Page 17 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

B uilt of fieldstone, Invermorie Castle overlooked a hillside thick with heather and gorse to one side, with a precipitous rocky slope to the other. Ellison remembered seeing this castle at a distance and recalled a woman crossing the yard.

“That slope looks a treacherous climb,” she said, touching the lamb’s little head. “The castle looks quite old.”

“And formidable in its day. The eastern incline leads to the gate. We will go that way,” he said as Donal guided the cart along.

“Donal’s mother lives here, you said. Will she welcome visitors? I know it is Highland custom, but one never knows.”

“She will.” He spoke quietly. “Mairi is my brother’s widow.”

Startled, she stared at him. “Your sister-in-law? But that means—Donal is your nephew? You never mentioned.”

“He was assigned as my valet. I thought it rather awkward.”

“My father need not know,” she said quickly. “Mrs. Barrow mentioned Mairi Brodie. A healer, she said, who helps people throughout the glens here.”

“She is skilled with herbal remedies and such, aye. And helps animals as well as people. She will know what to do for your lamb.”

“Donal and his mother live at Invermorie, which is—your castle, as Glenbrae?”

“Aye.” He sounded curt.

“May I hold the lamb?” she asked, and he shifted the blanketed weight into her arms. The creature slept as they rode on. Ellison looked up at the castle and wondered about the laird’s family living there when he did not, for he kept a small house at the distillery, as she had learned earlier. What did the widow Mairi Brodie mean to him? She sensed something in his voice, in the way he held back the truth and did not meet her curious glance.

Soon Donal halted the cart before the castle entrance just as an older gentleman came through the arched doorway. He was white-haired, wearing an old patched frock coat of pale blue with saggy knee-breeches, hose, and red slippers. Grinning, he waved.

“Donal!” He waited as Donal handed Sorcha Beaton to the ground and handed the reins to a young boy who ran across the dusty yard to take the horses. “And—is that Glenbrae?”

Ronan stepped down, turning. “Sir Ludo! Good to see you!”

“It is you! Where are my spectacles,” Sir Ludo muttered, patting his old-fashioned coat, finding a pair of eyeglasses and perching them on his nose. “This is a surprise! Have you come to stay? And who are these pretty lassies? Is that a child in that plaidie?”

Taking the lamb, Ronan handed Ellison down. “A lamb,” Ronan said, drawing back the cloth. “It is injured. We came to see if Mairi could tend to it.”

“She will. And here I was thinking ye had a wife and child at last!” He clapped Ronan’s shoulder. “You are wet. Did it rain? I thought it was a fine day.” He looked up at the sky. “Well, come inside and Mairi will sort you out. First introduce me to these ladies.”

“Sir Ludovic Brodie, this is Miss Ellison Graham and Miss Sorcha Beaton. Ladies, this is Donal’s grandfather.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Ellison said, as Sorcha murmured the same.

“And I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies,” Sir Ludo said, taking each one’s hand in turn with a broad smile. “Welcome. Graham and Beaton! Two fine Scottish names. What part of Scotland are your people from?”

“Sir Ludo is writing a history of Scotland and is keen on family trees,” Ronan said.

“Fife, I believe, sir,” Sorcha said. “My grandfather said ours was an ancient line.”

“The Bethune line, perhaps. And Miss Graham? There are many branches of Grahams. The first to come to Scotland were French. Norman, you see.”

“My great-great-grandparents were from Strathearn, sir,” Ellison said.

“Who is your father? I know many Grahams. Is he of Strathearn as well?”

“My father is Sir Hector Graham. We live in Edinburgh.”

“The Deputy Lord Provost! Glenbrae, we are in fine company indeed. I know the name, but not the man. I must write this down. I keep a record of Highland lines when I can. Where is my journal and my wee pencil too,” he muttered, scrabbling in his pockets to extract a notebook and pencil stub.

“Sir Ludo, you will have Miss Graham’s heart with your scholarship,” Ronan said as the old man led them toward the entrance while Donal ran ahead to open the door.

“Strathniven and now Beatons and Grahams! Excellent! Glenbrae, Donal told us of your circumstances.” Sir Ludo cocked a bushy white brow.

“I will tell you the rest, but first we must get this lamb into Mairi’s care. We found it in the hills above the Lealtie Burn where we were fishing.”

“So that is why you are all damp-like. Did you bring fish for supper?”

“We did, and are happy to share. So Mairi Brodie is at home?”

“This is your home, lad. And of course she is here.”

Puzzled, Ellison wondered at Sir Ludo’s remark as they went through a second door and entered a foyer.

The castle room was wide, high, and cool, with a tiled floor and wooden staircase to one side, a stone fireplace to the other, and vaulted ceiling over all. Stained glass in tall windows cast rainbows over the floor. Hearing a step, Ellison saw a woman coming down the staircase.

She glided, slim and graceful and beautiful in a plaid green gown and rumpled apron, black braids wrapped around her head. She crossed the foyer, lovely as a medieval Madonna, her brown eyes as warm as her smile.

“Ronan!” She ran to him, arms out. He extended an arm to welcome her into an embrace, holding the bundled lamb close in the other arm.

“Mairi!” He kissed her cheek.

Ellison blinked, feeling the sudden dip of disappointment and bewilderment.

“I did not expect to see you! Donal said you might not have time to visit.” Resting a hand on Ronan’s chest, she turned to her son, who shrugged shyly. “Wicked, the pair of you, for not telling me you were coming today.”

“Sorry, Mother. We did not plan it, but Glenbrae said we must find you when we were down by the Lealtie Burn. The lamb is wounded, you see.”

“Oh, poor dear!” Mairi peeked into the blanket as Ronan and Donal explained what had happened. “Of course I will take care of her, you need not even ask.”

Watching them, seeing the affection there, Ellison shrank a little, feeling a bit diminished. They were close. They were family. She was glad for Ronan’s sake, yet what she sensed between him and Mairi sobered the tiny hope she had been nurturing.

“Will you be here long?” Mairi asked Ronan. “We knew you were—in Edinburgh. But my heart leaps to see you. Now you are home, will you stay?”

Home, Ellison thought. He was home. She was glad for him. Though he had kissed her passionately, truly, the other evening, and though she felt closer to him, he had not mentioned family nearby. He had so many secrets, she thought, and might never let her into his circle. She bit her lip softly.

“I must return to the city soon. We will talk later. Let me introduce my friends, Miss Ellison Graham and Miss Sorcha Beaton.”

Friend. Ellison smiled, stepping forward to greet Mairi. “It is good to meet you, Mrs. Brodie.”

“Welcome to Invermorie.” Mairi took the girls’ hands. “Do call me Mairi.”

“Ellison,” she responded. “And Sorcha.”

“Miss Graham is the daughter of the deputy lord provost,” Sir Ludovic said proudly. “And Miss Beaton is related to the Bethunes of Fife. We are privileged in our guests today.”

“It is an honor. But your clothes are damp! We must let you get dry and rest a little. Will you have tea? Donal,” she directed, “carry the lamb into my workroom and I will be right there.” She turned back. “Miss Graham, Miss Beaton, come sit by the hearth, and we shall fetch blankets and tea. Glenbrae, you too.”

As Donal left the room with the lamb, Mairi took a few moments to make sure they were cozy by the hearth. She built it up with kindling on top of the peat bricks to coax warmth more quickly, and handed blankets around despite the summer day. Ellison sighed in the comfort, feeling her things begin to dry even as she wore them.

Watching Mairi, she felt surprised to learn that the beautiful young woman was old enough to be Donal’s mother, and was, like herself, a widow. Mairi was special to Ronan—that was clear—and Ellison liked her immediately. Yet she could not shake a twinge of jealousy even as she wanted to feel grateful.

*

The great hall was just as shabby and antique as he remembered, with heavy leather-seated chairs, stiff old red sofa, worn rugs scattered on planked floors, whitewash peeling in places on stone walls. He loved every drafty, crumbling, threadbare bit of it.

Smiling, Ronan looked around at his childhood home while Sir Ludo chatted with Ellison and Sorcha. Ever congenial, Ludo urged them to take more tea, have a scone, an oatcake, Mairi’s rowanberry jam, and tell him all they knew about their family histories. Leaning back, Ronan was content to listen and savor the place and the company. It felt so good to be back.

He had grown up at Invermorie, the castle seat of Glenbrae, had spent countless hours in this room and everywhere in the castle and on the grounds. Every hill and tree and rocky incline were dear to him.

But he had left Invermorie when he had seen his intended, the beautiful young widow Mairi Brodie, kissing his younger brother; he had walked out when he had seen how fervently she returned Will’s embrace, realized how desperately they whispered and clung together. Packing his things, he had sent a message to his cousins, the MacGregor chief and his son, that he would join Evan in the military. Then he informed his father of his decision to leave his apprenticeship in the law for a while to seek travel and adventure. He had not really wanted that. He had wanted the law, and a quiet Highland life with Mairi and her wee son, Donal, from her first brief marriage.

He had changed in the time he had been away. Years in the Highland Black Watch and military duties eventually took him from the Continent to India. He changed regiments to follow his cousin, Sir Evan MacGregor, an officer sent to India.

That led to a day he wished he could erase from memory: a savage attack, Sir Evan’s severe wounding and rescue as Ronan and others barely managed to escape alive. Returning to Scotland months later to take Evan home, he resumed the practice of law and found himself laird of Glenbrae after his father’s death.

All that time, he did his best to avoid his brother and his sister-in-law. Yet he was fond of Mairi’s Donal. Had he married her, Ronan would have adopted the boy as his own. William did so instead, a good husband and father who made Ronan an uncle.

But then Will died on a rocky slope beside their cousin John MacGregor of Darrach, and Ronan had done what he could for Will’s widow and son. He had brought them, along with Mairi’s aging father, into his home at Invermorie. Then he moved into the cottage at the distillery—and took a path he had never planned—distiller and lawyer, aye, but smuggler too.

He closed off his heart from what was so dear to him, making sure they were fine and keeping his distance, though he was determined to provide whatever was needed.

His arrest then interrupted that obligation. Now he was back.

He looked up as Donal returned to the hall. “The fish are wrapped and cool in a bucket of water, but we must get them to Strathniven,” Donal said. “Mrs. Barrow expects to cook fish for supper. We should go soon.”

“Best go back with Miss Beaton and Miss Graham. Leave some fish here for their supper too. I will borrow a horse from the stable and follow later.”

Nodding, Donal left the room, while Sir Ludo talked with Ellison and Sorcha, hardly taking a breath in his animated discussion of Highland history. While Sorcha listened politely, looking a bit bored, Ellison had a rapt expression. She was fascinated.

Ronan smiled, loath to interrupt. But they should be going. When Mairi entered the hall, he stood to meet her.

“How is the wee beast?”

“No bones broken, but her leg is sore injured. She should stay here for a bit and I will care for her. Donal seems in a rush to leave,” she added.

“We must get back to Strathniven.”

She nodded, her dark liquid eyes lingering on his. “Do you know which shepherd owns the wee lamb?”

“Donal will find him, but let her recover here. Thank you, Mairi.”

“Aye. Ronan—” She touched his arm. “It is so good to see you.”

“And you,” he said gruffly.

“Is it the same? You are still so distant. I feel we can never quite talk.” Her eyes searched his. He saw the glint of tears suddenly. “Will you never forgive me?”

He sighed, emotions tumbling. Behind him, he heard Ellison replying to Sir Ludo. He realized he was ever alert to her voice, her presence, ever wondering what she thought, how she felt. When had that happened? He drew his brows together.

His feelings for Mairi had been passionate, then ravaged by betrayal like a fire consuming him, hurting him deeply. He knew how deeply she had loved his brother. To her, Ronan was like a brother, a friend. Time had tempered his feelings, bringing him to acceptance and true friendship.

Yet only in that moment did he know he could finally let go. What he had begun to feel for Ellison Graham was fulsome and new, not like the frustrated passions of the past. He wondered when that change had occurred. He had not been aware of it, and yet it had happened.

“Ronan?” Mairi asked.

“Aye, forgiven,” he murmured, bringing his thoughts back. “Do not fret.”

She sighed. “And Donal?”

“I have always loved that lad, always will. He has your intelligence and heart.”

“He wants to go to university and study medicine, did he tell you?”

“I hope to help him do that. My freedom is a bit in question as yet.”

“But you are home now.”

“Some conditions must be met. When all is resolved, I will be back.”

“Good. This is your home, Ronan. But what of Linhope and MacInnes?”

“Still held in Edinburgh.” He did not want to elaborate. Not yet.

“I hope they are released soon too. Listen, please,” she said, her hand on his arm. “I know we hurt you. I hurt you,” she clarified.

He shook his head. “It is not necessary now—”

“It is. I never seem to find a chance to tell you, because you spend so little time with me. I understand. But I know I made mistakes and I regret them. I could have been more honest with you. And yet you have always been good to us, despite all.”

“You are my family.” Now, he searched for a remnant of the wild love he had once felt for Mairi. Searched for the deep wound too. Both were gone, faded like a dream. Over the years he had healed and had not noticed. “It is I should ask forgiveness of you.”

“You always had it. You never gave me a chance to tell you.”

He nodded, humbled, then glanced at Ellison; she looked toward him, then away.

“You never married,” Mairi said, following his glance.

“Not yet.” He had never thought if it that way. Not yet.

“I like your Miss Graham. I see how you look at her. How she looks at you.”

“She is a bright lass. Kind,” he murmured. “She has been a friend. I am grateful.”

“If you feel more than gratitude, give it a chance, Ronan. Give it time.”

He shook his head. “I hold no hope of that.”

“Life can surprise us.” She drew a breath. “Ronan, you should know—I am thinking of marrying again.”

He had heard the rumor from his friends and did not relish hearing the name. “Is it so?”

“I will tell you more when I decide for sure. He asked, and left me to consider it until he returns for my answer.” She blushed.

“What will you say?” he asked quietly.

“I am thinking I will accept if he sincerely means it.”

“A man does not ask unless he means it.” Or sees some advantage for himself, he thought bitterly, knowing Pitlinnie’s untrustworthy character.

“Here is Donal.” She turned away. “The lamb will stay here for a while,” she told her son as he approached them.

“Good. Sir, we should go back before it gets much later. We may not want to be traveling in these hills at such a time.”

Ronan nodded, began to speak—and saw Ellison and Sorcha crossing the hall.

“How is the lamb?” Ellison asked, and Mairi quickly filled them in on her condition. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I hear you deserve thanks for finding her. You saved her life,” Mairi said.

“I am not sure, but I know that wee cry in the hills caught at my heartstrings.”

“One should always follow their heart.” Mairi looked at Ronan, her warm brown eyes telling him to listen. He nodded, wishing he could let his heart lead.

“We are leaving soon,” he told Ellison.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mairi,” Ellison said. “Oh! I just remembered—I left my things by the burn. When we found the lamb, I forgot. Can we fetch them?”

“Perhaps Donal and Miss Beaton could go on to Strathniven, since you should get that fresh fish to Mrs. Barrow,” Mairi suggested. “Glenbrae could borrow our gig and take you to fetch your things.” She sent Ronan a twinkling, mischievous look.

“If you like, Miss Graham,” he said casually, though his heart quickened.

*

Calling to the horse, Ronan drew up the reins as the two-seated gig slowed on the earthen drover’s track. “You were sitting just down there, under those trees,” he said, pointing toward the cluster of birches overlooking the burn where they had fished earlier. Climbing down, he came around to reach up for Ellison.

“Thank you.” She slipped her hand into his to step down, and he held her fingers a moment too long as he cast a wary eye toward the hills once more. Only a few goats along the upper ridge, he saw with relief. Yet he remained concerned and watchful.

As he walked with her toward the little grove of trees, he felt protective, alert, tension within like a taut wire. While they had traveled from Invermorie to this spot, the light had faded blue to cloudy gray to lavender, and would deepen later. The night would be clear and moonless, perfect for men to venture across the hills with ponies and loaded carts. Though free traders strived not to be seen, the consequences could be dire if they were. He knew that better than most.

“You were kind to come this way to get my things. It will be dark soon.”

“I do not mind. We can still have supper if we hurry. This is summer darkness, with enough light to travel quickly.”

“You have been watching the hills again. Do you expect to see something there?”

“Better wary than surprised, lass.”

She glanced at him. “Smugglers?”

“Must you sound so pleased? An actual encounter would not be pleasant.”

“I encountered you,” she pointed out. “So far that has been fairly pleasant.”

“Fairly?” He laughed softly. “Madam, I do my best. Go on,” he said, gesturing toward the birches. “See if your things are there.”

She ran, lithesome and quick, the breeze lifting her hair, skirts. Ronan waited. The evening air was cool and refreshing—but pleasant conditions out here, he knew, could bring trouble. Ellison had vanished among the trees. He looked toward the hills, where stars were beginning to glint in a violet sky.

“Here they are!” she called, emerging from the shadows with a cloth bag over her shoulder. “Just where I left them. It is such a lovely evening,” she said, gazing at the sky and hills. “What was it you and Donal called this stream?”

“The Lealtie Burn.”

“Loyalty? There must be a story behind that name.”

“There is a story at every turn in the Highlands. A vow was made here long ago near this very spot, they say, between a MacGregor man and a MacArthur lass.”

“How nice to have local legends about your ancestors. A vow of love?”

“A MacGregor came new to the glen—our clan was tossed out of the west and our name proscribed long ago, only reclaimed more than a century later. This MacGregor, exiled from the west, had very little. He offered to the local MacArthur laird to tend sheep and cattle in exchange for a plot of land near the loch.”

“The loch down the way? We passed it this morning.”

“The very one. Soon he fell in love with the chief’s daughter, and she with him. They made a promise of marriage just here.”

“Where we stand? That is so romantic. Did they live happily ever after?”

“They did not. Her father’s men killed him, and she threw herself from the old tower beside the loch. Love stories often end sadly.” He said it more brusquely than he meant.

“Some do. Not every love story ends in loss.”

“So they say. We should go.” He touched her elbow.

“Ronan MacGregor, you are not as sour a lad as you like to think. I see through you.”

He huffed. “Do you now?”

“I do.” She drew a long breath, lifting her face to the twilight. “Have you ever noticed when the light fades at night and the air grows cool, the world smells fresh and sweet?” Drawing another breath, she closed her eyes. “What is that scent?”

He sniffed the air. “Bog myrtle. It grows in the marshy ground between the burn and the loch. The leaves give off a clean and pungent scent.”

“Ah, yes. Our housekeeper packs it with the winter things to keep them fresh.”

“Ellison.” Taking her arm, he drew her along. “We must go. Now.”

“What is it?”

“Bog myrtle gives off that strong scent when the leaves are crushed underfoot,” he murmured, bending toward her to be heard. “Someone is nearby.”

She looked over her shoulder as they hurried. “Here? Now?”

“We will not wait to find out. Come ahead.” He tugged her toward the gig, lifted her to the bench, and leaped up to take the reins.

The gig rolled along at a good pace, Ronan intent on the road, while Ellison looked around. The night was peaceful—she could not imagine danger in these hills, though her companion seemed tense. Seeing a length of water ahead beyond a rocky slope, she spotted a stone tower on its opposite shore. “Stop! Is that it?”

“What?”

“The loch, and the tower you spoke of at the Lealtie Burn?”

“Aye so. Loch Brae, we call this one.” He slowed the gig’s pace along the track that paralleled the loch.

“Are we still in Glen Brae, then?”

“The loch is named for the glen, aye.”

“And you are its laird. Is the loch yours as well?”

“Not any longer. It sits along the border of Glen Brae and Strathniven. Long ago it belonged to my glen and my kin.”

“But why is it part of Strathniven now?”

“Things changed over generations.”

She had so many questions for him, but felt he would only answer a few. “That wee island in the center—I have not seen it before, though I have been this way.”

“It comes and goes, that isle. A fairy spell, so they say.”

“What! Is that the one you mentioned? Tell me!”

A half smile, hands on the reins. A bump along the track sent her leaning against him, a welcome, solid warmth. “There is an old legend about that wee isle.”

“You know I want to hear it. Can we stop?”

He sighed. “Briefly—I want to get you back soon.” When he drew the gig to the side of the track, she fairly jumped out, running down to the lochside.

“A legend about a loch and a fairy isle so near, and you made me wait to hear it?” She smiled up at him as he joined her.

“If I told you all the legends around these glens, it would take a long time.”

“Then we must find the time. I have been coming to Strathniven most of my life and did not know of this until you mentioned it. And on Strathniven lands!”

“Perhaps Lord and Lady Strathniven never heard the legends about their property either.”

“MacNie and Mrs. Barrow would know, but I never thought to ask. Tell me!”

“Aye then.” Seeing a twinkle in his eyes, she was glad. He had been somber ever since leaving Invermorie. She wanted to know his troubles, wanted to ease his mind, but was not sure it was her place. And she worried that his thoughts were not on smugglers, but on his feelings for Mairi Brodie. Part of her did not want to know that.

“Can we go over to the island? A wee rowing boat is tucked just there, see? Then we could visit the tower on the other shore.”

“Another day, perhaps. That old ruin is in poor condition. It dates to the time of Saint Columba, they say. Come to the shore now.” He reached for her hand, folding his fingers over hers as they crossed rocks and bracken toward the water’s edge.

Ellison never wanted to let go of his hand, loving the sense of belonging, of rightness between them. But he let go, and Ellison clenched her hand, missing his.

He pointed toward the small, flat, green isle in the middle of the narrow loch. “A local legend claims that the island vanishes at times.”

“Do you mean in fog or darkness? But it would still be there.”

“For a romantic idealist, you are a pragmatic lass. They say you will see it one moment, and the next, it is completely gone.”

“Do you believe it?” She gazed at the thin little isle, a green crescent with a hillock or two and a spread of wildflowers tossed along its length like colored stars.

“Likely it is an illusion. But the older name is Eilean à Cheo.” Ee-len-a-kyo, he said in rapid Gaelic.

“Isle of Mist? The fog comes over the water often here, I suppose.”

“Whether fog or fairy mist, the island disappears, they say, because of a spell cast long ago.” At her eager glance, he smiled. “My mother was a MacArthur, and her kin told this tale when I was a lad. A long time ago, a MacArthur met and married a fairy.”

“I love it already!” She wrapped her arms around herself, thrilled.

“The fairy queen—or perhaps it was a princess—fell in love with the human, a fine MacArthur warrior, and they married. But he could not keep her for long. It is the nature of fairies to be free, is it not? After a while she left him. But he looked for her every day, mourning his missing bride, always hoping she would return.”

“True love,” she said, and sighed. Ronan looked down at her for such a long moment that she glanced up. He smiled and continued.

“I suppose. They had a wee son in the care of the father’s kin. Then one day the fairy bride came back to see her son, and her husband brought his child to the shore, near where we stand, perhaps, to let her see him. But when his beautiful wife appeared on the island, he set the child in its grandmother’s arms, and swam out to the isle.”

“And then?”

“It disappeared within moments. He was never seen again, even when the isle reappeared in the water.”

“Gone in blissful happiness with his bride,” she said.

“Well,” he drawled, “they say he drowned. Though it could have been fairy magic. Either way, the fellow left his wee son, which is sad.”

“There is that.” She frowned. “But love and magic together is a reckoning force.”

“I suppose so,” said Ronan MacGregor.

“And the tower? Is there a legend about that as well?”

“Remember the bride I mentioned back at the Lealtie Burn? On the day her husband was murdered by her kinsmen on this shore, they say, she rowed out to the isle, perhaps hoping for that magic you speak of. That love. But it was too late. Her kinsmen came after her to bring her back. But she vanished before their eyes on the little island. They could not find her and left. Later, they discovered that she had thrown herself from the tower.”

“That is so tragic!”

“She also left a wee son in the care of kin. Both legends are part of my kin’s old legacy, as it happens. They say those of our blood can see the isle even when it disappears for others. A kind of magic doorway, they say.”

“This is fascinating!” She wished he would go on talking about it. She loved not just the tale, but his deep warm voice, and his elegant profile in the gathering luminous darkness.

“A good tale. But stuff and nonsense, my lass.”

She touched his arm. “A fairy spell on Strathniven lands, and you with the blood of a fairy prince in your veins. Lovely,” she said.

“That blood is fair dilute by now, I would think.”

“I can see fairy blood in you,” she said softly. “Like a prince.”

“Like a lowly smuggler.” He smiled, quick and light.

“Not you,” she said. Her heart lifted, soared, with the slightest smile, glance, touch. She was falling for a man who might never be welcome in her father’s house. Or was she falling for the idea of a romantic hero like the one in her manuscript?

“So, you have your fairy legend, Miss Graham.” He took her arm to turn her away from the loch and guide her toward the drover’s track.

“Ellison,” she reminded him. “Your legend is enchanting.”

“It is,” he murmured, as he helped her step up into the gig.

In the glow of a violet sky, he saw the men approaching, heads and then shoulders first, then forms striding forward as they crested a hillock and moved over turf and meadow; three, then six, eight. Three led ponies bearing panniers; others carried lanterns gleaming gold in the twilight.

He knew the big, broad man in the lead. Slowing the gig, he narrowed his eyes.

Neill Pitlinnie—Sir Neill, as the man preferred, for he had a knighthood that rumor said was obtained with a generous gift to the Turnpike Trust to help fund the work of Telford and McAdam in Scotland. The building of roads would benefit all, including the free trade. However his title had originated, Pitlinnie liked it well and no one questioned it.

But what the devil was Pitlinnie doing out here with men, ponies, and goods? The man rarely did the work of transport, hiring others to take those risks.

Ronan glanced at Ellison, who had lifted a hand to her straw bonnet as she watched in the distance. The open gig offered scant protection, Ronan realized, and the old horse from Invermorie was not in much of a hurry.

“Do you know them?” Ellison asked quietly.

“Some. They are not fellows we want to talk to.” More lanterns were swinging now, bright dots all along the ridge of one slope and across the meadow.

“Whisky smugglers?” she asked.

She was astute—or hopeful—and he would not worry her. “Possibly. Do not fret.”

In answer, she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. “I am not afraid for myself. I fear for you, meeting them.”

“Worried I might run off and revert to my true ways?”

She bounced on the seat as they hit a rut in the road. “I fear they might hurt you, if they have heard that the king intends to honor Glenbrae whisky. They might want that honor for themselves instead.” The next divot in the road threw her hard against him. Shifting the reins to one hand, he put an arm around her to steady her.

“They would not know about that, nor care. They only want profit.”

“I want you to be safe, if they recognize you.”

“I want both of us safe, lass, so we will avoid them.”

But the cart lurched in another dip in the road, and he heard a crack. The vehicle pitched sideways, and Ellison slid against him. Ronan grabbed for her as the gig tilted.