Page 19 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“W ill that be all, sir, and Miss Ellison?” The housekeeper set a bowl of strawberries and a plate of oatcakes, steam rising from the stack, on the dining table between Ronan and Ellison.

“Thank you, Mrs. Barrow, this is more than enough,” Ellison said, looking at the generous breakfast spread. “You were thoughtful to prepare a late breakfast.”

“And kind to leave supper trays for us last night,” Ronan said.

“We did return rather late, but it could not be helped,” Ellison said.

“Aye, Miss Beaton was worried for your safety last night, but we all assured her you would be fine, even if we were not sure,” the woman emphasized. “But we thought you might be hungry when you finally arrived. It was a relief to hear MacNie say this morning it was just a wheel needing repair, and no harm done.”

“None at all. These cakes are delicious, Mrs. Barrow. You are a treasure,” Ronan said. The housekeeper beamed as she left the room.

“Nicely done, sir,” Ellison murmured. “You have quite charmed her. Sorcha, good morning!” she continued, looking up as the girl entered the dining room then. “I wondered why you had not come down to breakfast yet, but we are all a bit weary after yesterday, I think. Would you like some tea?”

Clutching an embroidered handkerchief to her nose, Sorcha took a chair at the far end of the table and sneezed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Oh dear, are you poorly?” Ellison poured tea into a cup and handed it to her.

“A bit. I may have caught a summer cold when we were out yesterday.”

“Perhaps you should go back to bed and let me bring a tray up. And I could read to you if you like.”

“That would be so nice, thank you. I only came down to tell you the news.”

“Oh?” Her stomach gave an anxious flip.

Ronan leaned forward. “I hope you feel better soon, Miss Beaton. News?”

Drawing envelopes from her pocket, Sorcha set them on the table. “While we were out yesterday, Mr. MacNie fetched the post in Kinross, and a messenger arrived from Duncraig as well. But first, can I ask if all is well? You returned so late last night.”

“Just a mishap with a wheel. Nothing to be concerned about,” Ronan said.

“I am glad it was not worse. But sorry you missed the excitement.” Sorcha held up the creamy envelopes. “One for you, Elly, and one for me—well, the news is for all of us.” She handed one letter to Ellison.

Miss E. Graham, Strathniven House, Perthshire, read the envelope in Sir Hector’s spiking, impatient scrawl. She felt a sudden dread. “Tell us your news first, dear,” she said.

“Mine is from Mama. She enclosed a note for me, and an invitation to all of us! She has decided to hold a country supper and dance at Duncraig. My lady aunt persuaded her. And Lord Darrach, you are invited too. Mama insists upon it, having heard all about you from Lady Strathniven.”

“Indeed? How kind.” Despite his smile, Ellison thought he paled beneath the shadow of his clean-shaven jaw.

“The dance is to be a cèilidh in the Highland style,” Sorcha said. “Though it is often a celebration after harvest or for a housewarming or something similar, Mama and Aunt Strathniven think it will suit their friends who are summering in the Highlands just now with plans to depart for Edinburgh soon. There will be Scottish dancing and a late supper.”

“How nice! When will it be?” While uncertain if Ronan—or she—felt ready for a social event for Lord Darrach, Ellison knew it was inevitable.

“At the end of the week. It is not much notice, but it will be informal as cèilidhs are, with locals and gentry mingling together. Mama hopes Lord Darrach will be free to attend.”

“He would be honored,” Ronan murmured with a tilt of his head.

“It will be a wonderful evening, I am sure,” Ellison said.

“Mama says this will give people a chance to gather intimately before the large assemblies in the city. Besides, my lady aunt has a birthday, part of the celebration.”

“August, yes! I nearly forgot,” Ellison said.

“Mama also invited her good friend Lady Elizabeth Murray and her husband.” She dabbed at her nose to suppress a sneeze. “Oh! Excuse me. He is Sir Evan Murray-MacGregor, who is the new chief of the MacGregors. Do you know them, Lord Darrach?”

“He is a cousin.” Ellison raised an eyebrow, hearing that, but cousins abounded in any clan. “He will be very busy during the royal visit, I understand.”

“I hope they can come. I am looking forward to having a cèilidh dance,” Sorcha said, and then began to cough behind her handkerchief.

“If you are to recover by next week, you must rest,” Ellison said.

“I will go up in a moment. Did your father send good news, Elly?”

“I hope so.” Opening the letter, Ellison read her father’s brief note, written in his usual terse tone. Her stomach sank after a moment, but she looked up with a smile.

“He says the city is already crowded with people arriving from all over. And the king is expected in less than two weeks.” She paused. “He also says—Adam Corbie is coming up here. We can expect him Thursday. MacNie is to meet the coach in Kinross that afternoon.”

Sorcha stifled another sneeze. “Wonderful,” she said thickly. “We must invite Mr. Corbie to come with us to Duncraig. I will write to Mama this afternoon.”

“Thursday,” Ronan said, looking at Ellison.

“Three days,” she murmured, her gaze touching his.

*

“The lessons must continue,” Ellison said, when Ronan joined her in the library later, “considering what is coming all too soon.”

“Corbie?” At his skeptical look, his prim tutor pressed her lips together.

“You will soon be introduced to the king, but your lessons are not done.” Standing by the library table, she set down the books she held and faced him.

“My dear Miss Graham, I can conduct myself impeccably when necessary, whether at a king’s ball or a cèilidh. We do not need more lessons, and you have no cause for concern.”

Her hands, her graceful fingers that he so wanted to hold, to kiss, flexed anxiously. “What concerns me is that you will be under scrutiny from my father and Corbie, who expect to see perfection.”

“I will give it to them for your sake.”

“Thank you—but you do not want more lessons?”

“I will miss them dearly,” he said in a wry tone. “But you would have more time to write, and I could attend to some matters.”

“Such as shipping the whisky?”

“Finding the whisky,” he clarified. “The Muir lads will count what we have, and then it will be transported.”

“Even so, we still have time for lessons.”

He tipped his head, curious. “Do you want to continue?”

“I enjoy our time together.” She looked down, tracing the pattern in the oak.

“So do I. But must we devote time to stodgy old books on manners?”

“Perhaps not.” She laughed softly. “It will be useful to introduce you at Mrs. Beaton’s cèilidh first. You would have some acquaintances at the royal event.”

“This wee cèilidh is a risk, lass. The MacGregor chief, Atholl, Huntly, and others may question my introduction as Darrach.”

“Pitlinnie did not question it. He seemed impressed.”

“He is easily impressed.”

“I am a bit nervous that he might mention our betrothal.” She twisted her mouth.

“He might. But it may serve as a distraction if we go forward with this ruse.”

“If?” She frowned. “You cannot change your mind now.”

Ronan blew out a breath. Her question hit the heart of the matter. At first, he had resisted the idea, then reluctantly saw its advantages. It was only one day, he told himself. But his introduction at a local gathering was more of a problem. He sighed. He was in the thick of it for his friends. For Ellison. He could not back down now; she was right in that.

“I did give my word.”

“Let us finish our tutoring, Darrach,” she murmured. “There is not much time.”

“Three days. What next, Miss Graham? I have absorbed all I can from the books.”

She tapped a fingertip on her chin. “We could practice some dancing.”

“Dancing?” He shrugged. “If you like.” He came around the table toward her.

“Have you done much dancing?”

“A little.” He held out his arms, right arm crooked, left arm out, an invitation.

“Waltz! I doubt we would see that at a cèilidh, and it is probably still frowned upon at royal assemblies. It still is in Scotland, I think. Better that we practice steps for a Strathspey or a reel.”

“I will say that a waltz with a beautiful woman in candlelight is a fine thing. Though I am familiar with some Scotch dances.”

She tipped her head. “You waltzed with a beautiful woman in candlelight?”

“Not as lovely as the lass I am looking at in daylight, but aye.”

Her cheeks went pink. “Did you dance it in England, perhaps, or France?”

He owed her some of the truth. “Both, aye, as an officer.”

“The Black Watch?” She seemed more interested in his past than in dancing.

“For three years, aye. Then I exchanged to the Dragoons to accompany my cousin to India. Sir Evan,” he added.

“I remember Papa saying that Sir Evan MacGregor was sorely injured in India and showed much courage there, as did the men who were with him. You were there?”

“I was. Many were with him at the Talnar ambush. Four years ago, that was, and in the past. Shall we practice strathspey steps?” He stepped back as if to face her in a dancing line. “Though with one couple and no fiddle, we may not accomplish much.”

She stepped forward, back, lightly hopped to the side. “Cast off left, then right?”

“Aye so.” He reached out, took her hands in his, and turned with her in a circle. Moving with him, she began to hum a tune, the notes clear and sweetly sung.

“You have a hidden talent, Miss Graham,” he said, guiding her around.

She laughed. “My music tutor did not think so. And one, two, three,” she counted as they broke apart, turned, linked arms, spun, parted, faced to clasp hands again.

“There,” he said, moving closer. “We could try a waltz.”

“In case the king thinks it appropriate for the great ball being planned?”

“Aye, just in case”—he drew her close, sliding his right hand to the small of her back, extending his left arm with her hand still in his—“I am invited to that ball.”

“My father says you may only be invited to the gentlemen’s levee for a quick introduction.”

“Then this may be my last waltz,” he murmured, pulling her closer, so that she rested her hand on his right shoulder. When she angled her head to the side, he leaned close to her ear. “I just want to waltz with you. Have you danced this before?”

“Aye,” she said as he began to turn her, gliding, swirling around. “But not like this.” She was breathless, soft, warm, so close.

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and the girl in his arms startled and jerked away as if he were made of fire. Ronan looked up as Mrs. Barrow peeked in the door.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss! Sir!”

“What is it, Barrow?” Ellison smoothed her skirts and looked flushed.

“A Mr. Cameron is here to see MacGregor. Darrach,” she added with a frown.

“Thank you,” he said, realizing Mrs. Barrow was not easily won over.

“Do show him in here,” Ellison said, and Mrs. Barrow withdrew. “I will look in on Sorcha to see if she feels better. Isn’t Mr. Cameron the solicitor in Kinross?”

“Aye. He is doing some work for me.”

“Perhaps he brings good news.” She swept toward the door.

His heart was pounding and his thoughts were still with her when Hugh Cameron came into the library moments later.

“Good to see you,” Ronan said.

“And you. What a fine place,” Hugh said, glancing around. “I have seen Strathniven from a distance but have never visited. I met your Miss Graham in the corridor. Lovely.”

“She is. Is there news? Sit, please.” Ronan indicated two damask-covered chairs beside the fireplace, where peat bricks glowed blue and comforting on the cloudy day.

“I do have news, and thought to bring it quickly. A letter from Sir Evan.” Hugh extracted an envelope from the pocket of his dark blue jacket, and removed two sheets of paper covered in brown ink. Ronan recognized Evan’s distinctive script, the letters stiffly formed; losing the use of his right hand at Talnar, he relied on his left now.

Ronan read the letter quickly.

Ronan, Sir Evan wrote. I trust you are well and in better circumstances than recently. Though we have not met for a few years, I have heard of your exploits and situation from Mr. Cameron. I am pleased to learn that you are free of the burden of charges. You are not one to commit felonies, and a clearing of charges seems merited.

I have studied the status of the Darrach inheritance, including properties, environs, means, and heritable title. The Courts of Session and Lyon Court had the matter, but entrusted it to me to decide as Chief of the Gregorach in my father’s stead. While the courts will finalize the decision, my opinion will guide their declaration.

Ronan turned to the second page, read through to the end, and glanced up, stunned and relieved. “He will recommend that the courts grant Darrach to me.”

“Lock, stock, and barrel. You will be—and essentially are —Viscount Darrach.”

Shaking his head slowly, trying to take it in after so much doubt, Ronan read on. “He says he will ensure that I am declared legitimate heir to Darrach through close kinship. He will recommend that I be awarded the estate, including Darrach Castle and its grounds and lands to its north, south, east, and west boundaries, including villages, crofts, and tenanted properties.”

He felt almost dizzy, as if the world had tilted and was righting again.

Hugh nodded. “He submitted his decision in signed documents to the Session and Lyon Courts. We must await the letters patent, but Evan made their task simple.”

“My God,” Ronan breathed. “I did not expect this.” Relief washed through him. Now the ruse was unnecessary. He could be presented to the king and to anyone as a legitimate member of the peerage.

And the risk to Ellison was lifted. He blew out a breath, rubbed his neck.

“It is not quite as perfect as it appears,” Hugh said. “There is a condition.”

Ronan narrowed his eyes. He should have known not to fully believe in luck.

“Sir Evan wrote to me separately. His father, the late chief, favored you as the heir to Darrach, but without your cousin’s will, it needed to be reviewed by the Court of Session and the Lyon Court. Then Sir Evan had to review clan matters anew. All this you know.”

Ronan nodded. “Go on.”

“Your, ah, legal difficulties gave Evan pause. But rest assured that Ronan MacGregor, accused smuggler, is not named in the inheritance documents. Only John Ronan MacGregor of Glenbrae, lawyer, nearest kin of the deceased, is mentioned.”

“My legal name. Good.”

“You should also know that Sir Evan took pains to keep it separate.”

Ronan felt his throat tighten. “I am grateful.”

“The courts had tossed the decision to the clan chief, but when Evan heard of your pardon, he was keen to review it carefully.”

“I am not convinced that the charges have been cleared entirely. I do not trust Sit Hector—or his secretary Corbie.”

“Nor do I. We will sort that out. Now to the condition.” Hugh sat forward. “Sir Evan has decided that Glenbrae must be sold.”

Ronan stared, dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“The inquiry into the Darrach estate revealed considerable debt, the result of poor decisions and expenditures over two generations. Nothing you knew about.”

“I had no idea. My cousin John never said during the time he held Darrach. Go on.” Lose Glenbrae! He felt cold and numb.

“The debt on the estate must be cleared to avoid forfeiture, especially as it is attached to a peerage title. Sir Evan feels that selling Glenbrae is the solution. There has been an offer.”

“I see.” He suspected from whom, and it sat like a stone in his chest. Suddenly other things made sense. He recalled his father and his uncle, the elder Darrach, arguing about luxuries and expenses. When Ronan’s cousin John had inherited the Darrach estate, he had insisted that Ronan make Glenbrae whisky the finest it could be and move it as fast as possible to fetch the highest price.

Risks were taken too often. Ronan, Will, and young Darrach had argued, and soon the notorious Whisky Rogues—Will and John only—emerged to be chased, hunted, and finally killed. To protect their reputations and that of the whisky, Ronan had taken on all of the work—and the smuggling plan—with help from the Muirs and Linhope and MacInnes too.

But he had not known about the burden of debt on the Darrach estate.

“I see,” he repeated. “What becomes of Glenbrae now?”

“You will have the rank and title of Viscount Darrach and keep the Darrach lands. But you must relinquish Glenbrae, Invermorie, and any related properties to be sold. I am sorry, Ronan.”

“My glen.” Ronan gripped the arm of the chair. “The tenanted farms. The castle where my family lives. The distillery?”

“All of it.”

“Sold to whom?”

“He did not say.”

“But we can guess.” Ronan stood, hands fisted as he paced back and forth. “We have to stop this from going forward.”

“We could if there was another way to absolve the debts.”

“What if I find a way? We can convince Evan to delay the sale. Buy time.”

“Perhaps we could, given the royal madness overtaking the city. I will ask Sir Evan to wait until after the royal visit. Courts and banks will not operate normally for a little while anyway.” Hugh stood. “That might give us until September.”

“Fine. Keep me informed.”

“For now, accept the grant and title that are offered, and wait on the rest.”

“If I accept the condition, then I am agreeing to give up Glenbrae. I do not agree.”

“For now, do it. You have never been afraid of a challenge. We will find a way.”

After Hugh had departed south for Kinross, Ronan saddled a horse and rode north for Glen Brae. Reining in, he sat for a long while looking at that familiar profile of hills, watching the golden rim of the sun sink below the cloud cover and vanish behind that distant, beloved blue ridge.

He could never give up Glen Brae.

Going back to Strathniven, he stabled his mount and stepped into the house just as an inky gloom overtook the sky. In the hallway, Ellison and Sorcha were walking out of the dining room and he greeted them, though his smile was flat. As Sorcha took the stairs, Ellison paused, eyes wide as she considered him.

“You rode out. Is something wrong?”

“I had an errand. I apologize if I missed supper.”

“Mrs. Barrow is keeping a plate warm for you in the kitchen. Sorcha feels a bit better, we thought to go to the parlor to read together. Will you come?”

“I will leave you to it.” When she nodded and took a step, he touched her elbow.

“Ellison. We must talk,” he murmured low.

She blinked, nodded. “When?”

“Tower library,” he whispered. “Late.”