Page 12 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“T hank you for inviting me to come along with you this morning,” Ellison said.

“A privilege on a beautiful day.” Ronan slowed his mount to allow her to pull even with him as she rode a stocky Highland pony, the best mount for negotiating steep, rough slopes as they progressed into the hills.

She smiled, savoring the sun’s warmth and the fresh breeze that ruffled the skirt of her black riding costume. She looked out at the expanse of rugged hills surrounding the bowl of a green glen ahead. “Where would you like to go today, Mr. Macgregor—er, Darrach? Likely you know the area well.”

“I do. Darrach is not necessary between us,” he said quietly. “I thought we might visit the Glenbrae distillery, just across this glen.”

“I would love to see your property.”

“Mine in a sense. The glen and distillery are part of the Darrach estate, but for a long while have been leased to my family, going back to my great-grandfather. I am a tenant.”

“And the laird. If there is no viscount, whose tenant are you now?”

“The estate’s tenant until the inheritance is decided. This way. See that branch of the military road?” He pointed ahead, where the cobble-and-dirt road forked, one north, one northeast toward forested slopes.

“I have ridden in this glen before, but have not seen a distillery. Is it far?”

“Not far,” Donal said, joining them to ride three abreast on the solid, shaggy Highland ponies. MacNie kept a few of the animals at Strathniven for riding on steep terrain. Ellison’s smaller mount suited her, but the taller men outsized the horses. Yet they looked natural, she thought, part of the raw strength and beauty of a Highland glen.

For a moment, she wished she had brought her sketchbook and pencil to capture some images that might inspire her story. The manuscript, growing slowly, was locked in her writing box at Strathniven. Each day she learned more that could benefit her novel, and learned more about Ronan MacGregor too. She hungered to ask him about his life. Hungered, she thought, to be near him. He fascinated her more than anyone she had known. That in itself was a revelation.

“This way to the distillery,” Donal was saying. “The other road leads to Invermorie, where my mother and grandfather live.”

“How nice! Can we stop there? I would like to meet them.”

“Another time,” MacGregor said curtly. “The distillery will take time, as I must determine what is available and make arrangements to send whisky to Edinburgh.”

He rode ahead, Ellison and Donal following the road that cut a straight, unforgiving line through the hills, as if the engineer had neither patience nor sensibility for the beauty of the glen’s slopes and curves. As they left the hard road to follow a drover’s track of earth and turf, Ellison fell behind, gazing with awe at Glen Brae.

“Here we are,” Ronan said, looking back. “The glen is named for that high, steep hill that juts above the slopes, the braes or bràighean in Gaelic, that form the glen.”

Looking about, she saw a small stone castle in the lee of a high hill. The structure looked very old, its gray stone and blunt shape stark against heathery hills.

“What castle is that?” She saw rambling fieldstone walls and outbuildings surrounding the structure, while goats and sheep grazed on a nearby hill.

“That is Invermorie,” Ronan said.

“Your home, as laird of Glenbrae?” But Donal’s mother lived there, she thought.

“I lived there as a boy. My home is elsewhere now. Tenants live in the castle.”

“Donal’s mother?”

“And grandfather.” He lifted a hand to shade his brow.

Then Ellison noticed a dark-haired woman crossing the yard to step into a side building. Ronan took up the reins and turned his horse. “This way, Miss Graham.”

Enchanted by the little square castle, she gave it a last look, then followed.

*

As soon as he heard the burble of water near the distillery, Ronan felt himself relax. The soothing chuckle of the Lealtie Water had always seemed to wash troubles away in its flow. His troubles would not so easily rinse away now, but he felt them ease.

He guided his pony over the stone bridge spanning the fast-flowing burn, with Ellison and Donal following. His gaze, his very heart, was transfixed by his distillery, with its whitewashed walls and slate roofs of its three buildings, by the trees and rumpled hillocks that held his little enterprise like a safe and cushioning hand.

His next breath was infused with pride and love. Beyond the main building sat his stone cottage, thatched roof golden in the sun, quietly waiting for him. Home.

“Beautiful,” Ellison said when they crossed the bridge and halted the ponies in the yard. “So peaceful.”

“It is,” he agreed. “And hardworking as well.”

“I will see who is here.” Donal dismounted and walked toward the main building, opened its red door, vanished within.

“Just one or two men are needed here most days, depending on the work. Come inside.” Ronan dismounted to tie the reins of his horse and Donal’s to a post, then turned to help Ellison down. Her body slid against his unexpectedly, so that he felt a leap and heat within. He set her down and stepped back, while she turned away quickly.

Donal called from the doorway. “Auld Rabbie is at the spirit safe!”

“Ah,” Ronan said, and led Ellison toward the door.

“Spirit safe?” Ellison asked.

“You will see.” He noticed that her cheeks were still pink after their bodies had touched. She was a delectable sight, he thought, and did not seem out of place here. Her quiet simplicity matched the surroundings. He wished she could be here with him always. He pushed the thought away.

“This way,” he said gruffly, holding the door open.

As they stepped into the cool, dim interior, Ronan led her into a wide, plain room that held three huge copper stills. Sunbeams poured through a narrow window, gleaming over bright metal. Ellison turned in wonder.

“What are those? And that smell—ale? And smoke?”

“Those are the stills,” he said. “We brought them here from Perth. That beery smell is given off by malting barley, and the smoke is the peaty sweetness of the low fires in the drying room next door. The malt house, the drying rooms, the still house are all connected by covered passages. Over years, the odors have permeated the whole place.”

“It is a comforting sort of smell.”

“Some dislike it.” He was glad she appreciated it. He rested a hand on the warm copper shoulder of one of the stills proudly, cognizant of the challenges of bringing the huge stills here and building the place up from a cluster of old cottages. For several years, he and his brother Will and their cousin, Darrach, with the help of a few others, had worked tirelessly to create what he had finally licensed as a legal distillery.

Soon after, his brother and cousin were killed. Then the secrets they had kept from him had emerged as the crisis that altered his life and that of his friends.

He had done all he could to right things, but at a cost. Now he must reclaim his life and rebuild Glenbrae into what it could be. But he was beginning to realize that he needed something else, too. He glanced at Ellison.

“Ronan MacGregor?” She watched him.

He liked the way she said his name, a Highland way. He moved away from the copper still to usher her through a doorway into a connecting room.

Donal was standing beside a man who was elderly and ropey thin, swathed in a shabby plaid and bonnet. Beside them was a metal tank fitted with brass pipes, and a large glass box banded in brass and set on a pedestal. A stream of liquid was channeling through the pipes into the transparent box.

Donal waved. “Good as gold, sir. Auld Rabbie Muir has been watching it.”

“Ronan! Fàilte air ais gu Gleann Bràigh! ” The old man grinned.

“Rabbie, tapadh leat! It is good to see you,” Ronan continued in English.

“And you! We heard you was taken, lad!”

“But I am here now, come to see for myself the excellent work you have done while I was away. This is Miss Graham,” he said. “This is Robert Muir, who has been making whisky in Glenbrae since my father was a lad. Or was it my grandfather,” he added with a chuckle.

Rabbie tipped his cap. “Miss, welcome. I was a lad with this one’s Grandda, to be sure.” He winked. “And I taught his Da and himself, here, to make the uigse beatha, our water of life, our whisky. Ronan took to the art of it young, and had a gift for the brewing. He has made our whisky into a very fine thing that makes our glen proud.”

“How lovely to meet you, Mr. Muir.” She held out her gloved hand, which he took in both of his. “It is a very nice place and a very bonnie glen.”

“Och aye. But not near as bonny as the lass Glenbrae brings with him today.” He gave her an impish grin. She laughed.

“Enough charm, sir.” Ronan tapped the glass lid. “How goes it?”

“We expect a fine brew from this. It goes in the casks soon. See, Miss Graham,” Rabbie explained, “this is our spirit safe. It collects vapors from the barley mash that is fermented in another room. It is heated and stirred again and again, and the vapors are the gift of the spirit, see. What escapes into the air during the distilling and the aging of the whisky, well, that we call the angel’s share.”

“Angel’s share,” she repeated. “How lovely.”

“It makes for good luck, you see. We store the liquid in casks where it ages to become the best whisky. It takes time to make the best water of life,” he went on. “It takes good barley and Highland water, peaty smoke from the fires, and the flavor of the water too, influenced by rocks and flowers along the burn that runs through here. Needs it all.”

“It takes a love of the craft, too,” she said.

“Och, aye, love and care, time and patience, to make the best whisky we can. And skilled hands too. My grandsons work with me. They are out and about,” he told Ronan.

“I saw them recently,” he murmured. Rabbie nodded.

“From here it goes in the casks? Where are those kept?” Ellison looked around.

“The liquid essence captured here,” Ronan said, “is transferred and stored in oak casks, the older the better to add richness. The best casks have held either whisky or Spanish sherry. They rest and mature for years in another building.”

“Years, aye,” Rabbie said. “The longer it rests, the better it is. Ronan MacGregor has the patience for it, and the love, as you say, Miss. It makes all the difference.”

“You’re an auld poet,” Ronan drawled.

“We Gaels are an ancient race of poets, are we not, and our whisky carries the heart and spirit of Scotland in it. Do ye take a sip now and then, Miss? Some ladies will and some will not.”

“I have on occasion. It is invigorating.”

He laughed, then turned to Ronan. “I do not know where the girl was born,” he said in rapid Gaelic, “but this one is a Highland lass in her soul.”

“And she speaks the Gaelic, too.” Ronan cocked a brow.

“Aha! Ciamar a tha thu an-duigh?” Rabbie asked her in a renewed greeting.

“Tha mi gu math, tapadh leat,” she responded, and Ronan suddenly felt as proud as if he were her tutor—or something closer, more intimate.

“She will do, Glenbrae,” Rabbie approved.

“Aye so. Donal, please take Miss Graham around to show her the place, while Rabbie catches me up on the business.”

“Miss Ellison, this way.” As she murmured thanks, Donal led her to the door.

“God above, we heard you were all taken,” Rabbie told Ronan.

“But with a bit of luck, I was released. How goes it here?”

“Well enough. Though that scoundrel Pitlinnie comes around with questions, buying kegs and casks. I do not like it.”

“How much has he purchased?”

“More than I want him to have. I do not trust the man.”

“How many casks and kegs are in storage? Do we have enough to send a supply south quickly?”

Rabbie rubbed his chin. “Most of what is here is too young to go. We have a good store set aside, but not here. You know where it is.”

“Aye. Is it safe there?”

“Far as I know. I have not looked for a while. I will send my grandsons to see. Ronan, I tell you, Pitlinnie is too curious. He asks how old our kegs are, how many are here and elsewhere, as if we were friends and allies.”

“It is not his business where it is kept. Does he know about the hidden stock?”

“I do not think so. But he wants to buy all we have. Casks, kegs, bottles, all of it. Distillery too, property, stills, buildings, the lot. When word of your arrest got out, he came around. He wants to join it with Pitlinnie. He does not say so, but I ken it.”

“And you refused him,” Ronan prompted in a growl.

“It is not for sale, said I. Whatever becomes of the laird, we will never sell, I told him. But if aught happened to you, Ronan, what then?”

“Donal,” he answered. “As my brother’s stepson, he is my closest kin.”

“You know Pitlinnie thinks to court Mairi Brodie.”

“I know. I will visit soon.” He stepped back. “I am indebted to you and your lads, Rabbie Muir.”

“ Tcha. Let us look at the resting casks, now, where we will find your bonny lass.”

“Not my lass.” But the words did not ring true.

Rabbie gave a little huff and preceded him through the connecting door.

Damn Neill Pitlinnie, Ronan thought as he walked. The man might vie for advantage in the laird’s absence, but that was about to change.

*

“How good to see you, Sorcha!” Ellison took her friend’s arm as they walked back to Strathniven’s main hall after she’d shown the girl around the house and gardens. Just a reminder, for Sorcha had visited her aunt’s home before and admired some changes, including the handsome new Oriental carpet in the library, Balor having chewed the edges of the previous one. As they walked, Ellison glanced around for Ronan MacGregor, but did not see him; Mrs. Barrow then mentioned that Lord Darrach—said with a sniff—had gone to the stables.

Ellison was glad that Sorcha meant to stay, for the girl was gracious and kind, with a sweet and cheerful enthusiasm. Perhaps Sorcha could charm MacGregor, who could be dour at times, Ellison thought, considering his situation. A true gentleman, he hid it well, though she saw through him more often now—somber and reflective, yet amusing and kind too. All of it stirred and intrigued her.

Infatuated, Adam Corbie had once called her. Perhaps he was right.

“Lovely to have luncheon with you and my lady aunt today,” Sorcha said then. “She seems eager to leave for Duncraig, and Mama will be happy to see her.”

“And we are happy to have you here,” Ellison said, recalling that MacGregor had missed luncheon, for he and Donal Brodie had gone out to exercise the horses and visit a few Strathniven tenants. Glad he was finding things to do, she wished they had more time for the lessons. But the longer his supposed transformation took, the better. She dreaded his return to Edinburgh.

“Lady Strathniven is nearly packed and ready to go,” she told Sorcha. “And your Duncraig man had lunch in the kitchen after the long drive. He needed a chance to rest before driving back today. Ah, my lady!” She turned as the viscountess approached.

“There you are! Did you see the house, dear?” Lady Strathniven asked Sorcha. “You have not been here for a while. We are so pleased you could stay.”

“Thank you again for inviting me,” Sorcha said as her aunt enveloped her in an embrace.

“You are always welcome here,” the lady responded, eyes twinkling.

“My lady, Mrs. Barrow said all is ready for your journey to Duncraig,” Ellison said. “It should take three hours, depending on the roads after the rains.”

“I am just waiting for Jeanie to bring down the last of my things. My goodness, Sorcha, you look so grown-up now! Such a pretty girl, the image of your Mama.”

“Truly you do,” Ellison said, admiring Sorcha’s bright, happy countenance, with large hazel eyes, a scattering of freckles on her upturned nose, and honey-colored hair in soft curls. The sunny little girl she remembered was now a graceful young lady, and as straightforward as ever. Sorcha was a smart and uncomplicated girl with a clear-sighted outlook and a practical nature. She would be delightful company.

“I will be gone a week or two, depending on your Mama,” Lady Strathniven said.

“I wish I had the patience for Mama that you do, but when I offer solutions, she only wants sympathy. You lift her spirits and make her laugh. She needs that. She misses Beth now that she has married.”

“My sister has always had a nervous constitution. But she did mention in her letter that she might hold a dinner party if she feels strong enough.”

“She is considering it. Perhaps you can inspire her in that. It would do her good.”

“We would all enjoy it. Ellison, my dear, has Sorcha met Lord Darrach yet?”

“Not as yet. He will be here soon, I expect.”

“I wonder if he could accompany you over to Kinross this week,” Lady Strathniven said. “The seamstress there is finishing two dresses, one for me and one for you, Ellison. I took the liberty of asking her to make something new for you to wear in Edinburgh to attend one of the dances.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Ellison said, surprised and pleased.

“With all you are doing, you deserve something special. Ellison is such a help here at Strathniven,” the viscountess told Sorcha. “We could not get along without her.”

“Thank you,” Ellison repeated. “It would be nice to go down to Kinross.”

“Excellent. Sorcha, dear, you must have something new for Edinburgh too. Tell the seamstress to bill me for it. Though she may have to work quickly.”

“Oh, my lady aunt, I could not—”

“You certainly can. Something to match your green eyes, perhaps. But be sure to go with Lord Darrach, Ellison. A gentleman should bring you two into town.”

“I am sure we could manage without an escort,” Ellison said.

“One could encounter rogues in these hills. Better he was with you.”

“Aye.” The man was as much a rogue as any, Ellison thought with a wry smile.

“Lord Darrach? I know the name,” Sorcha mused. “My mother mentioned him. Viscount Darrach was a neighbor in another glen who died mysteriously two years ago. My brother told her about it, knowing local gossip cheers Mama out of her doldrums.”

“Our guest is another Lord Darrach,” Ellison said quickly. “A friend of Lady Strathniven.”

“Yes, another Darrach. That estate is very grand,” the lady continued. “It touches Strathniven on our western boundary, with Glen Brae between. Castle Darrach is a few hours ride from here. Our Darrach,” she added, “is the heir.”

“But he is staying here rather than at his own castle?” Sorcha asked.

“Matters are still being settled,” Ellison said hastily. They had not considered all the ramifications of preparing a smuggler to meet the king. At first, she had only thought to please her father in this. But MacGregor was becoming even more important to her than her quest for Papa’s approval.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, MacGregor had quoted Scott. A tangle indeed.

“Darrach is with us until we all go to Edinburgh for the king’s arrival,” the viscountess said. “He is quite an eligible bachelor—title and lands, and very handsome. I imagine many young ladies will want to be introduced to him.”

The tangled web just became more snarled. “My lady,” Ellison said quickly, “your carriage is ready.”

“When Jeanie comes down, we will leave. I had hoped to introduce Darrach.”

“I can do that,” Ellison said.

“Perhaps Mama will invite Lord Darrach to supper at Duncraig,” Sorcha said.

“A splendid idea! I will mention it to her. Ellison, what an excellent thought!”

“Excellent,” she replied. Tutoring the man to prepare him for a royal interview was one thing, but introducing him as Lord Darrach at a local party was quite another, and risky. If he was exposed, the consequences could bring down her father as well.

“Mama needs a distraction. A new bachelor in the area is a good reason to host a country dance,” Sorcha said. “We could have fiddlers and dancing and supper. Our friends here are eager for news and a little society before people travel to Edinburgh in time for the king’s arrival. It would be perfect!”

“Perhaps that is better done in the city,” Ellison suggested.

“Lord Darrach might enjoy a chance to practice his... dancing,” Lady Strathniven said, looking hard at her.

“Think of everyone eager to meet him and dance with him.” Sorcha giggled.

“Perhaps,” Ellison said. Dread ran through her like ice.

“Here is MacNie—oh, and Darrach too!” Lady Strathniven turned as the front door opened and the men stepped into the foyer. Sunlight flooded in with them.

“My lady.” Ronan MacGregor raised a brow, seeing the women gathered. His gaze touched Ellison. “Miss Graham. And—?” He inclined his head with a polite smile.

“Lord Darrach, this is my niece, Miss Sorcha Beaton, just arrived from Duncraig.”

“Ah, Miss Beaton. A pleasure to meet you.” He held out his gloved hand.

Sorcha bowed her head a little and took his large hand, beaming. “Thank you, my lord. I have heard so much about you.”

“Have you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Not much, sir,” Ellison said. “Just that you are a guest here.”

“Ah, and grateful for the hospitality of friends,” he said.

“We were just saying, my lord, that you might enjoy visiting Duncraig,” Sorcha said. “My mother is there, and my brother, Lord Justice Beaton, will come up from Edinburgh for this. He is fond of Glenbrae whisky, which I understand is yours?”

“It is,” he murmured. “So Justice Beaton is your brother?”

“Yes, do you know him? He was a lawyer and is now a lord justice of some kind. There are many justice ranks. I have never sorted them out,” she added with a laugh.

“I know the name. He is in the Court of Justiciary, I believe.”

Ellison felt a flutter of fear on his behalf; his reply was smooth but she heard a tense underlying note.

“Jeanie, at last,” Lady Strathniven said a tall maid in black came down the stairs carrying what seemed to be a heavy valise. “Where is MacNie? He was just here. Give that bag to the Duncraig driver. Where is he? We should be off soon.”

“Aye, madam.”

“Miss Jeanie, let me take that for you. Nonsense,” MacGregor said, reaching for the leather bag as she protested. “I do not mind at all. I am just headed outside myself.”

Ellison frowned. A lord offering to help a servant was a bit of a faux pas, although a kind gesture could rise above manners and earn praise and loyalty from household staff. She saw it as MacGregor’s nature—and perhaps he wanted an excuse to depart.

“Ellison, I nearly forgot,” Lady Strathniven said. “I had a letter from your father this morning when MacNie brought the mail.”

“Papa? What did he say?” Ellison did not dare glance at MacGregor, who paused at the door, valise in hand.

“He has decided to send Adam here after all.”

“Cousin Adam! How delightful,” Sorcha said.

“When?” Ellison asked in a flat tone.

“In a week or so. They will send word. I may be back by then.”

“Ah.” Heart hammering, wanting desperately to look at Ronan, she kept her gaze trained away. She felt his silence keenly.

“Adam is looking forward to seeing Lord Darrach,” Lady Strathniven went on.

“Is he,” MacGregor clipped. “Good day, ladies. I have an errand. My lady, I wish you a wonderful visit.” He inclined his head. “Miss Beaton, good to meet you. Miss Graham, good day.”

Ellison met his frowning gaze. “Darrach.”

“Well, I am off, my dears!” The viscountess leaned in to kiss Ellison and then Sorcha on the cheek. “Do not get into mischief while I am gone,” she teased.

“Of course not,” Ellison answered stiffly.

“All will be well, my lady,” MacGregor said, and held the door open.