Page 16 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“I t is a lovely morning.” Ellison surveyed the blue haze of the sky arching over heather-purple hills, and smiled at Ronan as he strolled beside her.

“Beautiful,” he agreed, looking only at her. A breeze stirred his wrapped plaid and bared shirtsleeves. The simple Highland costume suited a day of fishing.

She smiled shyly, staying close though his arm bumped hers as he carried the fishing poles over his shoulder. “Yesterday’s rain seems to have washed the heat from the air,” she said.

“Washed the midges away as well, if we are lucky.”

“You were right about today,” she admitted.

“The weather, the fishing, or the midges?”

“All of it.”

“I hope my tutor is pleased with me, then.” He smiled. Her heart leaped.

She laughed and stepped ahead, skirts swishing, to pick her way across the shale rocks that formed a natural pathway along the riverbank. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the cart pulled by two sturdy Highland ponies, which Donal drove along an earthen track. Sorcha sat beside him, steadying the luncheon basket Mrs. Barrow had provided when they headed out that morning in Lady Strathniven’s dogcart-like vehicle, which seated four on benches. The cart had enough room for fishing gear and baskets, and Donal was a competent driver, following over the hills and alongside the stream.

Now they went onward toward a tributary of water beyond a hill. Ellison had wanted to walk for a bit, tired of bumping along in the cart, and Ronan came with her.

Negotiating a rocky incline slippery with spray, she was glad of her plain gray muslin dress. Under the chemise, she had added pantelettes at Sorcha’s suggestion, who had gone fishing before; the pantelettes could save modesty when stepping in the water. Ellison was also glad of the wide straw bonnet that gave her shade in the sunshine, and her leather boots and plaid shawl were practical and comfortable.

She had no intention of falling into the water that day, having done that recently to her embarrassment. Instead, she planned to sketch and read while the others splashed about. Just being outside on a glorious day, enjoying fresh air and sunshine and a sense of freedom was enough. Being near Ronan was enough too, for now.

“I can teach you to fish today,” he said. “You might prefer the pole, but the Highland manner is more effective and enjoyable.”

“They jump into the water to grab fish! I would rather watch you do that while I sketch.” She threw out an arm for balance as she walked over the damp rocks. On one shoulder, she carried a linen rucksack with sketchbook, journal, and graphite pencils.

“I might enjoy seeing you jump in after a fish,” Ronan said.

“I would be wet all day if I did that.”

She saw the twinkle in his glance. “Wet, but happy. If I teach you properly, you will not get too wet.”

She waved an arm. “I am enjoying freedom right now, as are you. Oh dear, I am sorry. I did not mean—”

“Free from prison?” He reached out to offer a steadying hand. “I am grateful for it, lass. And glad for a respite from lessons with my strict teacher.”

“I should end your lessons entirely,” she retorted. “Your English is perfect and your manners would hold up under anyone’s scrutiny.”

“See how much I have learned from you.” He supported her elbow as she followed a descending stack of rocks. The rush of the river kept their conversation private, and the brace of his fingers felt good. Too good.

“Donal can fish with you. I will sit in the shade. Sorcha might fish though.” She waited as Donal drew the vehicle along the track near where they walked.

“Miss Beaton, would you rather fish or sketch?” Ronan called.

“Fish!” Sorcha returned. “My father taught me how.”

“If you would rather read,” he told Ellison, “stay nearby.” He shot her a quick concerned look and pointed toward a grove of trees ahead. Near the trees, a branch of the river diverted into a peaceful stream. “We can stop here.”

Donal drove the cart toward the trees and helped Sorcha out of the vehicle as Ronan and Ellison caught up to them. Then Donal led the ponies into the cover of the trees and situated them, released their harnesses, and tied them securely to graze.

“Over there,” Donal said, pointing toward the water, “the fishing is very good.”

Entering the grove of birch trees, Ellison found a place to sit to watch the tributary that cut through banks feathered with trees and grasses. Beyond the water, wide flowery meadows met blue-misted hills far in the distance.

“Ronan,” she said as he came near. “Could there be danger out here? Do smugglers come through those hills?”

“Sometimes, but usually at night. It is not so common as you fear.”

“The men you met in Kinross the other day looked used to rough business.”

“They are Rabbie Muir’s grandsons. Good lads.”

“Your business with them seemed important.”

“Sir Hector wants a good deal of whisky delivered for the king’s visit. It is not easy to arrange transport. I must have help.”

“Does it involve a smuggling route?” A gust of wind blew past and she put a hand to her bonnet.

“If free trade proves the fastest way to do this, so be it. The king will have his whisky, and your father his moment of glory.”

“Papa is not doing this for royal attention. And I only asked because I fear harm might come to you.”

“Do not worry about me, lass,” he murmured.

She lifted her chin. “But I do.”

He gazed down at her, calm and strong, and said nothing.

“I just do not want trouble for you—or any of us,” she continued.

“It will be fine. Look, those two are down in the water already and will have all the fish. Are you sure you want to stay here?”

She nodded. “Go ahead. I will be fine.”

He hesitated, then murmured assent and went down to the water. Ellison settled with the sketchbook, looking up as Sorcha called out laughing and Donal splashed into the water, kilted and bare-legged, to grab after a fish, nearly falling into the water. Ronan’s laughter boomed out, and Ellison watched, then returned to her drawings.

But hearing their laughter, seeing the sunlight sparkle on the water, she watched, her sketch less interesting than the three laughing and playing a stone’s throw from where she sat.

Taking up her pencil again, she sketched the burn, flowing between banks softened by grasses and wildflowers, and added three figures in the water. Smudging the graphite with a finger, she captured the textures and was pleased. But again her attention was drawn to the others.

“Hush it, or you two will scare all fish away,” Ronan called.

Snapping the sketchbook closed, Ellison stood and went down to the water’s edge. Donal waved and Sorcha turned. “Ellison! Come into the water!”

Standing apart, shin-deep in the burn, Ronan gestured to her. She wanted to be near him—but hesitated, feeling that she should keep her distance.

More and more, she was aware of her attraction to him, and how much she liked his company and wanted to know more about him. More and more, she knew she was falling in love, and that, above all else, made her hold back. What she wanted simply could not be. What she felt was a fantasy; she must not fall foolishly in love again.

She shook her head. He shrugged, stepping through the clear water, the current spilling around his bare, muscular legs. She watched, yearned, glanced away.

At the pebbly shore, Ronan took up a fishing pole and waded deeper. When the taut curve of the fishing rod showed something on the string, he pulled back sharply and a fish flew upward, then wriggled free, splashing into the water. Tossing the pole aside, he bent forward, hunched still as a statue.

Curious, Ellison moved forward. He stood focused, water swirling around his sturdy calves, and bent slowly, cupping his hands over the water. A ripple of golden-brown flashed beneath the surface, and Ronan dipped his hands quickly, then straightened with a floundering fish in his grasp. He tossed it toward the bank, and it landed just at Ellison’s feet.

Leaping away, she stumbled, ankle rolling so that she stepped inadvertently into the water, sinking to one knee with a surge and a splash. Quickly Ronan reached her, fingers strong on her arm to keep her upright. “Here, lass, come up! Good?”

“Good, thank you.” Standing full in the water now, her gown’s hem swirling around her legs, she lifted the soggy hem of her dress a bit and raised one foot, her boot drenched and dripping. “Oh, dear.”

“Sit down over here.” He guided her to the grassy bank.

“I must take off my boots,” she said, sitting, gown sopping around her.

“And stockings. Let them dry in the sun.”

Unlacing her boots, she paused, unwilling to remove her high stockings while he stood there.

“If you will go barefoot like a Highland lass, you can learn the way of true Highland fishing.”

“I just saw you demonstrate that.” She laughed.

“Try it for yourself. For your story, aye? Take off the stockings and such and I will look away.” He turned.

Hearing peals of laughter downstream, Ellison glanced to see Donal, knee-deep in the stream, grab at a fish, miss it, and fall into the water with a shout. Laughing, Sorcha surged forward to help and stumbled knee-deep too. Ronan laughed to see them.

Suddenly Ellison felt hesitation fade. She pulled off her shoes, drew off her wet stockings, and set them on the grass to dry. Her father was not here to criticize her, nor would anyone here make her feel less for what she did. Standing, she walked past Ronan and stepped barefoot into the water, shivering at the chill. Lifting her drenched hem, she moved through the burbling flow. The water was cool and soft, the rocks smooth and mossy underfoot.

“Good lass,” Ronan said behind her.

“It feels wonderful,” she admitted. He chuckled, touched her arm briefly, a friendly, affectionate brush of his fingers.

Then Sorcha stumbled and Donal helped her up, both laughing freely. Ronan shaded his eyes and laughed to see them. That warm sound won her over entirely.

“Very well, Ronan MacGregor. Show me how to catch a Highland fish.”

Once again, Ronan glanced toward the hills beyond the trees along the bank. Though he had made light of the threat of smugglers, he remained vigilant. He knew too well what could happen out here.

“Now I understand why Highland men wear the plaid and go barelegged into the water to fish,” Ellison said.

“Aye so,” he agreed. “Careful now, the rocks are slippery.” He extended a hand behind her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

“When I stand to wait for the fish, my dress gets in the way, and the fish go by without me even seeing them.” She bunched her skirts in one hand, fabric trailing and floating around her.

“Highland women hitch their skirts high.” He mimicked a wrapping gesture.

“Like this?” Leaning down, she pulled the back of her skirt forward between her legs, then drew it up and over the front to tuck the damp fabric into her ribbon belt. Her lacy-edged pantaloons, he saw, exposed her neatly shaped calves, ankles, and slim feet. Her small toes were darling somehow, flexing under the clear water. He smiled.

“Aye, just like that,” he said, as his mind conjured images best not pursued.

Her straw bonnet tipped forward, damp golden curls tumbling over her shoulder. She straightened, straw brim partly hiding her face. “How is this?”

He lifted the brim with a finger. “Without the bonnet you will see more fish.”

She undid those ribbons, and Ronan took the hat to fling it toward the bank. Ellison bent forward and waved her hands about above the water.

“Those fish had best look out for me now,” she muttered.

He laughed with delight. “You are enjoying this.”

She giggled, then went still, her gaze trained on the rippling water. “So this is how they fished in ancient Scotland?”

“Then and now, though other ways are more common.”

“I like the old ways. And I like Highland fashion.” She pulled at the wet, tucked skirt. “It is like the loose trousers that ladies in harems wear. I have seen illustrations.”

“You would be an enticing sultana, swathed in silks and jewels.”

“There’s freedom in it. I would like that.”

He would like it, too. Here and now, barefoot and drenched, curls loose, sun already pinkening her nose, she was utterly beautiful to him. Whimsical and joyful, too, when she allowed herself to be. He felt his spirit lift, and felt the urge to kiss her, love her, share easy days like this with her. He understood the way she enjoyed this taste for freedom. He yearned for it too, the sort of freedom that could lead to genuine happiness.

“Here comes one,” she said softly.

“Hush,” he whispered.

As she surged through the water, bending, missing, laughing, persistent, Ronan walked behind her. He held a hand out protectively, though she did not see. He would not let her stumble or fall. He wanted to be there for her, until the day he could not be.

Later, he glanced up when something caught his attention on the nearest hill. Did something move up there? Ronan narrowed his eyes, watching. Perhaps it was just wind blowing through the pine trees climbing the slope, and rocking the purple froth of heather. Earlier he had seen sheep grazing all along that hill. But whatever moved up there now was not a large, slow sheep. He frowned.

Time to return to Strathniven, he thought. They had been out most of the day, had fished, picnicked in the shade, fished again. The sun had reached its zenith and was sinking. Right, then. “Ellison.”

She was splashing through the water, hands out to grapple with a fish bigger than any they had taken so far. A trout, by its rainbow flash. Ronan sloshed toward her.

“Elly, that rascal will pull you in—let me help—”

“ Ach! Gone! I nearly had him!” She slapped the water and straightened.

“Is this the lass who would not fish today?” He laughed, but his glance strayed toward the hill even then.

“I like fishing better than I thought. Do you see something up there?”

“Naught. Have you had your fill of the fishing? We should leave.”

“Must we?”

“You have become adept and give the fish no quarter. You outfished even Donal.”

“We have had a wonderful day!” Holding her soggy skirts, she came toward him, neat little knees pushing through the flow.

“So we have. Donal! Here!” He waved, and his nephew waved back as he helped Sorcha up the bank to gather the fish they had caught and tossed to the bank. Ronan and Ellison did the same, putting fish in the baskets. Then, like Sorcha, Ellison let down her wet, tucked skirts and sat to put on her stockings and shoes.

“I am fair wet, but it is warm in the sun,” she said.

“You will soon feel the chill. Here.” Ronan picked up her plaid shawl from the grass and wrapped it about her shoulders. Thanking him, she pulled on her stockings.

“MacGregor, look away,” she admonished.

“I have seen your limbs all day under the water,” he said, but turned around. Plucking up her bonnet, he handed it to her when she stood, and she tied its ribbons. The straw’s weave cast a golden glow over her lightly sunburned nose and cheeks.

“Your nose is pink. A lovely color,” he said, thinking she looked joyful and beautiful. “You needed some sun.”

She smiled, securing the bow under her chin. “I wish we could stay.”

“Another time.” He was reluctant to leave too, savoring this time with her. July had already slipped into August. Soon their days together would end.

Donal carried a basket in each hand as he trudged toward the grove where the ponies waited placidly. Once there, Ronan and Donal harnessed the animals to the cart while Sorcha and Ellison settled the baskets inside and climbed up to the seats.

Ellison paused, shaded her eyes, looked up the hill. “Something moved up there. Did you hear that sound?”

Frowning, Ronan studied the slope where he had seen something moving earlier. “Perhaps a small animal. We should go.”

She hurried past him. “I will just see.”

“Stay here,” Ronan told Donal and Sorcha, and turned to follow Ellison up the long slope, parting a sea of heather blooms as they went. She ran ahead, damp skirts flapping, bonnet sliding back, hair loose golden ropes. With his longer stride, he caught up near the top, where she had paused.

Then she cried out and ran, dropping to her knees in a tangle of brush and heather. Following, he heard a bleating sound.

“What’s this?” He sank to a knee beside her.

“Look! A lamb—a wee one, caught here.” She pushed at a cluster of undergrowth to reveal a small white lamb, trembling, curled, little face poking out.

“Wandered away from your mam, did you?” he murmured as the little creature bleated and struggled to stand. “And fell into heather and gorse, wee rascal. It will take some time to free it,” he told Ellison. “The shepherd will be looking for it once he counts his flock, or notices that one of the ewes is upset.”

“We cannot leave him here. A wolf could find him.”

“Wolves have been gone from Scotland for a hundred years or more, they say.” He reached past her to pull carefully at the gorse, its branches ripe with wicked thorns and small yellow flowers.

She pulled, too, freeing thin branches snarled in the lamb’s coat, wincing as a thorn pricked her. “There, my dear, we will— oww! —have you out soon. Oww! How old is the lamb, Ronan?”

“Perhaps two months,” he said, judging the solid little body, its new coat, the shape of its head, the large eyes and small snout. “Be still now,” he told the lamb. “This lady wants you free, and we do what she wants, hey. Ah, he is a she,” he said, freeing a small leg.

“Sweet lassie! We are nearly done, my darling,” Ellison said.

“She is fair calm. She must be used to people.” Ronan ran his hand over the animal’s head, soothing the ears, patting the little belly.

“She knows we are helping her.” Ellison pulled at the thorny, flowery gorse. “Ow!”

“Gorse is pretty, but it has a bite.” Finally the branches bounced free, and Ronan scooped up the lamb and stood. Taking off her shawl, Ellison tucked it around the creature.

Glancing down, Ronan saw red streaks on his fingers and drew back the shawl. “She has quite a gash on one hind leg.”

“What should we do?” Ellison patted the little head.

He made a quick decision. “Mairi Brodie lives nearby. She treats illness and wounds. I will take the lamb there while you return to Strathniven with the others.”

She shook her head. “I want to go with you. Is it far?”

“Three miles or so across the glen. You would be safer going back.”

“If you mean smugglers, I would like to meet some—for my book.” Her eyes flashed with determination and courage. Though warmed to see that strength in her, he could not risk any harm coming to her. He felt an eerie sense of trouble nearby.

“Trust me, madam, you do not want to meet that sort.”

“I met you.”

He huffed. “Fair enough. But I am a nicer sort.”

“Sometimes. But if you are with me, all will be well. Please,” she added.

Her faith in him touched him unexpectedly. She wanted adventure, a challenge to test her mettle, and he would not discourage that. Yet he had a strong urge to protect her from danger. Looking at her big bonny eyes, he sighed.

“Very well. I will at least know you are safe if we all go together.”

“Oh my dearie,” she cooed sweetly to the lamb. Something melted inside him.

“Come on.” He spoke curtly to dispel the feeling and headed down the slope, the lamb shaking like a sapling in his arms, Ellison keeping pace.

“A lamb!” Donal said as they drew near. Ellison explained quickly. “Should we look for the flock?”

“Later,” Ronan said. “This one was separated from its mam and injured her leg. She cannot walk, and we cannot leave her prey to a wildcat or some rogue wanting a bit of tender shank for supper. I want to take her to Mairi Brodie,” he added.

“She is at Invermorie now, but I could fetch her over to Strathniven,” Donal said.

“This wee bit needs attention now. We will hurry to Invermorie.”