligent as men, but do not always have the education or the chance to prove it.” She set her chin defiantly.

“I learned early from the example of my mother and sisters that the female is often superior to the male in common sense and consideration. If I have proper manners, it is due to the women in my life.” His eyes crinkled in a smile.

“Wise man.” She smiled, and felt as if the keen blue lights in his eyes saw straight through her somehow. If he knew about her hasty marriage, her dream of writing novels, and the low opinion her father held of her, he would not think her so worthy.

“What is this?” He plucked up a slim volume with marbled covers.

“Mr. Scott’s pamphlet of protocols for the royal visit. Lady Strathniven left her copy for you to borrow. We can discuss that book later.”

“And so we have survived our first lesson in etiquette.”

“We have. Oh, one matter before you go, Mr. MacGregor. I had a note from my father this morning when MacNie fetched the mail in Kinross. Papa says Lord Darrach will be invited to attend the royal levee. It is planned as a small gathering for gentlemen who are to be introduced to the king.”

He frowned. “Lord Darrach?”

“My father submitted that name. I suppose we should address you as such now.”

His curt nod told her he was displeased. “I doubt any of the events will be small.”

“This one will be hundreds of guests, I believe. Other gatherings are expected to number in the thousands. The invitations will be delivered a day or two ahead of the levee. The king’s secretary requests an address. Do you know where you will be?”

“Hopefully not in the subterranean accommodations of Edinburgh Castle.”

“Never that! You have a warrant of release.”

“Conditional, according to Mr. Corbie.”

“Accommodations are filling up quickly, Papa says. Rooms and houses are being rented for exorbitant fees. A tiny room for a week could cost the same as a year’s rent. Outrageous! Lady Strathniven mentioned that she would be pleased to have you stay at her home on Charlotte Square.”

“Very generous. I will let you know my arrangements soon. We must be certain of this scheme before too many plans are made.”

“It will succeed. It must,” she added, glancing down.

He stood. “Your father and your suitor may be disappointed to learn that I have not yet mastered forks and dancing.”

“He is not my suitor! And he did not want me to teach you to dance. Mr. MacGregor,” she said, standing too, tilting her head to look up at him. “I know you are not happy with this situation. And I see there is little I can truly teach you.”

“On the contrary, there is much I can learn from you. And perhaps you can learn a little from me,” he murmured, gazing down at her. His way of focusing intently, of listening closely, was compelling. She felt noticed, important to him, even if it was only a passing illusion.

A swirl in her midsection drew her toward him like a lure. She raised her chin. “What,” she said softly, “would you have me learn?”

He touched her shoulder, lifted away. “Just this—to straighten your spine as you do now. To know you are strong and intelligent. And to tell your Papa and his clerk that you are not at their beck and call.”

“Oh,” she breathed. Shivers chased down her spine. “Oh.”

“Until later, Miss Graham.” He strode for the door.

In the half-light of dawn, Ellison tiptoed through the silent, sleepy house. Seeing a maid stoke the fire in the parlor—even in summer the house could be cool in the mornings—she passed the library, where tall windows showed gauzy shawls of mist draping the hills. She half-expected to see Ronan MacGregor in the library, rising early as she had, but the room was empty.

In the kitchen, bacon crackled on the griddle as Mrs. MacNie chopped fruit into a bowl. Ellison murmured a greeting and plucked a fat strawberry, eating it as she went to the door. Balor jumped up from beside the hearth to trot after her.

Grabbing a straw bonnet and a red and black tartan from hooks by the door, she tossed the plaid over her lavender muslin gown, now cleaned and pressed. She could leave mourning behind and thought of it often, but somber colors still suited her. She was not ready yet. Fastening the dog’s leash, she opened the door.

Mist obscured the gardens and the surrounding hills, but the pleasant air promised sun and warmth soon. She walked past the gardens, letting the dog tug her along. Something inside her craved freedom this morning.

Perhaps the feeling stemmed from Ronan MacGregor’s words yesterday. Know you are strong , he had said. How unsettling and yet liberating to be seen like that.

Balor pulled ahead and she let him take the lead as he headed past the gardens and away from the hills toward a grove of birches and a path to a lochan on the property. Through the trees, the water shone like glass and she could hear ducks gently calling and splashing. Ripples arrowed through the water as ducks swam past reedy patches. Stepping into the clearing, she felt as if she entered an enchanted world.

Balor pulled her ahead, earnestly following whatever trail he had picked up, while she kept a tight hold on the leash, unwilling to let him off the lead again. Ronan MacGregor was not here to rescue the pup today.

The man was never far from her thoughts. Truly he was a mystery: an educated man, a gentleman, a man of integrity and secrets contradicted what she had expected.

Then Balor lurched forward, barking, dragging her toward the water’s edge. He was deceptively strong for his size; beneath his long peppery coat, he was all muscle and determination. And he was on a mission.

His noisy barks caused a commotion of flapping wings as ducks rose from the water, quacks echoing in the quiet. Balor jumped, furiously yelping as if he wanted to snatch the birds out of the air.

Tugging on the leash, his head smaller than the breadth of his neck, he slipped free and ran along the shoreline. Calling out, Ellison stayed close on his heels. The dog slowed to explore the slow sweep of the water where stones gleamed and reeds thrust upward. He drank a little, trotted along, dancing in and out of the shallows. More ducks flapped up and away, quacking loudly.

“Give up, you cannot catch them,” she said, approaching with the collar and leash. Then Balor barked wildly and leaped into the water, surging ahead to paddle after something that caught his attention.

Kicking off her slippers, Ellison lifted her skirts to step ankle-deep into the water, gasping at the chill as stockinged feet found purchase on stones and muck.

“Madam,” came a deep voice. “Please stay where you are.”

Startled, she looked around. No one stood on the grassy shore or in the lacy screen of nearby birches. Whirling, she gasped as a man rose out of the sun-sparkled water like a selkie from the sea. Water sluiced off his dark hair and wide, bare shoulders.

Ronan MacGregor stood chest-high and shirtless in the water.

“Madam!” He held up a deterring hand. “Come no further, if you please.”

“Mr. MacGregor!” She stood calf-deep in water, skirt bunched in her hands.

“Go back. I will get your wee dog.” He dipped lower in the water and pushed toward the little black dog paddling earnestly toward him. Reaching out, he grabbed Balor close. “Here, lad. Aye, there we go.” With one arm treading water, he waved toward Ellison. “I’ll send the dog toward you. Wait there.”

She was already surging forward. “I will come to you.”

“The water is deeper here than you are tall. And I am not in a state for company.”

“I will not look.” She came forward. The water rose higher around her, though for him it was at mid-chest. Watery reflections danced over his muscled shoulders and chest, lapped at his hair and broad neck.

“Do not come closer!” he called, while Balor busily licked his chin.

“A man in bathing attire does not frighten me. I was married, sir.”

“It alarms me, if not you. And you will ruin another gown.”

“Too late!” The water reached her waist, then her chest. But he was correct, for the mucky floor suddenly dipped away under one foot. She stopped.

“Wait there.” He approached, keeping low in the water, holding the dog.

She threw out an arm for balance and reached forward with the other. The water licked around her bodice, splashed her chin, dampened her hair.

“Here, reach for your wee kelpie.” He pushed the dog toward her. Obedient for once, Balor paddled toward her and she caught his wriggling little body.

“Thank you, Mr. MacGregor, for rescuing him once again.”

“Nothing to it. So it is Mr. MacGregor? Not Lord Darrach?” he teased.

She looked away, for her gaze kept dipping from his bearded, handsome face to his wide shoulders, strong collarbones, and chest with its dark, wet mat. Even in cool water, she knew her cheeks burned.

“I can hardly call you Lord Darrach here. It would be even more embarrassing.”

He chuckled, arms treading, circling. “Ronan, then. Certainly after Balor’s latest escapade, we can consider each other a friend.”

“Friends with a secret,” she laughed.

“Many secrets,” he said, as his eyes cast quickly down, then up.

Glancing down, she saw her bodice and chemise ballooning with water, exposing far too much. Tugging at the cloth, she pressed the dog closer. But the tall man standing just an arm’s length away had an easy view.

He looked away politely, dipping down so that water covered all but his head, while his hair floated out like a dark fan. He leaned backward, hands circling, distorted by the rippling water. “Take that wee rascal to the house and get dry. And be sure to tighten his leash. He is bent on mischief, that one.”

“He is spirited,” she agreed, easing backward in the water, dog clasped close.

“Farewell.” He waved her toward the shore. “I will wait until you are well away.”

“I apologize. I had no idea—do you often bathe in a loch? Is it a Highland habit?”

“Aye, common in the hills. I came here hoping for a quick private swim. I am not fond of that beast in the tower.”

“Beast? Oh, the shower machine! It can be difficult.” She waded backward. “Thank you again, Mr. MacGregor.”

“Ronan. Surely we are friends now.” He spread his hands, bare shoulders out of the water, to indicate his state.

“Ellison,” she offered, moving back, water sluicing from her gown.

“Ellison Graham.” He smiled. “E. S. G., as in your note. What is the ‘S’ for?”

“Sophia. My mother’s name.”

“Ellison Sophia, I enjoy your company, I do. But you cannot be seen here with me. Go on, and take the wee one with you.” He waved.

As she turned, Balor struggled to get free, yelping as if insisting he stay with the man in the water. She pressed him tightly to her as she walked over slippery stones, water surging around her. But her foot found an uneven dip and she stumbled, going nearly under for a moment. Holding the dog high, she gasped and tried to regain her balance.

Strong hands grabbed her around the waist. Sputtering, she swirled to face Ronan as he held her securely so she would not slip again. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she held the dog, coughed, sniffled. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

He let go but kept one hand firmly on her shoulder. “Steady, now. Good?”

“Aye.” Sniffling, she stepped back, though Balor struggled to reach the man he clearly adored. “Best no one knows about this.”

“Agreed.” He surged backward. “Go on. I will follow in a bit.”

“You should come out of the water. You will catch a chill.”

He laughed. “I am a hearty sort. And we have had enough compromise for one day, Ellison Graham.” His eyes were even bluer than the water in the morning sunlight.

She nodded, then emerged from the water, aware that her gown clung to her body. She felt him watching as she pulled at the fabric and stooped to attach the dog’s collar and leash. Finding her shoes and bonnet, she picked up the plaid and glanced back.

He lifted a hand in farewell, then leaned back to float, chest exposed, arms relaxed, hands nimble as he boated himself along.

She left the plaid on the grass for his use, then tugged the dog along, though he wanted to turn back. So did she—how lovely to run back to the water for loch’s cool caress, for the freedom of a little rebellion and laughter on a summer morning, and for the delight of being with Ronan MacGregor.

Enough, she told herself sternly, and hastened toward the house.

*

“My dear, I have news,” Lady Strathniven said when Ellison joined her later for tea in the parlor. “I promised your father that I could act as chaperone here, but I need to leave for a short while. I am sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” Ellison asked, glancing up as Ronan MacGregor entered the room. He wore a Highland outfit now rather than the snug black suit of the last few days: a belted plaid of forest green and wine red, a brown jacket and waistcoat, a creamy shirt and neckcloth, along with tartan stockings and leather brogues. Ellison caught her breath at the stunning sight of the man. And she sensed her cheeks burning in renewed embarrassment as she recalled their encounter earlier.

Beside her, Lady Strathniven gasped a little, seeing him, and Ellison smothered a smile that dispelled the distracting image of MacGregor in the water. She had not seen him until now; he had been gone most of the day with Donal and MacNie. Perhaps he avoided her as she had avoided him. Surely he thought her a silly girl with a silly wee dog, though he had been kind about the incident.

“I hope I am not late, my lady. Miss Graham,” he murmured, taking a seat.

“Not at all. What an excellent costume, if I may say, sir,” the lady said.

“Thank you. Donal kindly fetched some of my things from my home.”

“And where is home? Of course you would want your own things.”

“The hills of Glenbrae, and aye, it is good to have my own gear, my lady.”

“We are to call you Lord Darrach now, I understand?” she continued.

“So it seems. But I will answer to whatever you choose.” His smile seemed tight.

“We shall practice using Lord Darrach, shall we, Ellison? It suits him. Now, sir, I was just telling Ellison as you came in,” she continued, “that I had a note from my sister, Mrs. Harold Beaton. She just arrived at Duncraig, her Highland home, for the summer to rest after the stress of organizing her daughter’s wedding last month. Her youngest came up with her—Miss Sorcha Beaton, whom you will remember, Ellison.”

“Aye, a lovely girl. She will debut later this year in Edinburgh, I think.”

“She will, yes. My sister’s son, Archibald, may come up later. But he is a busy man. He is a judge, you see, Darrach.”

“How nice to have family nearby,” he said politely. Ellison noticed a muscle bouncing in his cheek. She frowned, wondering if the mention of a judge troubled him.

“Beth’s wedding in Edinburgh was wonderful. I was good friends with her in school, sir,” Ellison said. “I feel like an older sister to Sorcha, who is sixteen now.”

“Nearly that, and her Mama is planning the girl’s debut—another stress. You see, Darrach, I have two nieces and two nephews, the children of my sisters,” the lady explained. “My youngest sister was Adam Corbie’s mother. Foolish girl eloped with a reprobate. Both she and her husband are gone now, and I shall not speak ill of the dead.” She sniffed. “I have kept a watchful eye over Adam, though he spent some of that time away at school. One never knows what influences boys encounter in those places. Which school did you attend, Darrach?”

“A glen school, and Perth Academy. I lived with my uncle in those years.”

“My lady,” Ellison said, hoping to bring the lady’s attention away from probing. “How long will Mrs. Beaton and Miss Sorcha be at Duncraig?”

“My sister is undecided, although she asked if Sorcha could return to Edinburgh with me for the festivities. There will be an exodus from the Highlands to the city in a few weeks. Well, to my point,” she went on. “I am invited to visit Duncraig. My sister has a nervous constitution and I am a calming influence on her. But I gave my word to be here with you, Ellison. So I am torn.”

“You must visit Duncraig, my lady. Mrs. Barrow and the MacNies are here, the servants too. And Mr. Mac—Darrach and I will be busy with the work to be done.”

Lady Strathniven tipped her head to consider MacGregor. “Sir, my instinct says you are a true gentleman. But propriety, and Sir Hector, insist on a chaperoning presence. I have a thought!” She turned to Ellison. “I will ask Sorcha to come here as your companion. She could be such a help to you.”

“I would love to see her.” A little qualm went through her. She cared about Sorcha, but was intrigued by the thought of more freedom in MacGregor’s company.

“MacNie will take my note directly to Duncraig today. The post takes so long now to go back and forth,” she complained.

“Sorcha is welcome, though I do not need a chaperone these days.” She felt another blush rise, the tell-tale curse of her delicate skin.

“Because you are a widow? Sadly, we trade loss for a little freedom, my dear. But your father insists on propriety while you are here this time.”

“I know.” Ellison was keenly aware of MacGregor’s silence.

“Adam seemed eager to come up. I could write to him,” the lady offered brightly.

“That is not necessary,” Ellison said quickly. “You will only be gone a few days.”

“Perhaps longer. My sister feels very drained. But when I return, Darrach will be a fine gentleman indeed, and we will be off to the city. Do you not agree, sir?”

“I will do my best to fulfill expectations, my lady.”

“You are doing that already. Ellison was told to turn a frog into a—”

“Here is tea!” Ellison said in relief as Mrs. Barrow entered the room with a tray.

*

Ronan hoped his stomach was not growling audibly. He had eaten little that day, and months of a prison menu had honed his appreciation of good food. Ellison Graham served tea, hot and dark, steam floating from dainty cups, and filled small china plates with pretty cakes and a heartier fare of sausages, cold salmon, and rolls.

“This is excellent,” Lady Strathniven said. “Is that Mrs. Barrow’s lemon cake? And fresh strawberries? Marvelous! But I should have a little salmon first.”

Watching Ellison prepare another plate, Ronan noticed how petite and wan she looked in gray-blue trimmed in somber marching rows of black lace. Her morning dress had been soaked, he remembered vividly, showing how thin she was, though lush in places too. He was glad to see her appetite in selecting sausages and a roll for herself, while Lady Strathniven’s plate rivaled a farmer’s.

He smiled, accepting a teacup. She then provided him a plate of savory sausages, salmon, and a buttered roll. She had remembered that he took only a dollop of milk and no sugar in his tea. But even if she had loaded it with sugar, he would have sipped it just to see her smile.

“Despite what your father believes, my dear,” Lady Strathniven was saying, “Sir Hector will always think of you as his little girl no matter what. But you have earned your independence, and it is time he realized it.”

Ellison nodded, glancing quickly at Ronan. “Aye, my lady.”

“Doing what you please is a hard-earned privilege of widowhood. Sir Hector cannot protest if you follow my example. I do as I want.”

“It is good advice.”

“I do wish your husband had left you an unencumbered property. Have the lawyers sorted out your Edinburgh house?”

“Not yet.” Ellison sipped her tea.

“It should be yours without question. The house is suitable for now, but if you marry again, which I am sure you will do, it may be too small.”

The girl blushed furiously. Silent, listening, Ronan sipped tea.

“Mr. Smithson believes it will be mine as soon as the dispute is solved.”

“A good house in a desirable area is a treasure. I do wish the poor fellow had left you more secure, my dear. Do prod the lawyer again. Some of them are not worth their salt and we must continually press them, isn’t it so, Lord Darrach?”

Ronan swallowed quickly. “At times, aye.”

The lady picked up a scone and spread it liberally with butter. “Hearts heal, but property could be lost forever. Colin’s cousins need to leave that house now.”

“It is a bit of a problem,” Ellison agreed quietly.

“Squatters,” Lady Strathniven declared. “You see, Darrach—her late husband’s relatives insist the house is theirs. They moved in last year and refuse to leave.”

“That must be very distressing,” he commented carefully.

“My husband’s will was not specific about the property,” Ellison explained, “so his cousins claimed the house because the will stated they could choose whatever family items they wanted. After his death, I moved back to my father’s house, and they took up residence without asking. They had a key from years before.”

“An unfortunate situation,” he said, but inside, he simmered over the injustice.

“Squatters!” Lady Strathniven repeated. “Uncouth and unmannered.”

“I am sure the lawyers can straighten it out,” Ellison said. “Mr. Smithson is here in Edinburgh, and his partner Mr. Cameron is sometimes here and sometimes in Kinross. Perhaps you know them.”

“I have heard their names.” He was more than familiar with both.

“Do you know much about the law, Lord Darrach?” Lady Strathniven asked.

“Some, madam.” He noticed Ellison glance sharply at him. She was too alert to his truths and half-truths, he realized. He needed more caution—or more confession.

“Those involved in the whisky business should know the laws,” Ellison said.

“Exactly, Miss Graham,” he agreed.

“Crofters deserve to earn a livelihood from their barley and their whisky,” Lady Strathniven said. “A local distiller, Pitlinnie, brings us a regular supply for free.”

“It is a good whisky. I would be happy to supply Glenbrae’s brew to you also.”

“I would like that! I do enjoy a dram now and then. Do you think they will change the whisky laws, Darrach?”

“They say the laws may change substantially next year.”

“Best you are done with such nonsense, then, and distill it legally.”

He chuckled. The lady’s honesty could be brutal at times.

“Ellison,” the viscountess went on, “perhaps Darrach has some thoughts regarding your town house. What would you do, Darrach, if it was your house?”

He cleared his throat, seeing Ellison’s obvious discomfiture. Increasingly aware of her subtle responses that told her thoughts, he warned himself to be careful. But he was not sure he could remain neutral much longer.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“We should not bother Darrach with it. Here, let me serve the cake.” Ellison stood, her lovely butterfly hands flexing, folding, and went to the sideboard where Mrs. Barrow had left the larger dishes. She took up a knife and thrust it into the cake. Ronan sensed temper and frustration all through her.

“Darrach, if you know Smithson, perhaps you could visit him,” the lady said.

“If it would help. But Miss Graham may not want assistance.”

“She may not.” Ellison sliced cake, slid it to a plate, scooped up strawberries from a bowl and slapped them on top. “She might want to sort it out on her own.”

Lady Strathniven frowned. “I suppose it is your concern, my dear, but—”

“Cake, my lady?” Ellison thrust the plate toward her, cake and fruit sliding dangerously. Ronan quickly took it and handed it to the viscountess.

“Thank you, sir. What is your advice for Ellison?”

The girl slapped another helping of cake and strawberries onto a second plate and thrust it at Ronan. She also gave him a snapping glare. Taking the dessert, he smiled.

“The last version of the will would help decide. But the lawyers know that. I am not qualified to comment,” he added. Though he deuced was.

“You must have some sense. Men know these things.”

“Ladies may know these things too,” Ellison said, stabbing a strawberry.

He needed to extricate himself, but he wanted to make something clear. “If the will was signed and witnessed and is authentically by your husband’s hand, it is valid. If the wording is vague, it might be the solicitor’s fault, though they can interpret it to some extent. But if the intention cannot be agreed upon, a judge may need to decide it.”

“There, you see,” Lady Strathniven said. “He knows a good deal, does Darrach.”

Ellison speared another strawberry. “Perhaps.”

“If I can help, I will,” he said, and let the offer stand.

She poked her spoon at a bit of cake, mashed it about, then sighed. “I want to avoid a confrontation over the house. It is just a house. I want no harm to anyone.”

“Your rights are important too.” He should avoid involvement, he thought. Too soon he would see her for the last time, and then face legal problems of his own. He should not entangle himself in this.

Oh, but this lass, he thought; this strong, fragile, outspoken, yet soft-spoken lass. She was scrambling all his intentions.

Ellison set down her spoon. “Fine, sir. Do you have another suggestion?”

“Ask your lawyer to evict them from the property. Until the will is sorted out, they have no legal right to be there. The police can assist.”

“I cannot do that. They were his only kin.”

“She has a soft heart, you see,” the viscountess said.

“Then let the lawyer show a harder heart. Then you need not compromise your kind nature, Miss Graham.” He watched her eyes widen, then seek his.

“Could you—perhaps talk to someone?” she asked.

“The lawyer or the squatters?” Lady Strathniven interrupted.

“Either or both,” he agreed.

“Never mind. I will not trouble you.” Ellison paused. “But if eviction comes next, perhaps you would know what to say.”

“I can deliver a message to the lawyer.”

She nodded. “I just want no one harmed.”

“Of course. Your lawyer would handle it directly and then report to you.”

“Good, it is settled. This cake is delicious,” the viscountess said.

“Thank you.” Tilting her head in a sunbeam, Ellison’s gray eyes went silvery. She shone, he thought—beautiful, vulnerable, relieved. She looked suddenly hopeful too, as if she saw a light in the darkness. He gave her a silent reassuring nod.

And felt suddenly as if he were the one lost, reaching for a silvery light that could lead him to all he had ever desired. He looked away then, dipped into cake and fruit, sweet and tart, and hardly tasted it.