Page 20 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“W hat is it?” Speaking in a whisper when Ronan finally appeared at the tower library door, Ellison stood back for him to enter. The hour was very late, the room glowing with candlelight, the house, the world, filled with a deep hush. She stifled impatience, pushed away worry as best she could. Impatient to see him, unable to concentrate on her writing, she wondered what he wanted to talk about.

She had read her father’s letter so often that she still held it creased in her hand. “You have news?”

“I thought we could talk here for some privacy. It is a delicate matter.”

“Sit, please,” she urged, but he stood, and so did she. “What is the trouble?”

“Not trouble, exactly.” He looked down at the letter clutched in her hand. “I think you have something on your mind too. You are nearly shredding that envelope. Was there more in your father’s letter than you did not mention?”

She drew a breath, then sat in a chair by the window. Ronan sat as well, settled, folded his hands. His patient gesture, his willingness to listen touched her deeply and suddenly. “Papa is sending Mr. Corbie here. You know that.”

“He wants to be sure the frog has become enough of a prince to pass muster.”

“Perhaps. But Corbie’s other intention,” she said, “is to bring me back to Edinburgh with him. Papa declares it here.” She waved the envelope. “I did not tell you before, but I am to return within days. Papa will send a guard for you. But we promised to attend the cèilidh.”

“Send Corbie back alone or with the guard. I will take you to Edinburgh myself.”

“I thought you came here tonight to refuse to be part of the introduction.”

He shrugged. “Circumstances have changed.”

“The country dance gives us a reason to stay longer.” She met his eyes.

“You should do what you want, not what Corbie and your father want.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. She felt his tension, sensed a hint of anger directed at Corbie. “You know you need not follow their demands.”

“I know.” She looked away. “We should go to the cèilidh. I want to. But I know you are not anxious to be introduced as Lord Darrach. And Mr. Corbie coming up here to evaluate you as a gentleman just makes me so—so crabbit!” she burst out.

Ronan huffed a laugh. “Makes you what?”

“Something my granny used to say. Crabbit. His arrogance makes me angry, but if I tell him so, Papa will soon hear of it in a way that twists whatever I do.”

“Someone else needs to learn his manners,” he drawled, then sat forward. “Ellison, listen now. You have a gentle soul and a forthright nature, but you need not suppress one in favor of the other. Let them know your strong opinion. And that is my own opinion on your behalf.” He sat back.

“Do you think so?”

“It hardly matters what I think. What matters is what you think.”

She blinked. “Lady Strathniven tells me the same.”

“She is a wise lady. I apologize if I overstepped, but I am—protective of you. You have a fire in your soul, but you do not let it shine often enough.”

She felt her cheeks heat, felt a swell of pleasure. “If Corbie heard you incite rebellion in me, sir, we would have even more trouble.”

“I quake in my boots.”

“They have taken advantage of you for their own ends, Ronan.”

“More, I have taken advantage of them.” He spread his hands. “I am free.”

“But if this should go wrong, they will let you take the blame and claim you lied to them.” She stood, began to pace. “Oh, this horrible ruse! I hate it so!”

He stood. “But it is not a lie.”

She whirled. “I cannot blame you if you decide to disown us all, though I would worry about you, and your friends still in the jail. We can find a way. We must!”

“Ellison.” He stepped closer, his voice husky. “It is not a lie. I am Lord Darrach.”

She stared. “You—what?”

He took her hands, faced her as if they were about to dance a wild reel, and drew her toward him. “Hugh Cameron brought word. I am to be named Darrach’s heir.”

“But—how can that be?” She looked up at him, her fingers tightening in his.

“Darrach was my first cousin. He left no will. It went to the courts.”

“I knew that, but Papa said it would be delayed for months. Is it decided?”

“The court sent it to the clan chief. Another cousin. Under Scots law, a chief has the authority to absorb a title and lands into the chiefship, or he can recommend an heir. He decided in my favor.”

“So it is yours now?” Her head was spinning, his grip her anchor.

“The letters patent require the nearest blood kin to be named heir. I am that man. Sir Evan weighed the situation and recommended my name. I am to be confirmed.”

“Then what Sir Neill Pitlinnie said about your inheritance is true.”

“It was not true then, but it is now. This is good news, at least in part.”

“So you need no pretense.”

“None.” His smile was touched with sadness.

“Did you know this might happen? You never mentioned it.”

“I knew it was possible, but had to keep it secret. The ruse that I am Darrach was ironic all along. But I did not expect it entirely, and not so soon.”

“So we can truly call you Darrach and Glenbrae.” She smiled brightly.

He squeezed her hand, then sighed, his dark hair falling over his brow, blue eyes twilight indigo in the candlelight. “In Scotland, only one title may be held at a time. A little detail imposed by English law. Sir Evan has decided to take Glenbrae away from the Darrach estate award.”

“Glenbrae?” Her brow furrowed as she realized the loss. “Oh, Ronan. But all these week, I have wished for you to be free, and for something good to come of all this. If you are Darrach, it is like a dream come true—your freedom is assured. That is what I want for you. Though this is like discovering you are a prince who has passed his ordeal and cast aside his disguise, like in a fairy tale. I suppose it sounds foolish.”

He smiled wanly, listening, tall and strong, all quiet power. “Not foolish.”

“But you are Darrach in truth, and Mr. Corbie will choke over it. And I like that.”

He huffed a little. “True, there is nothing he can do to change it.”

“One day he will inherit Strathniven, and petition for the title of Viscount Strathniven as well. It is not attached to the property or the heir, since it was awarded to Lady Strathniven’s husband singularly.”

“Corbie would have a good chance of claiming it if it begins a tradition.”

“But I know how much Glenbrae means to you. I am very sorry.”

His fingers flexed, gripped hers tightly for a moment and did not reply.

“I know how important your home and your distillery are to you. But you will have the distillery as Darrach, is that true?”

Ronan nodded. Then he let go of her hands, cupped her shoulders, drew her toward him. “There is something even more important, now that I think about it.”

“What is that?” she whispered. Her heart, her body, pulsed, so near to him.

“Not what. Who.” He leaned down, and Ellison felt her knees go weak, while his hands on her shoulders felt solid. Safe. She tilted her face upward.

Footsteps, a knock, sudden and sharp, on the door. She leaped away from Ronan, bumped the table beside her, and set a hand to her heart.

Mrs. Barrow poked her head in the doorway.

“Oh! Again!” Ellison burst out.

“Glenbrae,” the housekeeper said, “there you be! We have been looking high and low for you all over. There is a man at the door. He says it is very urgent.”

“Did Mr. Cameron return? Is there trouble?” He approached the door.

“Not him, sir, a young man. Aleck Muir is his name. He says he must speak with you. We nearly toppled the house looking for you, and here you are in the old tower, while most of us were asleep.” She pinched her mouth. “And some of us are awake.”

“Did you invite Mr. Muir in out of the rain?” Ellison asked.

“I did. He is dripping wet in the front hall. What should I tell him, sir?”

“I will come directly. Miss Graham, please excuse me. Mrs. Barrow, will you send for Donal Brodie to meet us at the door?”

“Aye, sir.” The housekeeper stepped back as Ronan rushed past her. “Miss Ellison,” Mrs. Barrow said then, “will you be needing anything?”

“Nothing, thank you. I will stay here to finish my correspondence and then to bed. I did not realize how late it was.”

“Indeed. Miss Ellison.” The housekeeper paused, hand on the door. “If you wish to meet with the man alone at night, I will turn a blind eye. You may do as you like here. It is always Lady Strathniven’s wish for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Rest assured Lord Darrach is every bit the gentleman.”

“I am not surprised, I will say that.”

“And he is Lord Darrach, so you may call him that.”

“Nor does that surprise me either.” She studied Ellison for a moment. “I suppose he is a good man, if the Muir lads trust him. They are a good lot, them.”

“He is a very good man, Mrs. Barrow.”

*

“Glenbrae,” Aleck said, breathing hard. In a damp plaid, hair slicked with rain, he radiated urgency. “We need your help. Now.”

Alarmed, Ronan gestured to Donal, rushing toward them. “Bring the lad a dram. Then saddle horses. We will need them. Aleck, what happened?”

“Geordie,” Aleck went on breathlessly, “wounded sore. We went to Darrach Castle—to the caves there. But he was attacked. We took him to Invermorie and I rode here for you fast as I could.” He took the dram from Donal with a nod of thanks.

“Who attacked him?”

“I am not sure. So much blood.” He touched his head. “Mairi Brodie is with him.”

“Is it mortal? I will come straight away.”

“I do not know, but you must come, aye. There is another problem.”

“What else? You went to Darrach to check the caves?”

“Aye, to count the whisky cache we keep there by the waterfall.”

“I know.” Last year, Ronan and the Muirs had moved twenty kegs and a dozen casks of whisky to the Darrach caves, where they were sure to be safe.

“We found nothing there.”

“Nothing? No whisky?”

“Gone. We thought we were mistaken in the dark, as the caves are numerous, so we split up, west and east, to be sure.”

“There is a honeycomb of caves there. Easy to get confused. Did you find it?”

“We had the cave, but found it empty.” Aleck swallowed the last of the dram. “We could not find it. Just a few crockery jugs and broken wood from the crates. And footprints all around.”

Ronan sucked in a breath. “What happened to Geordie?”

“He had not come to meet me, so I went out and walked about, called, and then heard some sounds. I ran, and saw him lying there, wounded.”

“Shot?”

“Stabbed, it seems, and clubbed on the head. I ran for Grandda. He was waiting for us with the cart. We did not want him to risk the climb, see.”

“Aye. And you and Rabbie took your brother to Mairi? Good.”

“First we put him in the cart, then I ran for Tam Comrie, the groundskeeper at Darrach. He and his wife are still there, even without a laird there now. Rabbie wanted to know if Tam had seen anyone. Tam came to Invermorie with us. But the whisky is gone, sir.” Aleck breathed hard, rubbed his wet, dirty face. “I am sorry!”

“Not your fault. We must find it, though. When was the last time the whisky was seen there?”

“Grandda gave it a count not a month ago. But there were footprints about, and dragging marks. Someone else was there tonight.”

“Then it has not been gone long, and has not gone far. Can you ride?”

“Now? Aye.”

Ronan stepped outside into a light rain under a darkling sky. Donal came running, leading three fresh saddled horses with the help of a groom, who led Aleck’s horse back to the stables.

“Geordie may have seen the men tonight,” Aleck said. “He may be able to tell us more.”

“Aye, then. We ride for Invermorie,” Ronan said.

*

Tapping her fingers rhythmically on the old, scarred table, Ellison caught the faint scent of the lemon and oil polish that one of the maids had used recently. The scent stirred her out of thoughts and worries and back to the too-quiet tower library and her unwritten letters. What had brought Aleck Muir here so late? By the chime of the clock set in the bookshelf, it was past eleven at night. Had something gone wrong at the distillery?

Frowning, she dipped her pen in ink again and set it to paper to answer her father’s letter but blotted the next line she wrote. Truly, she only wanted to tell him not to send Adam Corbie here. But it would be too late—Corbie would reach Strathniven before her letter would reach the Edinburgh New Town. With a resigned sigh, she stood and went to the window, where rain had begun to sweep down from a sky gone eerie gray-green.

A new rhythm merged with the patter of the rain, and Ellison leaned forward to see three horses and their riders pounding over the earthen drive that fronted the house, riding toward the open road. The man in the lead was deeply familiar to her now, his long, lean silhouette swathed in cloak and plaid against the rain. The others, she realized, must be Donal and Aleck. Where were they heading with such urgency, in such weather?

Worry swept through her, but she took a breath against its force, spreading her fingers on the cool window glass, rain sliding down the other side of the glass. Taking a deep breath, she felt something strong and certain begin to emerge within her. She need not give in to fretful uncertainty. She could rise above it, she knew that now. Facing smugglers by the Lealtie Burn had shown her that. Being with Ronan MacGregor had shown her that she need not hide behind extended mourning and meekness any longer.

Straightening her shoulders, taking another breath of resolve, she left the room. However late the hour, she must try to rest. Ronan would be back soon, and safe. She trusted him, and now must trust that all would be well.

*

“In May I think it was,” Aleck said, “when Pitlinnie took a half dozen kegs of Glenbrae with his own load over the hills to Culross to ship out.”

“Aye, that is the claim Dawson used against us, though we had done naught.” Ronan sat with Aleck, Donal, Sir Ludo, Rabbie, and Tam Comrie in the great hall at Invermorie. They had a dram each, or more, and Ludo had scrabbled together cheese and oatcakes. The rain pounded the roof and windows, and they spoke quietly, while Mairi sat with Geordie above stairs.

Upon arriving, Mairi had allowed them to talk to Geordie for only a few minutes. The lad was bruised and swollen, bandaged and made more comfortable, but he was tired and mildly confused. Someone had leaped on him in the dark—two men, he thought, one in Highland dress, one not; both spoke English. He fought back, blacked out, and could remember no more. When Mairi returned with a poultice and a potion, she ushered them out of the room. Geordie, she said, would heal, but had taken a hard knock to his head, had a broken rib or two, a broken hand as well.

“The lad gave as good as he got, I think. And I hope they are sore hurting. I will watch over him for a while.”

Now, Rabbie shook his head. “The last of our lot that went out with Pitlinnie,” he said. “But for the new casks at Glenbrae, the rest of our store was in the Darrach caves. We have not shipped anything out but for that sold in shops in the towns and in Perth.”

“What went out from Culross marked the last of my brother’s and Darrach’s agreement with Sir Neill,” Ronan went on. “He made a good profit with us, but he cannot move a drop of ours without my consent. And I have been away,” he added wryly. “Not only that, we swore off such deals. Done with the free trade.”

“Done?” Aleck asked. Ronan answered with a curt and final nod.

“So they decided to steal it outright,” Rabbie said.

“If them, why now?” Aleck asked.

“Who else? And how did they find it?” Donal added.

Ronan shook his head. “It is a fair wealth of whisky, worth searching out. With me away and you lads distracted with the work at the distillery and all, it may have seemed the right time to look for our store.”

“And finding it, take it,” Tam Comrie said. Tough and gray, the grizzled fellow had been groundskeeper at Darrach estate since Ronan’s uncle had been there and had stayed when John inherited and stayed even since, he and wife alone at the castle, awaiting news of the new lord. Ronan very much wanted to tell Tam, knew he would be pleased, but this was no time to share his news. Far more important matters were to hand this night.

“But you came back to the glen,” Sir Ludo said. “Pitlinnie knew he must act.”

“You surprised all of us, returning to fetch whisky for the king,” Rabbie said.

“The king!” Sir Ludo brightened like a lamp at that. “What do you mean?”

“A supply of Glenbrae whisky is promised for the royal visit,” Ronan said succinctly, for he had not mentioned the situation to Sir Ludo. “I will explain later.”

“I want to hear it,” Ludo said.

“The whisky in those caves was there not long ago,” Tam said. “Rabbie and I saw it but a month past. That lot did not walk away on its own.”

“I told you all I know and all we saw, truly,” Aleck said, and Ronan nodded.

“I hear,” Tam said, “that Glen Brae and all that the glen holds has been sold. I hear the distillery belongs to another now, and its whisky too. Or soon will.”

“What did you hear?” Ronan asked.

“My wife had it from the kitchen maid at Darrach, who had it from her mother, who had it from an old man down the glen. The rumor is going about that Pitlinnie owns Glen Brae now.”

“He does not,” Ronan said curtly.

“Good. We want our own Glenbrae in charge. You, lad,” Tam told him.

“Would you sell it, ever?” Donal asked, distress cracking his young voice.

“Never. And tonight I just need to know who beat Geordie Muir, who took our stock of whisky, and where it is.”

“I also heard,” Tam said, “or me wife heard, that Pitlinnie was asking if the laird of Glenbrae has been named Viscount Darrach.”

“You have been waiting on the news, Uncle Ronan.”

Ronan drew a breath. “I have had promising news. But we will save that for later.” The men grinned but did not ask more, and he appreciated their focus.

“For now, all roads lead to Pitlinnie,” Rabbie muttered.

“Though he is a scoundrel,” Ronan said then, “he is no low thief, nor is he desperate for goods. Some of this does not make sense.”

“He has plenty whisky of his own to move,” Tam agreed.

“But he wants the Glenbrae distillery,” Rabbie said. “And he thought Ronan MacGregor would hang, so he has been planning to take over the business.”

“Good sirs and fair lads, we cannot solve this now,” Sir Ludo said in his grand and archaic manner. “What is important is to find the whisky. The king’s wish must be served.”

“Just so,” Ronan said, and swallowed the last, a mellow burn down his throat.

*

She woke in the dark, startling out of a noisy tilt of a dream into a dim and rainy dawn. The dream clung as she pulled on a dressing gown and slippers, still in the thrall of climbing a steep hill in strong winds, seeing Ronan MacGregor far ahead amid a cluster of strangers. She struggled to reach him, calling out, slipping, sliding, but he did not see her. At last reaching the top, she found herself at the edge of a cliff and, in the way of dreams, Ronan even farther away, still beyond reach. The ground where she stood crumbled away beneath her feet then, and suddenly she was falling—and had to fly or perish. Somehow, she soared and tried to swoop toward Ronan. Seeing her, he reached out—and then she woke, still feeling an odd sense of floating that quickly dissipated as she sat up.

Had Ronan returned in the night? She had slept fitfully until the desperate dream had taken over. Pulling her dressing gown over her nightgown, she heard the dull rumble of thunder as she went downstairs. The house was dark and silent, the kitchen deserted but for Balor, asleep by the warm hearth. He raised his head to greet her with a low woof, then went back to dozing as she built up the fire in the grate, warmed the kettle, and prepared a pot of tea. Minutes later, she sat sipping a cup at the well-scrubbed table, listening to the whip of rain and the grumble of thunder.

Then she heard a sound over the predawn storm—horse hooves, shouts, and a distant voice, so familiar now that she gasped in relief. Going to the kitchen door, she angled to listen and to look toward the stables, just visible to her left.

She could hardly run outside in her dressing gown. Instead, she hurried to the hob to add more hot water to the teapot, then searched for scones, rolls, jam, butter.

Bringing a tray to Ronan’s tower room was something she could do now, an offer of plain before breakfast was prepared for the household. If she could see him for a moment, she would feel reassured that he was safe and well.

Soon she carried the tray along the connecting corridor to the old tower and headed for the stone steps, going carefully up the old, worn steps. A few of the treads bore wet prints just visible in the dim light from the narrow stairwell window. Ronan had come this way ahead of her.

At his bedchamber door, she hesitated, suddenly wishing she had written a note to leave with the tray— Dearest Ronan , she would have written. She bent to leave the tray outside the door, about to give a quick knock and flee. But the silver tray scraped over stone and the teapot clinked against the cup as she knelt on the floor.

The door swung open. She stared at two large bare feet, tracing her gaze upward past bare calves dusted with dark hair, past the folds of a dark kilt wrapped and belted over a loose linen shirt open at chest and throat to reveal a mat of dark hair. She looked up at his face, his dear face and scruff-bearded jaw, his dark hair wet and curling, his wide shoulders, all haloed by candlelight.

“Why, Ellison,” he said, and reached down to her.

Blushing like fire, she set her hand in his as he brought her to her feet.