Page 18 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

C aught in his arms, cheek pressed to his chest, Ellison groaned, tried to sit up. His arms supported her.

“Elly, are you hurt?” His voice was close in her ear, and his jaw, its slight growth of beard like warm sand, pressed against her cheek.

“Fine,” she breathed. “You?”

“Right enough. Come up.” He extricated himself from the tilted vehicle and reached to help her out with strong, certain hands. As she tugged on the hem of her skirt where the fabric caught on an iron fitting, he set it free, then straightened.

“Lean there and get your breath. I must see to the horse.” He stepped away to murmur gently to the beast as he checked its legs and haunches. Turning, he checked the vehicle and came back to Ellison’s side. “The horse is unhurt. But one of the wheels is bent. These old tracks need attention now and again, but have had none since—well, that’s as it may be,” he said, squatting to examine the wheel.

“Since when?” she asked.

“Since my great-grandfather was laird.” He was on the ground tugging at the wheel.

“He was laird here, on Strathniven lands?”

“Just our luck,” he muttered without answering her question. “The wood is cracked. Here is the trouble, see.” He knocked at the wheel rim. “The wood is split at one of the felloes”—he indicated the wooden rim between two spokes—“and the steel tire bolted here has come away. If I can fix the band back in place, it may hold long enough.” He stood, brushed his hands. “But this will take a few minutes.”

“Can I help?”

“Keep an eye out, lass. But stay near, do.”

She turned, feeling protective, determined, a helpmate, as if she had learned a new skill from his trust in her, his capable calm. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward to look around the curve in the road, back toward the meadow. Seeing only landscape and no men, she ventured ahead a few steps to look past the meadows toward the loch to one side, the hills to the other, beneath the indigo sky. She folded her arms and turned, a watchful sentinel while Ronan worked. After a few minutes, she ran forward a little farther, leaving the steep hill, the drover’s track, the man crouched in the road wrestling with a steel strip.

Then she heard the chink and jangle of harness, the thud of boots and hooves. Spinning, she saw men, ponies, glowing lanterns, rising from a dip in the field not far from where she stood. She whirled, aware that she was exposed on a stretch of meadow, too far from Ronan, too close to these strangers.

One of the men ran toward her. She spun away, but he grabbed her arm roughly, tugging her toward him. As she stumbled to a knee, he dragged her to her feet.

“Who are you, lassie, hey?”

Swearing under his breath, Ronan pried and pulled at the steel band, trying to fix it in place along the cracked wheel rim. Pulling the small dirk from his stocking, he used that under the metal band. When it popped suddenly into place, he crowed in victory and sat up. And did not see Ellison nearby. He got to his feet, dirk in hand.

Then in the distance, he saw her—a graceful form, billowing skirt, rosy-gold hair flying out as she turned to run from the men surging over the meadow. One fellow was racing toward her. He knew the man.

“Pitlinnie!” he shouted, striding, then running.

“Ronan!” Ellison gasped, hauled close against her captor. Several other men gathered, some holding pony leads, crowding around in a half circle.

“Neill Pitlinnie,” Ronan shouted, coming near. “Let her go.”

Pitlinnie said something to his men, and Ronan saw the gleam of weapons, dirk handles, pistol butts, half-hidden beneath draped plaids and jackets. He slowed, cautious for Ellison’s sake, his heart pounding in anger, but moved resolutely forward.

“Hey, Glenbrae.” Pitlinnie kept a firm hold of the girl. “Stop there, aye.”

“Let the lass go,” Ronan growled.

“What brings you out here this evening?” Pitlinnie held the girl’s forearm in a strong grip; she winced when she tried to twist away. Knowing that any threatening movement would bring weapons out in force, Ronan stood still, watching, calculating distances, still too far to reach Ellison and put her behind him.

“Broken wheel,” Ronan explained with a shrug. Pitlinnie looked past him.

“I see. I heard you were freed. But why are you here instead of in Edinburgh awaiting trial, I ask? Whisky Rogues, caught at last, I thought.” Pitlinnie snorted.

“I am free on good reason. Let go of the lass.”

“This wee bonny bit is safe with me. Hey, what is your name, Miss? You canna trust that rascal to help you with yon cart.” Pitlinnie leaned toward her. “I will see you safely home. Where do you live? I have not seen you hereabouts. I would remember.”

“Pitlinnie,” Ronan growled. One of the men stepped forward, fingers clenching the bone handle of a dirk. Ronan had a dirk, too, tucked up his sleeve, ready to hand.

“Let go of me,” Ellison said, pulling on her trapped arm.

“You want to go with him, that rascal? Are you sure?”

“Aye. He is my fiancé,” she said, yanking in his grip again.

Startled, Ronan met her glance, raised a brow. “Aye,” he agreed. “Betrothed.”

“Huh, Glenbrae to be married? Go on!” With a harsh laugh, Pitlinnie released Ellison, who rushed toward Ronan. He swept her behind him. “Who would believe that, after—”

“What do you want,” Ronan growled.

“We are passing this way, and do not need your leave for that. These are Strathniven lands, not Glenbrae territory.”

“Then you need my leave,” Ellison said, “on behalf of my close friend, Lady Strathniven.”

Ronan frowned. Less said the better, but at least Ellison was in his keeping now. Her impulsive announcement of a betrothal might help. Even Pitlinnie had his limits.

“Strathniven! Glenbrae, is it true what they say? You are a peer now? Lord Darrach! Begging your pardon, sir,” Pitlinnie said with a mocking little bow.

“Darrach? But would he know—” Ellison began.

“Hush.” Ronan offered his elbow and she tucked her hand there, pressing close to his side as he slipped his hand over hers. Playing her protective fiancé might help.

“Whatever you heard is just rumor,” Ronan said. “There is no truth to it.”

“Are you sure? I heard the property might go to you, but for your arrest. Whisky Rogues,” he said again, and spit into the grass. “We know the truth of that, do we not? I hoped we might be rid of you when you were taken. Does she know about it?” he barked.

“Of course,” Ronan murmured. He felt Ellison’s gaze on him. No help for it now, he thought. He would have to tell her soon. “I only came here to see to the distillery.”

“All fine and according to law, eh?” Pitlinnie looked smug. “So the new Viscount Darrach follows the rules while his lads move goods by devious means.”

“You are one to talk about devious,” Ronan said, tipping his head toward the men, the horses, the panniers holding goods.

“Oh, are you Sir Neill Pitlinnie?” Ellison asked. “Lady Strathniven has spoken of you. She enjoys your whisky. My father Sir Hector is quite fond of it too.”

The man’s eyes flickered toward her. “Graham... the deputy lord provost’s lass? Lady Strathniven’s nephew—that is Corbie, aye? Precious company you keep now, Glenbrae. Or Darrach. Odd that I heard nothing of your engagement.”

“Why would you?”

“From your sister-in-law. I saw her only days ago. But she never mentioned you. Did you know we are courting, Mairi Brodie and me?”

Ronan went cold, squeezing Ellison’s fingers in his without thinking. “I heard.”

“We hope for your approval as her kinsman.”

“Mairi Brodie is twice widowed. You need her permission, not mine.”

“I hope for it soon. Then we would be kinsmen, hey. We could work together.”

“Ah,” Ronan said.

“A benefit to both of us.” Pitlinnie smiled. “So. You have Graham’s daughter and the claim to Darrach lands too. Well done, sir. It is no surprise you escaped trouble with the law. Clever lad to find a father-in-law to fix that problem for you.”

“It is not your concern,” Ellison said, “but my father did not arrange Ronan’s pardon.”

Good Lord, she was outright lying for him, Ronan thought, and standing up to a disreputable fiend. She had no true idea of the risk, but he was deeply touched by her loyalty and courage. He blew out a breath.

“Enough,” he growled under his breath, hoping to stop her from elaborating.

“Glenbrae is a criminal, Miss Graham. You would be wise to remember that.”

“It appears that you are the criminal here, sir.” She pointed to the men and ponies behind him. “What are you transporting across my lady’s lands?”

“My dear, best we go,” Ronan said. He had to get her away before she said more.

“Delivering whisky to some respected customers,” Pitlinnie said. “Lady Strathniven is a loyal client. Love thy neighbor, brother. You understand.”

“Give us Strathniven’s lot,” Ronan said. “We will bring it there since you are out doing your good deeds.”

“Should I trust you? I think not.” Pitlinnie chuckled. “Unless you want to come away with us, lad. There is good money in it if we work together.”

“Move on,” Ronan said.

“Certainly, Lord Darrach. Miss Graham. We will be on our way.” Pitlinnie waved his men forward, pony harnesses jingling, glinting in the twilight.

Ronan stepped back with Ellison as Pitlinnie led his men along the drover’s track in the opposite direction of Strathniven.

“Ronan,” Ellison said.

“Back to the gig,” he said grimly, taking her with him. Turning to help her in, he climbed up to sit beside her, taking the reins.

“Ronan,” she said. He looked down at her, saw her lip quivering. “I am sorry.”

“What the devil? Why?”

She turned teary eyes to him. “This is all my doing—”

He put his arm around her, drew her into his embrace, easily, naturally. “Hush. You did naught wrong, and had a terrible fright.”

“If I had not left my things behind, we would not have come this way, and would never have seen those men—and—” She caught back a sob.

“This was not your doing.” He rested his cheek against her head. “I was in too much haste to get you home. The speed caused the wheel to break. If not for that, we would have missed those fellows. No apologies.” He stroked her shoulder.

“And then I said we were betrothed. I am sorry.”

He chuckled. “It was a good thought. He stepped away, did you see? It gave him pause and gave us the upper hand at the right time.”

“If he tells others, what then?”

“I doubt he will tell anyone. But if he does, we need only deny it. Another rumor.”

“For a moment, I feared you might go with them.”

“Hardly,” he said, and pulled her close. “No fear of that, lass.”

“He offered you money—”

“I keep clear of him and his lot. I know him too well.”

She hesitated. “It puzzles me, your past. I do not understand enough of it. I trust you,” she added. “I do. But Papa and Mr. Corbie cautioned me against you, and they would remind me of it if I need to explain any trouble.”

“What a parcel of trouble, having to tell them that rascal MacGregor ran off in pursuit of profit and crime as soon as he had the chance.”

“But you stayed.”

“I gave you a promise. You agreed to make me into a gentleman. I agreed to let you try.”

“You made it easy. Were you tempted to go back to smuggling?” She searched his face, his gaze.

He realized then that his ruse, and the ruse now assigned to him, were still in conflict. She truly did not know if he was a rogue or a hero. That was his fault. He had kept secrets and skirted honesty in favor of protection and silence.

“Who said I was a smuggler? Has it been proven?”

“I suppose not, but I thought—”

“Whatever I am, I would not have left you there.” He touched her chin, lifted it.

She lifted her face, waited, invited. He leaned down, nudged her nose with his, pushed her bonnet away, skimmed fingers through the softness of her hair. Then he kissed her, the warm cushion of her lips under his willing, inviting. He felt her breath catch, felt his heart pounding.

The feeling he had denied for too long swept over him, through him, like the rushing water not far away. As if his soul was a fish glimmering in a stream, going with the current of his life, he followed his heart, kissed her again, whispered reassurance.

He had wondered, once, if he would ever find this again. But here it was, more full, more meaningful. Kissing her, he felt sure suddenly that all this was meant to be somehow. Felt that he could lay at her feet all the truths and mistruths of his life. Kissing her, life made sense in the moment. He was just where he should be, with her, here, now.

Yet a cold rational sense surged through him, breaking that spell. He pulled away. No, he told himself. Not yet. Silence and secrets must be kept if he was to protect her, and protect his friends behind bars on Calton Hill.

“Beg pardon,” he whispered. “I did not mean—”

“You did. And I meant it too.” She stretched to kiss his cheek, the corner of his lip, and when he leaned in, unable to resist, she pulled away. “But we must go.”

“Aye.” And he would keep a wary eye until they reached there.

The gig creaked, bumped slowly along. The sky turned dusky purple. Ellison pondered, curious, heart thumping. “Ronan,” she began.

“More questions?”

“Just one. Pitlinnie asked if I knew who you are. Do I?”

He was silent, letting the horse push faster, wheel rattling. “I am a MacGregor to my bones.”

“One with many secrets.”

“Some must be kept for the good of others.”

“But why smuggle whisky and risk going against the law?”

“So many questions.” He shook his head. “Strathniven’s rooftops are just there, see, beyond that hill.”

“You will not give me all the truth?”

“Not yet. Just trust me.”

“I do. But I fear some secret you hold could undo all our plans.”

“What plans do we have?” He glanced at her.

“The king’s visit.”

“Oh, that. I thought you meant our betrothal,” he drawled. “Lass, just know that I do what I believe is best. Even if it goes against the law.”

“What I know is that I need the truth.”

“Soon, Miss Graham,” he murmured, “you and I will lay out all our truths between us, hey? You have secrets too.”

“None of mine would endanger you.”

“Nor will mine. Ellison,” he added, “I am still a prisoner, in a way. And that needs caution.” Chucking to the horse, he leaned to the side to look down. “The wheel is holding, just barely. We need to go carefully.”

“Carefully in all things?”

“As you say.”

They moved ahead, the gig swaying awkwardly. Ellison rode, silent, grasping the wooden bench rather than Ronan’s arm. Breathing in the cool night air, she thought about freedom, and realized neither of them felt free.

She was a prisoner too, of her life, her heart, trapped by her father’s expectations, by guilt. One day she might tell him more of that. And one day he would tell her more of himself. She trusted him in that, and much else.

Did he want what she wanted, to feel free, to have love and a home, a family?

Just then he glanced down at her, nudged his shoulder against hers. Just that. And something melted within her, wrapped around her, through her like an intangible embrace, a quiet joy in his steady presence. Love, she thought. Yet the feeling was different than she had known before—this was generous, nurturing, exciting, intimate. And vast somehow.

After a moment, she slipped her hand inside the bend of his elbow and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Almost home,” he whispered.