Page 13 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

Ruari MacAlpin had adored redheaded Isabella since they had been small. Tender years had led to innocent kisses, then shared whispers of love and devotion, and finally marriage. The guarantee lay in the friendship of their fathers, who had guarded each other’s backs on the battlefield. But when Grant’s death revealed his debts, his grieving widow wed a high judge who could pay that for her. He then arranged to betroth Grant’s daughter to Strathearn, a powerful royal advisor, who would give her a life of privilege in London. But the wedding would take place soon.

“Tell the lass your feelings before she flies south forever,” a friend urged Ruari. “Losing her will be your undoing.”

“That beauty—and this beast?” Ruari, tall and strong as an oak, bearded and plaided, his hands used to heavy work, laughed bitterly. “I canna give her what she deserves. The beautiful bird will fly and the beast will go to ground.”

So he saw her go in silence, just a hand lifted in farewell in the kirkyard. He turned away without seeing the tears in the bride’s eyes.

Five years, five seasons of barley and oats, of midnight cattle forays and drives to market along ancient tracks; five years of having no lass to warm his heart or his hearth. None could compare to the one he had let go.

Five years, and then the winsome Lady Strathearn returned to the Highlands, a young widow draped in black. She brought a small son and a fortune to protect for him. The glen folk said the lady had fled to protect her child’s life. Strathearn’s foes in the south were bent on destroying his family and his legacy. The lady, said they, sought to hire a sword-arm, a man keen for mischief and danger, a seneschal who would hold Strathearn Castle strong.

That night Ruarie of Garslie sharpened blade and dirk on the whetstone, cleaned and oiled sheath and targe, unlocked the chest that held his father’s armor, and made himself ready.

Ellison paused, reading softly aloud, jotting changes here and there. The hour was late, and the little tower library was silent and cozy. Candles flickered, rain shushed against the window glass as she wrote. Earlier she had crafted a title page on a creamy sheet of paper to cover her growing manuscript: The Highlander’s Lament by E. S. Leslie, she had written, and made a little ink sketch of a castle on a hill.

She was thrilled with her story. The hero, Ruari MacAlpin, a proud descendant of Scotland’s ancient kings, lived under English rule in the time of the Covenanter’s dispute, when no Scotsman dared claim royal blood or a Papist education. A man of tremendous heart and loyalty, he nurtured an unrequited love for Isabella, who did not know how deeply he loved her. Though he never spoke of it, he would have given up his life for her. Nor did Ruari know that Isabella hid her love for him.

Ellison sighed, for the story made her hopeful as well as sad. She had to think of a way to bring noble Ruari and foolish Isabella together, and make each one better for it. She scribbled some thoughts in the margin, chewed on the end of the pen, and wrote on.

Tapping her fingers on the tabletop, she wondered how to place the hero in yet another pickle. He must face a foe with swords drawn and defend the lady, her son, and her castle from attack.

A little clock on the mantel chimed softly. The hour was late and the household asleep. Coming to the old library mouse-quiet, she’d thought MacGregor to be still in the main library, where she had glimpsed him earlier. Once Sorcha had retired to bed, Ellison had gone to the larger library hoping to write, only to see MacGregor seated with books, intent on his reading. She had retreated and headed to the tower library, not wanting to distract him.

Yet the Highlander was a distraction under any circumstances. Just a glance or a quiet remark could set her deliciously off-kilter. But tonight the writing itch was upon her, and so she managed nearly two hours of writing in the silence and privacy of the medieval tower.

Standing, stretching, she glanced out the window at the dark, drizzly, summer night. Then she opened a glass decanter to pour a little bit of ratafia into a small glass. Mrs. Barrow’s recipe of sherry mixed with berries, oranges, cinnamon, and water was refreshing, and the housekeeper made sure to keep some of the drink, a favorite of Lady Strathniven’s, in the old library for Ellison, who used the room most often.

Sipping the homemade cordial, hoping it might help her sleep later, she had another idea, and covered a page with writing, pen scratching in the quiet.

She froze when she heard the scrape of boots on the stone steps. MacGregor must be going up to his room for the night, for the footsteps passed the library. Above, a door latched shut.

Breathing out, she dipped the quill and wrote on, but could not focus on her story. In the noiseless room, her thoughts kept sliding to Ronan MacGregor. The mere scrape of his foot on the step had made her heart beat faster.

Just infatuation, she told herself, and she must ignore it. He did not seem to return her interest, and a romance was unthinkable for the daughter of the deputy provost and a man who could return to prison. MacGregor was gentlemanly, polite, and kind toward her and she could expect nothing more.

Part of her wished he would abandon propriety and show reciprocal feeling for her—a long while had passed since a man had cared about her. Her widow’s existence sealed her off from affection and love, and so she might feel isolated the rest of her life.

Outside, the sky was the purple of a late summer night. She ought to go to bed. Tomorrow would bring them closer to the day Ronan MacGregor must carry out this risky scheme in Edinburgh. Then he would depart, never knowing how she felt. She could not tell him—it would not do.

But she could write about it. A sense of unrequited love infused her story. Taking up the pen, she began to write, soon surprising herself as an impassioned scene emerged with each scratch of the quill. Isabella secretly loved Ruari, but had married a man who would help her family. Now she was widowed and had to seek help from the Highlander she had once rejected. The scene poured through the pen.

Pausing to think, she slid her fingers through her loosened braid. As she wrote of the love between her characters, tears welled and spilled, blotting the ink.

She looked up to see her face reflected in the window glass. Then she saw a face just above hers, as if her Highland hero stood there, tall, handsome, mysterious. She gasped, for she realized Ronan was in the doorway, reflected in the window too.

“Miss Graham,” Ronan said, sensing her surprise. “I did not mean to startle you. It is late, and I apologize.” As she beckoned, he entered the room. “I could not sleep and came downstairs, for I had seen a light earlier. I wanted to be sure no candles or lamps were burning. I did not realize you were here.”

“Sometimes I come in here to write or read. It is so private.”

“Or was, until I arrived. Letters?” He glanced at the pages on the table, noticing watery blots of ink. She covered the topmost page with her hand.

“A story. A book someday,” she blurted.

“Ah.” Sensing fragility, Ronan paused. Strong though the girl might be, life had made her hesitant and fearful; perhaps her dreams seemed risky. The thought of anyone diminishing the shining spirit within her made him feel indignant and protective. He frowned, wishing she would trust him, but she watched him warily.

“A book? Excellent.”

“You might think it a frivolous waste of time.” She tucked the pages together and folded her hands over them as if to shield them. “But I enjoy it.”

“If reading a book is a worthy occupation for men and women, how could writing a book be unworthy?”

“Writing poetry is considered more suitable for a lady than a novel.”

“I enjoy novels more than poetry. But then some think me a ne’er-do-well.”

“I do not think so.”

“Thank you. There is much to admire in those who take on the task of writing and accomplish it.” He smiled. “I will not interrupt your work.” He stepped back.

“I am done for now. Sit if you like.”

He took a chair by the table. “So you work on something in solitude. I will keep that secret for you, I promise.”

“I appreciate it.” She spread her fingers to cover the pages.

“I only came in here to check the candles, and to look for a book that might help my own secret work.”

“I saw you reading in the library earlier. Law books, I think?”

“Aye. I am hoping to find a solution to a certain dilemma. I confess I also came in hopes of finding a decanter of whisky. A wee sip is good for a sleepless night.” He rose and went to a shelf where two glass decanters and drinking glasses sat neatly arranged. One decanter was full of amber liquid. A smaller decanter held a darker liquid. “Sherry?”

“A ratafia with berries and spices. Mrs. Barrow makes it. Help yourself, sir.”

“Ratafia is more of a ladies’ drink. I shall try a dram of this one.” He poured a little amber whisky into a small glass. “Would you care for some?”

“I had the liqueur earlier. Though—aye, a little taste of whisky will do. I feel a bit restless tonight too.”

“Highland ladies enjoy a dram whenever they like.” He poured a wee bit into a second glass. “It seems that Lady Strathniven agrees.”

Ellison laughed. “She does. Thank you.” She took the glass, sipped, grimaced.

He lifted his glass, watched candlelight flicker through the honey-gold liquid, and sipped. “A handsome whisky. Made by Pitlinnie, if I am not mistaken.”

“I believe so. He is a local baronet, I think, and makes his own whisky.”

“Aye, he has a small Highland estate and a recent title, which I hear he earned in return for a monetary gift to the English government.”

“Oh! That seems—rather crass.”

“A bit. His grandfather was appointed a knight for a similar reason, but they never let their neighbors forget their raised status. To Sir Neill Pitlinnie,” he drawled, raising his glass. “May he prosper and enjoy his titles and such.”

“You do not seem fond of him.”

“Not especially.” He drank.

“What were you looking for in this library? Can I help find it?”

He liked to keep his secrets safe, as she apparently did too, but he felt at ease with her. “I am searching for a small archaic point of law. I thought the older volumes in here might have something.”

She waved toward the bookcases lining the walls. “There are some older books on Scots law in one corner. Lord Strathniven shelved them here, finding them outdated. But that might be what you need.”

“Thank you. But I do not want to disturb your writing session.”

“The inspiration has passed.” She smiled, lifted a shoulder.

“Inspiration—and tears?” He glanced at the pages beneath her hand. “Sorry, I should not ask. But it must be a good story to touch you so.”

“I like it, but Papa thinks—” She stopped, shook her head.

“Thinks it unsuitable?”

“Worse. Folly.” She shrugged, took a sip. “Oh, my. That does warm the throat.”

He saw a blush rise into her cheeks. “What is your story about, if I may ask?”

“It will seem silly to you.” But her eyes sparkled, and he had the feeling she wanted to talk about it.

“Not at all. Can I help?”

She looked down, the movement spiraling a golden curl out of her braided hair. “Kind of you. Perhaps someday.”

“I wonder,” he murmured, “if we will have a someday, you and I.”

“I know,” she said softly.

Something tugged in his chest. Leaning back, he folded his arms as the relaxing warmth of the whisky ran through him, loosening candor. “Tell me about your story.”

She sipped the whisky, coughed, and began to talk. At first quietly, then with spirit and enthusiasm as she described the story. He smiled, seeing her excitement.

“So Ruari must protect his heart against more hurt. And Isabella is caught in what her family needs and does not—oh, I am sorry,” she said.

He opened his eyes. “Sorry about what?”

“I thought you were bored. Getting sleepy.”

“I am listening intently to a charming narrator.” He smiled. “Go on. This Highlander is a strong fellow of high morals and proud birth, though he indulges in a bit of cattle thievery now and then. He cannot reveal his love for the daughter of a rival clan chief because of an ancient feud. And her family betrothed her to another.”

“He wanted what was best for her, and tries to accept it. Do you think it is silly?”

“I think it is a classic and perhaps tragic love story. And I like your hero.”

“I gave him some of your traits,” she said. “Oh, I should not have said so.”

“As long as they are my better traits, I am flattered.” He smiled, feeling relaxed. “Your Highland laddie is in some hot water, about to lose his lands and all he treasures in life. What will he do?”

“He must choose exile or risk death. But first he must defend Isabella when she returns to the glen.”

“Ah. So he dons armor and weapons and offers to be her guard. But that is a great risk for him. Death and hanging if he is caught, aye?”

“Aye. If English officers come to her castle, they might find him there.”

“Then we must save him from the gallows and reunite him with his dearest love, so he can profess undying love and she can—”

“Please do not mock my story.” She rustled the papers together.

“Miss Ellison.” He leaned across the table and laid a hand upon her wrist as she gathered the papers. “I would never mock it. I like it very much. But—”

“But what?”

“Sometimes it is easier to make light of feelings than to be honest about them.”

His heart began to thump with that statement.

“About his love for the heroine?”

“Aye. Some men find that sort of thing difficult.” Well, he certainly did. Her expression just then—soft, compassionate—nearly undid him. “I feel for your Ruari. I know what it is to love and—feel betrayed.”

“Do you?” She tipped her head.

“It was a long time ago. Go on,” he said. “The lad loves the lass, the lass loves the lad, and neither is able to say so.”

“They can never marry, you see.”

“Why not?” he asked abruptly.

“He thinks her unreachable and believes she does not love him.”

He watched her for a moment. “Is she? Unreachable?”

She shook her head. “She loves him. She would do anything—to be with him.”

“Then they need to declare their feelings.”

She laughed. “But then, the story would be over in a chapter or two. There must be complications. Challenges to overcome.”

“Magic,” he said suddenly. “Do you admire Mr. Scott’s work? He might bring magic or something otherworldly in to such a tale.”

“Aye, magic! But how?”

“The Highlands are full of such stories.” The far-fetched idea had some appeal, he thought. “Not far from here, there is a loch that is said to be cursed by the fairies. Now and again the fairies take its island back to their realm, so it is said.”

“How could they take an entire island?”

“It disappears.”

“Truly?”

Ronan smiled. “I will take you there. It may not disappear, but you can see it.”

“You just want another excuse to ride out.” She smiled.

“True. I should ride out with my band of smugglers to make a whisky run before I meet the king and return to prison where I undoubtedly belong.”

“Stop it, Mr. MacGregor,” she said, half-laughing.

“I will take you fishing, how is that? We will look for this loch. Miss Beaton and Donal Brodie could go too. The lad will ensure my good behavior.”

“We could make a picnic of it.”

“You must teach me picnic etiquette in case the king wants to picnic with me.”

She laughed again. “We could do that. What other fairy legends do you know?”

“I have a cousin who makes uisge-beatha sìthiche .”

“Fairy whisky?” She tilted her head, a curl sliding down. “I have not heard of it.”

“You may have the Gaelic, but you were not raised in the Highlands.”

“Is this it?” She lifted the whisky glass.

“This is good stuff, but hardly magical. Fairy whisky is made to an ancient recipe known only to a few. It is a carefully-guarded secret in my cousin’s family. He has the knack of making it.”

“Does everyone in your family make excellent and very illicit whisky?”

“Not all of us. My cousin’s branch has kept the recipe secret for generations. Not many have tasted it, for it is neither sold nor traded, just given away to a select few.”

“Have you tasted it?”

“I have. And Glenbrae brew does not hold a candle to it.”

“Best not let the king know about it, then.”

He laughed, delighted. “True! Even the king could not obtain this stuff. Only those who are born with the Sight can tell what it is. To others, it is just an excellent Highland whisky. There is some magical secret in the process. My cousin’s ancestor once saved the life of a fairy, so the legend goes, and the recipe was his reward. When I was a lad, I thought my family rather dull by comparison to my cousin’s.”

She smiled. “Were your kin free traders too?”

“Oh, we were a very respectable bunch.” He would not tell her more, for they now sat in a tower that had once belonged to his ancestors. “No fairy legends, alas.”

Her smile was pure whimsy. “Fairy whisky sounds very romantic.”

“Include it in your story. But I do not know the recipe.”

“That would be wonderful.” She lifted her glass, drained the trace there. He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed, felt a pull inside, leaned back as if to distance himself. Be careful , he thought, as the yearning began.

“Perhaps one day I can get some for you.” But that day would not come if her father had his way. Yet Ronan’s desire to be near her was strong and astonishing.

“I could add a legend, and complicate my story.”

“Aye, do weave legends and magic into the story.”

“You should write this, Mr. MacGregor.” Her wider smile showed a dimple. She glanced out the window, then stood, skirts whispering. “It is very late.”

He stood quickly. “I enjoyed our chat.”

“So did I. Though I had a bit too much of the magical whisky, I fear.”

“You will sleep well.” As she proceeded him to the door, he blew out the candles. Then he reached past her to draw the door wide. Light from a narrow window in the stairwell flowed gray-purple into the darkness.

She moved past him, shoulder brushing his chest. Ronan set a hand briefly to her elbow. Pausing, she looked up.

“I do not know what will happen after the king’s visit,” she murmured. “But if you need anything then, please let me know.”

His heart pounded hard. “Thank you. I appreciate your friendship.”

“Are we friends, then?” She tipped her head, watching him.

“More than friends, if you like,” he murmured, pressing her elbow, drawing her closer. Lowering his head, taking the chance, he touched his nose lightly to hers, angled his head. Waited, invited.

She tilted her face, nudged his nose, allowing. He drew in a breath and touched his lips to hers gently. Her lips met his in tender answer. Resting a hand on his chest, she leaned against him, and the kiss deepened of its own accord.

With one arm, he pulled her snug against him, and as she melded willingly into him, he sought her lips in a deep, exploring kiss. Sinking his fingers into the silky mass of her hair, he felt her sigh, press into him, open her lips to taste more. The feeling that plunged through him pulsed, strengthened. Then he pulled back.

“Friendship,” he breathed, “may have to be enough.”

“And secrets,” she whispered.

“Yours are safe with me.”

“And yours with me.” She did not pull away, but he let go, creating space between his body and hers.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Talk of fairies and romance skewed my thinking.”

“Hush. Do not apologize.” Reaching up, she touched a finger to his lips. “You do not seem the romantical sort. Perhaps it was the whisky.”

“Perhaps. But I do apologize. Neither of us needs a complication.”

“I am no innocent girl, but a widow.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Ronan MacGregor,” she said, face close, bodies apart, tension rising like lightning between them. He felt it and would not allow himself to pursue it. “I trust you. And I—would be yours, if you wanted. If we agreed. I think we might.”

He sucked in a breath. “Go gently, lass. Do not trust me, or this moment.”

“I do. You are not the rogue people think.”

“Am I not?” He stepped past the threshold to the stone platform, where the steps led up to his room, or down and away. A precarious place. A precarious decision. He took her elbow. “I will take you to the tower door. The steps are treacherous in the dark.”

“Wait. I should apologize.” She took his arm. “It is unlike me to speak so—boldly. It might be the whisky.”

“It has a way of loosening tongues. Come ahead.” He guided her down a step.

“I have made a fool of myself,” she fretted quietly.

“Hush. What you are doing for me, lass, and what you said made me feel like—”

“A viscount?” She half-laughed.

He tipped her chin upward. “Like a Highland hero, kissed by a fairy queen.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

In the half-light, her soul seemed to shine in her eyes for a moment. It was all he needed, all he could ever want, but could not have. He was very like the sorry Highlander in her story, filled with love he could not express.

Enough, he told himself. “Best go, lass, before I lose myself utterly and you lose your trust in me.”

“I do not think that can happen now.”

“Miss Graham, you are a delicious and idealistic creature.” He led her down another step.

“Papa says I am full of dreams and had best wake myself up to the real world.”

He frowned. “Hold onto your dreams. Keep them safe.”

“I will try.” She hesitated as he stepped down again. He turned, finding her height closer to his. “Ronan, would you—kiss me again? Before we go?”

He did, and then did again, pressing her close so that she would know his desire for her, while he felt hers blooming in the curve and warmth of her body. Moments and kisses passed, until at last he drew back, letting go of the dream that could never be.

“Miss Graham. Come this way.”

“Ellison,” she said.

“Elly, my lass. This way.” Gently he guided her down to the door that connected to the main house, to reality, and tomorrow.