Page 2 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

Edinburgh, Scotland

June 1822

T he stone steps leading down to the dungeon vaults beneath Edinburgh Castle were steep and timeworn, so Ellison Graham proceeded carefully in thin slippers. In one gloved hand, she held the skirt of her gown, lavender muslin trimmed in black ribbon; with the other hand she took Lady Strathniven’s arm to steady the older woman as they descended toward the ancient wooden door where a red-coated guard stood.

Ahead, Adam Corbie, nephew of the viscountess and secretary to Ellison’s father, spoke to the sentry and waved a folded letter. “This letter of permission is signed by Sir Hector Graham, Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and allows us entry.”

“My gracious, it is hot today,” Lady Strathniven remarked, her dimpled cheeks flushed, the color creeping upward to the iron-gray curls neatly framing her face.

“It will be cooler inside, my lady,” Ellison said.

“I hope so. But I trust this will prove worth the trouble.” The lady fluttered a silken fan and peered impishly at Ellison, brown eyes twinkling the brim of her straw bonnet clustered with silk flowers and ribbons.

Ellison laughed affectionately. Lady Strathniven’s beauty had endured, though she was the same age as Ellison’s father, her longtime friend. Sir Hector had gone gray too, becoming even more stodgy and grumpy. He would strongly disapprove of their visit today if he had known.

They joined Mr. Corbie as the sentry beckoned them into the dark interior to meet a second guard. Both wore scarlet coats, white cross-bands, dark tartan trousers, and black tricorns as soldiers of the Regiment of Foot assigned to Edinburgh Castle. And both looked displeased to see the visitors.

“This is not the public entrance, sir,” the sentry told Adam Corbie. “Visitors who wish to see these prisoners must purchase a ticket from the office of the Governor of the Castle and come in through the main entrance.”

“This letter exempts us,” Corbie said stiffly. “These ladies need not wait with the public. Miss Graham is the daughter of the deputy lord provost, who is also chief of the constabulary. And this lady is my aunt, Lady Strathniven. They wish to privately view the prisoners.”

As the guards conferred, Corbie glanced back. “Ladies, I am glad I could ensure privacy for us away from the public.”

“Thank you, Mr. Corbie,” Ellison said. “Papa refused when I asked his permission to visit the dungeon.”

“He is protective of you, Miss Ellison.” They had known each other for so many years that he familiarly used her name; she had ceased to do so, wanting a bit of distance. Lately, Corbie had made it clear that he was fond of her, perhaps too fond.

“Adam, we are widowed ladies who need no escort,” his aunt pointed out, “but we do appreciate it. I am very curious to see the Highland fellows the whole city is talking about, but the crowds have been so large.”

“You need not wait with the common crowd, my lady. It is my pleasure to escort you and Miss Ellison.”

She gave him a cool smile, trying not to encourage his interest. Knowing him since her girlhood, she understood his haughty air masked a need for praise. Wanting to be kind and polite, she also wanted to keep him at arm’s length; she feared that too much familiarity might stir him to think of marriage.

She did appreciate his use of her maiden name rather than her married name, a choice many Scotswomen made. ‘Mrs. Leslie’ seemed like another person now, a foolish girl freed from a calamitous marriage by tragedy. She had strived to be complacent and subdued for her father’s sake since the scandal, glad for the chance to start over.

Yet starting over brought a dull life, and she had let it happen. She still clung to the grays and lavenders of half-mourning, which seemed to reflect her life now. Yet today she would risk a little disobedience and adventure. She craved some excitement again.

“But sir, viewing hours have not begun today,” one of the guards told Corbie.

“Read this!” The secretary poked at the letter. “Special permission to view the Whisky Rogues. Ridiculous name,” he muttered. “Guard, may I remind you that I am Sir Hector Graham’s secretary.”

“Oh, very well.” The guard beckoned them to follow.

Ellison was fascinated by the subterranean maze under Edinburgh Castle. Walls of hewn stone formed corridors that were dim and cool. The eerie light of flaming torches flickered over winding passageways cut from the living rock centuries ago.

She wanted to absorb every detail to describe it in the novel she was secretly writing. The warren of passages and dungeon cells beneath the ancient castle inspired ideas. Even more, this opportunity to see actual Highland smugglers could make all the difference to her story.

But she kept her thoughts to herself. Her family thought she still dabbled in poetry, though she had not written verses since her husband’s death. Knowing her father would disapprove of novel writing, she had not shared her efforts.

They passed the iron-barred doors of cells recessed into the rock. Through the apertures she glimpsed lantern light, men moving about, heard murmurs, and smelled cooking that thankfully masked less pleasant odors.

“Are the whisky criminals here?” Lady Strathniven asked. “It is so crowded.”

“They are further on, madam,” the sentry replied. “These are the foreign prisoners. Some were captured after Waterloo and some have been here much longer.”

“Will they be released soon?” Ellison asked. “What about the smugglers?”

“That depends on the government, Miss Graham. Prisoners of state are housed here, though most others go to the new jail on Calton Hill. The Lord Provost ordered the whisky smugglers placed here temporarily. Soon they will be sent to Calton.”

“They are only here because they generate income for the city,” Corbie explained.

“We sell a good number of tickets to see them, sir,” the guard agreed.

“Scoundrels,” Corbie said. “But the city can use the extra revenue with the king expected soon. Our office is organizing it, you see,” he boasted.

“Aye, sir. This way, around this corner.”

“Oh my, such a long walk,” the viscountess complained. “These fellows are quite the sensation this summer. A Highland man is always a sight to admire, I think.”

“So interesting,” Ellison agreed, hiding her anticipation.

“I do not share the sentiment,” Corbie remarked with a sniff.

“The newspaper accounts are thrilling. Ellison reads the articles aloud to us at breakfast. Dangerous rascals, The Courant called them this morning,” the lady said.

“This whole matter is absurd,” Corbie muttered.

“Adam, we are grateful for your company, but do try to be more pleasant.”

“I am sorry, Aunt. But incarcerated men should not be lauded by the public.”

“Just down here,” the guard said, gesturing.

Ellison’s heartbeat quickened. Reports of the Whisky Rogues had fired her imagination for months. Now she would see them at last. A tale of smuggling could add excitement to her novel, which she feared was progressing too slowly.

Not even Lady Strathniven, whom she adored, knew she was devoting long hours to studying Scottish history and longer hours writing in secret. The viscountess said her poetry should be published; even Papa admitted the lines had some quality. But Ellison wanted to write adventurous tales of old Scotland like Sir Walter Scott, or Miss Jane Porter’s novel Scottish Chiefs. She had to guard her passion fiercely and silently.

Besides, Lady Strathiven could not keep the smallest secret, and Papa would think writing a novel was just another unfortunate impulse on his daughter’s part. She was careful to avoid distressing him. Her widowed father worked diligently for Scotland, though raising three daughters seemed to bewilder him. Caution created a dull existence, but Ellison had found adventure in writing and imagining stories.

When the notorious Whisky Rogues had been captured, she had read avidly about their adventures in the news journals. Once the Lord Provost decided to allow visitors to see the famous rogues for the benefit of a fee, she wanted to attend too.

She nearly trembled with anticipation. Not contrary by nature, she did possess an impulsive tendency to leap first and think later, though she tried to subdue that.

“Miss Ellison, you are wool-gathering.” Corbie took her elbow. “Public hours will begin soon and we must leave here before then.”

“Everyone is mad for a peek at these fellows,” Lady Strathniven said. “The most interesting thing in this city for a long while.”

“Until the king’s visit. We expect him in August now,” Corbie said.

“That does not give your office much time to prepare,” Lady Strathniven said.

“We have been planning for months on the chance, but we will be even busier.”

“I thought Sir Walter Scott was leading the organizing committee,” Ellison said.

“Yes, and he has plenty of ideas—revues, receptions, balls, dinners, and so on—but our office must make the arrangements. Some of his requests are outlandish.”

“Adam, you promised that Ellison and I will have invitations to the royal events.”

“I will do my best to arrange it, Aunt. Women are not invited to all the events.”

Frowning at that, Ellison suddenly heard a plaintive melody. “Fiddle music!”

“That’s one o’ them playing,” the guard said. “No harm in it.”

At the end of a corridor stem, two sentries sat at a small table near a cave-like cell with a wide iron grate set into the rock opening. In the cave, Ellison saw three Highland men. Thin sunlight streamed through an aperture high in the rock wall, illuminating their forms and faces.

Transfixed by the music, compelled by curiosity, she walked forward. The cell’s interior was simple—a straw-covered floor, bench, table, three narrow cots. The fiddle player, tall and fair-haired, stood. Two men sat on the bench. Ellison drifted closer.

The fiddler was a master, the tune a favorite she had heard at dances. His gilded hair swept over his brow, his fingers were deft and nimble. He had a fine face, she thought. Gentle. Kind. One of the seated men held a book in his hands; he was big and brawny with a swarthy dark beard and unruly black curls. The man beside him appeared asleep, chin dropped, arms crossed, long legs extended. A scruff of beard and long dark hair framed a face with handsomely shaped features, dark brows, thick eyelashes.

All three wore belted plaids of various patterns, crumpled shirts, shabby waistcoats, stockings, and worn leather shoes. Though unkempt head to foot, they looked strong and healthy, and younger than Ellison had expected, each perhaps thirty or so.

Highlanders of a rough sort, just as the newspapers claimed. The accounts claimed they spoke only Gaelic, lacked manners and education, and had a dull intelligence. Yet the fiddler played with skill, the black-haired brute was absorbed in reading, and the third fellow, though resting, possessed a banked power. He tilted an eyebrow when her shoes scuffed the floor near the cell, as if instantly alert.

“Highland scoundrels,” Corbie said. Startled, Ellison turned.

“I find them intriguing,” she answered. He huffed.

“Oh my,” Lady Strathniven said, flapping her fan. “They are rather stunning.”

Watching them from under her bonnet rim, Ellison felt a wrench of compassion. She had lived in the Highlands as a child. Life had been happy there, and she had affection and respect for the Highland people, appreciating the nobility in their character, their language and traditions, and their plight as well.

Perhaps these men had been brought low by English laws that were not always fair to Scots. She sighed, knowing something of the smuggling trade from conversations in her father’s house. Highlanders who produced whisky and other goods felt forced to find ways to slip past English authorities and avoid heavy taxation just to help their families survive. She felt great sympathy for them.

Did these men have families, wives, children? The poignant fiddle music touched her heart, brought tears to her eyes. The sight of the prisoners stirred and surprised her.

“Rascals,” Corbie said. She nearly jumped. “Do not fear, Miss Ellison. I am here to protect you.” He touched her elbow.

“I am not afraid. It just seems wrong to intrude on their privacy.”

“Criminals must give up the right to such privileges.”

“Oh, my,” Lady Strathniven breathed. “Hardly savages! Why, with a barber, decent clothing, and better circumstances, all three would pass for Highland gentlemen. Can you not see them as noble clan chieftains with velvet jackets and feathered bonnets?”

“No,” Corbie said.

“Oh, aye! They look rather heroic,” Ellison agreed. “They might have stepped out of one of Sir Walter Scott’s epic poems.”

“I am glad we came to see them.” Lady Strathniven took Ellison’s arm and smiled.

The viscountess had been Ellison’s mother’s dearest friend, and so took on a maternal role toward Ellison and her sisters after their mother died nearly ten years earlier. A few years ago, when Lady Strathniven had lost her husband, she became even closer to the Grahams. Ellison loved her dearly, enjoying the lady’s salty and generous nature, refreshing and kind.

“We must go,” Corbie said just as the fiddler began a slow, sad melody.

“Soon. I want to listen to the music,” the viscountess replied.

As the music flowed, Ellison sensed dignity and intelligence in the three quiet men. Each had wildness and a sort of powerful grace. She felt strongly that none of them belonged here in prison, though she knew little about their circumstances.

The black-bearded man set down his book, flexed his big hands, and glanced up. Seeing Ellison, he smiled shyly. His size gave him a beast-like appearance, but his hands, eyes, and expression were gentle. She smiled, feeling a twist of compassion.

The sleeping man—or perhaps he was merely bored, she thought—stirred then, broad shoulders pressed against rock. He murmured in Gaelic to the larger man.

Aingeal, answered the black-haired beast. The two murmured again.

Hearing and understanding some of their words, Ellison gasped softly. Angel.

Gaelic had been the language of her nurse and the Highland servants, so her ear and tongue had attuned early to that lilting language. Later, she studied with a tutor in Edinburgh. For all his grousing, Papa encouraged education for his daughters and was pleased when Ellison relied on her knowledge of Gaelic when she joined an Edinburgh ladies’ society that occasionally traveled to the Highlands to help poor Gaelic-speaking families.

Iain, why are you smiling? the bored one asked.

An angel has come to visit, his friend answered. Open your eyes, lad.

Aingeal. They meant her. Ellison felt her cheeks burn.

“Ruffians,” Corbie muttered. “This is no place for ladies. We have seen enough.”

The bored Highlander flashed open his eyes with a glare like a blue arrow.

“Oh, my,” Lady Strathniven breathed, flapping her fan.

That piercing gaze found Ellison. She met and held it, a moth to that blue flame.

The man had the rare beauty only some possess, his face an elegant blend of angle and curve, strength and tenderness. Long-lidded eyes under dark brows, squared jaw, and firm rounded lips framed by a dark beard; hair dark as a roast chestnut waved to his shoulders. His gaze was like a lightning strike.

A chill ran through her, crown to foot. Here was the hero of the adventure she was secretly writing; here was the Highland rogue she imagined: noble, strong, beautiful.

“Fascinating,” Lady Strathniven murmured.

“Oh aye,” Ellison whispered.

“Rude,” Corbie muttered.

The Highlander closed his eyes and leaned back. His big friend yawned. The fiddler set down the instrument.

“The one fiddles a decent Irish tune, I suppose,” Corbie admitted.

“Those were Scottish tunes,” Ellison pointed out.

“No matter. These rascals will go to trial soon and the city will be quit of them. Tried, sentenced, hanged. Shall we go, ladies?”

“Hanged? Mr. Corbie, you seem determined to condemn them,” Ellison said.

“They are reprehensible rogues, not the noble Highlanders of Mr. Scott’s writings, Miss Ellison. You must set aside such lofty ideals. It does you no good.”

“Ideals are essential. They ennoble us,” she said. He made a scoffing sound.

Suddenly aware of that burning blue gaze again, she glanced toward the cell. The man looked away. The fiddler spoke in Gaelic and the others answered.

“Likely trying to plot their escape, though it is impossible,” Corbie grumbled.

“They are saying,” Ellison replied, “that they feel like animals in a zoo.”

The bored Highlander swerved his gaze to look straight at her.

*

“A zoo indeed,” Iain said.

“And you a wretched bear,” Linhope said. Iain grunted.

Narrowing his eyes, Ronan watched the young woman in lavender and a straw bonnet, all golden curls and porcelain. She understood Gaelic, he was certain.

“Careful,” he warned the others. “Your angel knows what we are saying.”

“Oh!” said the angel, confirming it.

“What is it, dear? Did they say something wicked?” The older lady, plump and handsome, turned. The angel’s mother?

Rosy color spread into the girl’s cheeks. “They mentioned an angel.”

“You do look quite pretty today, Ellison.”

Ellison. He liked the name. Feminine, with a tenor of strength. So this young lady of apparent privilege understood Gaelic; perhaps she was Highland. Not many bothered to learn Gaelic these days, and her group was separate from the daily crowd, indicating a special position. Ronan frowned.

Iain, the beast, had a poet’s heart; the lass was angelic, even enchanting. Willowy and petite, with golden hair spiraling under her bonnet, she was all creamy skin and easy blushes. Despite a china-doll prettiness, her gaze was intelligent and interested.

Pity she was just another who paid a fee to gape at the Highland prisoners.

She looked at him directly and he tilted his head to acknowledge it. Her lips quirked in a smile as she turned away. He felt a tug of attraction, but would not allow himself to show interest in a haughty society girl.

An uncomfortable thought struck. He wondered if he had met her at some occasion in the city, though he would have remembered her, of that he felt sure. Generally he avoided such events, but as a lawyer, son of a chieftain, cousin to a clan chief, and an available bachelor, Sir John Ronan MacGregor had some value in social circles. Possibly he had met both women; the older one looked familiar.

The girl turned to the others. “Mr. Corbie, Lady Strathniven. Shall we leave?”

“Of course,” the young gentleman replied.

Strathniven. He had met the viscountess several years previously in a solicitor’s office when he and his cousin, John MacGregor, newly Viscount Darrach, had engaged in a heated discussion with Lord Strathniven over land rights, explaining their family’s legal and moral claim to the land. Ronan had nearly snapped at the lady’s husband, a truculent gentleman. The Crown-awarded viscount had spouted the letter of English law and claimed a property to which Ronan and his cousin had the traditional right.

They had lost. Strathniven had prevailed. Ronan recalled the lady’s apparent embarrassment at her husband’s insistent and rude behavior.

Just now, he had heard the ladies’ escort mention Sir Hector Graham, Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh. Ronan had met the man in passing on more than one occasion, and found him a terse fellow uninterested in others’ viewpoints. Was the girl related to him?

Slumping, he hoped his outward aspect as a possible criminal, bearded, unkempt, unimportant, would obscure his real identity if they had seen him before.

“Fascinating. True, we should go.” Lady Strathniven fanned herself. “But I would like to see these Whisky Rogues again.”

“Best not return, my lady,” Corbie said. “Best call them what they are—scoundrels, ruffians, brigands, roughshod savages, Highland devils.”

“That is excessive even from you, Adam,” she replied haughtily.

“But accurate. Miss Ellison, do you feel well? You have gone pale.”

“We must not stand here staring at them so. It is rude.” She had been watching and listening in silence, and had indeed paled.

True, Ronan thought. Gawking at prisoners could only amuse for so long.

Standing, he went to the iron grate. The viscountess smiled up at him. No spark of recognition there, just curiosity. Lifting a hand, he waggled his fingers. She fluttered her fan and nearly giggled.

“My lady, come away from that rascal,” said Corbie.

“Oh bother, Adam. They have nice manners and are no threat.”

“My lady.” Miss Graham took the woman’s arm. Her glance met Ronan’s.

“ Slàraich, mo aingeal, ” he murmured. Farewell, my angel.

She blinked, gasped, eyes wide.

“Ah, tha i a‘ tuigsinn,” he murmured. So she understands.

She whirled away, and the man called Corbie took her arm.

“Miss Ellison, did he insult you? I will have a word with him!”

“Do not. He was polite. We shall go.”

Ronan stepped back, aware that he would never see Miss Ellison Graham again. Soon he and his friends would be sentenced and either imprisoned, banished in servitude, or hanged. Only a miracle would save them. He knew the law, and knew their poor chances.

An angel might have visited, but a miracle was unlikely.