Page 21 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

S he looked flustered, delectable, sleepy, and the most welcome sight he could have imagined. He just wanted to pull her into his arms and bury his soul and troubles in her gentle, whimsical, comforting nature. But he let go.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” she said. “It is good to see you safe, and home.”

Home . That word, from her, was everything. Bending, he picked up the tray and brought it to the table, then gestured toward his bare feet and shirtsleeves in apology. “Pardon me. I had a wash and was dressing. It has been a long night.”

“I only brought tea, thinking you might be hungry. But you must be tired. I should go.” She turned.

“Stay.” Reaching over her head, he shut the door. “Will you stay?”

“I could pour.”

“Please pour, my lass.”

She went to the table. Her dark blue dressing gown, prim, plain, poufy, enveloped her throat to foot, its hem dragging as she moved. Pouring tea, she added cream. Her hair fell in a tousled golden mass, her cheeks were pale, purple shadowed her eyes, and she had made tea for him before dawn. His heart warmed.

“You have not slept.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup.

“I was worried.” Her lashes lifted, her eyes the color of the clouds crowding the sky. “But I am glad you are home now.”

“I left in a hurry last night. I apologize.” He sipped. The tea was hot, good.

She shook her head. “MacNie said you rode to Invermorie with Aleck Muir and Donal. It must have been important.”

“It was.” If he wanted her in his life—Lord, he did—he owed her more honesty. “Aleck came to say that Geordie had been hurt. They were looking for the whisky we had stored away, but it was missing. And someone attacked the lad.”

She gasped. “Is he hurt badly?”

“He will recover. Mairi is taking care of him.”

“Who did this? Did they also take the whisky?”

“Possibly.”

She nodded, brow creased with concern. Dear God, Ronan thought—she was so lovely, standing beside him here in a closed bedroom, as if it was no breach of protocol at all. As if she belonged here, a natural part of his life.

“You mean to go out again,” she said.

“The store must be found.” Taking a deeper sip, revived, he set down the cup.

“This is Thursday,” she reminded him. “Corbie will be here later.”

The name sullied the air. “I had forgotten.”

“MacNie will fetch him this afternoon.” She began to butterfly her fingers in that way she had, delicate knuckles pale, fingers weaving. He realized she had stopped doing that lately. She had been calmer, more certain, these weeks. Now the anxiousness had returned.

For that reason alone, disturbing his lass, he had a grudge to settle with Corbie.

“He and Papa will want to know if we did what was asked. We have no time left.”

“No more time to ensure the gentleman passes muster?” he drawled.

“To be together.” She took a step toward him.

He opened his arms as if that, too, was a natural thing to do here in his bed chamber. He pulled her close, wrapping her in warmth better than any voluminous gown could do. Pressing his cheek to her hair, he held her. Just that.

But when she lifted her head, he sensed the invitation, touched his lips to hers gently at first— you are safe , he wanted to tell her, saying it instead with his lips, his embrace. You are loved. He so wanted to say it, his heart surging, body surging with each kiss. So loved. Yet he could not say it, was not sure he had the right to, not yet.

Then she looped her arms around his neck with a soft little cry, pressing closer, matching kisses with fervor, inviting, exploring. Morning thunder boomed again outside the window, a fresh torrent of rain driving against the glass panes. Ronan felt a storm break within him, yet still he held back.

“I was going to leave a note,” she whispered against his lips. “With the tea. But I had no paper or pencil. And you opened the door.”

“I did,” he murmured, and kissed the corner of her lip, her soft cheek, her lips again. “What would you have written?”

“Dearest Ronan, here is your tea,” she whispered against his mouth.

He half laughed. “Dearest girl,” he murmured, lips on hers, now tracing along to the delicate curl of her ear, “thank you for the tea.”

“Welcome,” but the word was lost in a kiss that shook him to his core, and her body, her hips, pushed against him, so that he had to move away or have no secrets.

Just then the squat little clock on the mantel chimed out—one, two—four times. So late, yet so early. The sound made him pause, cleared the fog from his thinking.

He drew back. “Ellison, this is not how I would want to treat you. Not—”

She leaned to kiss and silence him, and he surrendered, hungry, then gathered himself again. “Not gentlemanly.”

She looked at him. “We have no time for lessons. We just have part of the day.”

“Lessons be damned, then.” Snugging her small waist in his hands, feeling her hips against him, so willing, he felt too the deep pulse in her body and in his.

“You need no lessons from me. You never did.”

“I did,” he said, tipping his head to take her mouth in a deep, rich kiss that plunged through him body and soul. “I am learning—that I have a heart after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her so thoroughly that he tasted her soft groan, felt her sink a little in his arms. Lifting her against him, he leaned back so that her feet cleared the floor, her body planed softly to his. “If you like.”

Pressing her cheek to his, she put her lips to his ear. “The household is asleep,” she said. “I do not need to go back just yet.”

He shifted to carry her full in his arms. “Sure?”

“Oh aye,” she whispered. “I think we did claim to be betrothed.”

“Oh well, then,” he breathed, and set her on the bed. As she shoved the coverlet aside, he leaned over her, keeping his weight on his hands as he kissed her.

Stormy darkness filled the room, the single candle burning like a bright star. Thunder rolled in the distance. Under the canopy of the stout old bed, rounded mattress sinking under his weight, he lay beside her, curving a hand along her jaw, then letting his fingers seek the buttons at the ruffled throat of the shapeless dressing gown. Her trembling fingers went ahead of his hands to find others, to open the folds. Just a night-rail beneath, he found, all gauze and lace, the veil of it sliding away beneath his hands and hers together.

“Sure, now?” he asked again.

She gave a soft laugh and pulled him down to recline in the cool, deep nest of pillows and linens beside her. He rolled to his side and she turned too, allowing him to sweep his hand down along her bared arm, the skin supple, warm as he kissed her, as she returned it, pulling him toward her, over her. His fingers found her breast, cupped, and he caught his breath as his heart pounded, body swelled for her.

Nuzzling her ear, then the line of her throat, he sank down until his lips found the pearling center of her breast. He heard her gasp, felt her fingers slip through the thickness of his hair, still damp from the washing in the moments before she came into his life in this profound way, a way he had not expected nor dared dream.

He tasted her, felt her pull in a breath of deepest pleasure, and she arched to invite him further. She knew where this could lead—he knew that, and as her hands found the wooly fabric of his plaid, sliding upward, he knew she was not surprised, that she had more courage in the moment, helping him to breach and break whatever was reserved and formal between them. Nothing, now, would be the same, all for the better.

Sliding a hand along the smoothness of her thigh, the light shift gathering like flower petals under his hand, he shaped her hip, followed the sweet curve of her abdomen, the delicate mound that made her gasp anew against his lips on hers. Every part of her was exquisite, warm, welcoming, soft and slippery as his fingertips found her, rocked her, took her little cries into his lips, her breath and his breath, in and out again. Then her fingers seeking, shaping him, deft and then soft and bold again, until he pulsed for her, his body echoing his heart, wanting, yearning, the sweet power of her touch shuddering through him. She was soft, golden, lush in his hands, all grace and satin where he was taut and hard with need. Her touch had mischief in it, easing him along as he eased her, until he could hold back no longer. Now the thunder was the pounding of his heart and hers together.

Breaths, and resting together, but too soon she rose, kissed him, and whispered something. Thanks? Love? He thought he heard that soft, wonderful word. It was time.

“My love,” he murmured. Fatigue swamped him, and so truth prevailed. He could no longer hold up falseness like a curtain between them. “ Tha gaol agam ort,” he whispered in Gaelic. My love is upon you; I love you.

“ Mo graidh,” she said. My love . She kissed him. Before the door closed behind her, he slept.

Long into the day, she saw him at last, her heart near bounding out of her breast when he stepped out of the larger library just as she walked through the passage. She had thought to be discreet upon seeing him, yet a hot blush spilled into her cheeks with the sweet memory of the hour before dawn. He had been gone much of the day, riding out with Donal, so she did not know until now that he had returned.

As he emerged and saw her, he tipped his head, and gave a crooked, almost wicked smile. “Come in here,” he said low, holding the door open.

“It is nearly tea time.” She paused, trying to hide her smile. “Come up to the parlor. You have been out all day and must be hungry.”

“That is the least of what I feel just now. Come here.” He took her hand, pulled her inside, shut the door.

Setting her hand on his shoulder, she leaned in expecting to share a kiss while they had privacy. Instead, he put a hand to her waist, and, standing tall, stretched her right hand out with his left arm. “Miss Graham, will you dance with me?”

She laughed. “You need no lessons. We established that.”

“I have just enough dancing to get by at a cèilidh or a ball. But it is not the dancing. It is having the afternoon to ourselves to practice—whatever we want to practice.” He swayed with her in his arms, turned with her.

“Well, Sorcha is resting in her room, Mrs. Barrow is preparing tea, and the housemaids are busy getting our things ready.”

“For Edinburgh?”

“For the dance and supper tomorrow evening. And MacNie has gone to Kinross.”

“I did not want a reminder of that errand.” As he stepped forward, she stepped back and then to the side, turning with him in the pattern until they spun on dancing feet, the hem of her gown filling out as she turned. She laughed with the dizziness and the delight of it.

“So you learned this in London? Do not tell me you have already met the king. Though I would not be surprised, you with your secrets.”

“Never met the gentleman.” He twirled her, pulled her close, leaned his cheek against her head. “I was there for a few weeks before India.”

She tilted back to look at him, and they whirled toward the other end of the wide room with soaring, turning steps. No music, just the natural rhythm of shared steps and breaths, as if they had always done this. “There is much I do not know about you.”

“You know more than most.”

“With no time to learn more.” She spun with him, captured in his steady formal embrace, as her spirit soared, feeling that strength and the grace of shared movement.

“This is not over,” he said, bringing her slowly to a stop. He tipped her chin up with a finger. “It is just beginning.”

“I wish it were so.” She drew a breath. “We both have secrets, and trust comes hard. But truth will out, so I should confess. What would you think if you discovered my secret was a disappointment to you?”

“You,” he said, “are a guileless and lovely creature. Whatever you may have done in the past does not worry me now.”

“You might think otherwise if you knew.”

“Would I? Who am I to judge another? Listen now.” Fully serious, he met her gaze. “I know your innocence and your naivete, your trust in people. I know your temper and your backbone, your secret about writing. I believe you understand more about life and sadness, loyalty and love, than most at your age. You have a strong will and you are not perfect. That is enough for me.”

“If there was something to forgive, could you?”

“Surely you did what you had to do. Lass, you have lived like a mouse in your father’s home, being meek, following orders, pleasing others instead of taking care of yourself. You were married and widowed and that was not easy. You would have had to protect yourself. But it is past. I see you changing, growing stronger every day.”

“Because of you.”

“Then we are in each other’s debt, and a support for each other. Whatever you did needs no one’s forgiveness. Least of all mine.”

“Others do not share that opinion.”

“That does not surprise me.” He sounded almost angry.

“My father never approved of Colin Leslie,” she said. “He was a poet, the son of a viscount whose title was not heritable. He had very little money of his own, but for a house and some valuables. My father thought him a useless lad—so he called him. A useless lad. But Colin was a good man, intelligent and kind, but did not know how to please my father. Mr. Corbie was very disapproving too, told me it would all come to naught and I should come to my senses and marry at my own level.”

“He wanted you for himself,” Ronan said, letting go of her to lean back against the library table, folding his arms as he listened.

“Perhaps. Lady Strathniven rather liked him, thought he was pleasant, but was convinced he would eventually make me unhappy. But—I loved him or thought I did. I was in love with the idea of love. And so,” she said, “I eloped.”

He waited, said nothing.

“It caused a terrible rift, embarrassed my father terribly, nearly cost him his position, or so he said, though he was appointed deputy lord provost regardless of what had happened. And my mother—” She paused.

“You rarely mention her. What did she think?”

“She was gone by then. My father made it clear she would have disapproved and been ill over it. But I rather think she would have applauded—any decision that chose love. But my father would not speak to me for a long time. But then—Colin died. An accident, fell from his horse when out riding with his friends. Reckless, he could be, but in good spirits, in fun. The shock—was awful. My father was good to me after that, invited me back to the house. I did not want to stay—where I had lived with Colin. But then,” she said, “Papa insisted that I must live quietly, take no more chances, do what was appropriate in all things. For my happiness, he said. For my safety.”

“For his own peace of mind.”

“He cares, in his way. I felt responsible because he was unhappy, you see. He changed so after Mama died. I felt responsible for—” She drew a breath, shook her head. “I just needed a little forgiveness, parent to a child. Lessons,” she said. “Always lessons from Papa, to improve me, more so than either of my sisters.”

“Lessons!” He gave a wry little huff. “I have not heard much about your sisters, but later for that. Ellison, nothing needs forgiveness here that I can see. Perhaps you need only to forgive yourself, stop judging yourself harshly. At the time, you needed their understanding. But I think Sir Hector can be unfeeling, even when he believes he is being fair. As for Corbie—what you do is simply not his business.”

“Papa thinks I should marry Mr. Corbie, says he will go far in the Scottish government one day. Says Corbie is willing to accept my past behavior. And Lady Strathniven would not object, I think, since he is her heir.”

“Willing to accept?” He shook his head. “If the lady approves, it is because she knows Corbie must marry a woman with common sense and a heart. But it is too late now.”

“Too late?” She caught her breath, not sure what he meant.

“Too late for your Mr. Corbie. You could never marry that cold fish. Besides, I hear you are betrothed to another.” He held out his hands. A welcome. A haven.

With a little sob, she ran to him, felt his arms encircle her. He held her, kissed the top of her head. Closing her eyes, she took in the feeling.

“Ronan MacGregor, I think I love you,” she said impulsively. “Only weeks, but I feel it is so.” Her heart pounded—she held her breath, waiting. Hoping.

“I feel the same.” He kissed her brow. “I love you, Ellison Graham. I am only beginning to see how much, I think. Keep your secrets. I am hardly one to judge.”

“Nor will I ask about yours. I think it all went away, the doubt, the sense that you were a stranger, on the day we went to Kinross.”

“Kinross? When you visited the seamstress?”

She nodded. “That day, you were just strong and sure and it felt so good to be near you. And when you met with the two men—it was only Aleck and Geordie, I know that now—I feared something bad might happen to you. And then I just knew. Later, when we took the wee lamb to Invermorie, you were so gentle and kind, and I saw how much your family means to you, saw how much you had sacrificed for their wellbeing. Keep your secrets, sir. I know you have your reasons. And I am content.”

He tilted her face, kissed her. “Here is a secret. I dread meeting the king.”

“So do I, for it might be the last day we ever see each other.”

“I am thinking all will be well. I cannot say why just yet. Trust me. I only dread meeting the king because it is—not my way, the world of peers and lords and earls and suchlike.”

“I do trust you,” she said, as it welled up in her. “And I do not care a whit if you are a lord, a laird, a farmer—or a scoundrel. I love you as you are. And if I did not see you again after the king’s levee, then I”—she searched for the words—“I would search for you. Wait for you. And feel grateful that we met, and that I know what the deepest sort of love is like.”

“I would not leave you to wait. I would find a way.” He bent to kiss her again.

“Ronan,” she whispered. “I know am too romantic. I know what may be said about us. But this is no fairytale, and we have no guarantee of a happy ending. But what we have is worth far more. I think we both want—and deserve—the same in life.”

He touched her cheek. “Love and freedom.”

“Love, aye. And freedom from burdens and threats. Freedom to do what we will.”

“We may have to fight for that, my lass. This situation—is not resolved.”

“Then we will stand up for each other. I am learning better how to do that.”

He laughed, and kissed her, and soon sent her on her way, though she did not want to go. But it was time to return to the main house, the day, the world out there.

“The sunset is brilliant,” Sorcha said, pointing toward the window in the parlor that evening. “All rose and gold and purple. What a relief to see the rain clear away.”

“It will take the heat from the air in time for your mother’s cèilidh tomorrow,” Ellison said. “Though Papa mentioned that the heat lingers most unpleasantly in the city. I hope it cools a little before we all go south.” She glanced at Ronan, then away.

He knew her thoughts and sensed her reluctance. Sparing a glance for the stunning sunset, he went back to watching the hills where the road curved up from Kinross. Likely Ben MacNie was bringing Corbie along that road by now.

He fisted a hand behind him, not looking forward to that meeting. Ellison, seated with Sorcha, held Balor in her lap, stroking his head as the girls discussed plans for the party. He was not keen on that event either, but there was naught to be done. He must go through with all of it.

“My mother has a knack for arranging flowers and candlelight and such,” Sorcha was saying. “The house will look wonderful. And tomorrow we will be dancing! We will have strathspeys and reels!”

She stood, grasping her skirt as she began to hop and spin about while humming. Ellison laughed as Sorcha sidestepped toward her, and set the little dog down so that she could stand and clasp hands with her friend. They spun about the room, their slippers light on the carpet and their skirts, blue and green, belling like flowers.

Ronan smiled at Ellison, happy for the moment—Sorcha was a bright wee thing who could lift the mood wherever she was. Balor leaped about, barking as if he wanted to join them, and as the girls whirled past, Sorcha reached out to Ronan.

“Don’t be such a curmudgeon, Darrach!”

He took her hand, then Ellison’s, and circled with them, not quite sharing their elation but willing enough. Soon he could not help but chuckle. He had never in his life done something like this—the spontaneous joy of lightsome girls and an impish dog were new elements to him, a remedy of sorts.

Ellison stumbled over the little terrier underfoot and Ronan caught her swiftly, setting an arm about her for balance. She looped her arms around his neck and urged him to swirl around, while Sorcha picked up the dog and danced with it.

On the last turnabout, Ronan saw a figure in the doorway. He stopped.

Ellison slid out of his arms and stepped back. “Mr. Corbie!”

Heart thumping from dancing, laughter, and moments of freedom, Ellison went still and silent. Beside her, Ronan seemed to freeze as he faced the newcomer. At her feet, Balor tensed and began to bark in irritation.

“Cousin Adam!” Sorcha ran to Corbie, taking his arm to bring him into the parlor. “We have been waiting for you!” Patting his hand, she smiled at the others. “Here is Ellison. And I think you know Lord Darrach?”

“Miss Ellison. Mr. MacGregor,” Corbie said stiffly. Still barking, Balor trotted toward him to stare up, tense and quivering. Ellison hurried forward to pull him away by his collar.

“Balor, here,” she said. “Mr. Corbie, welcome.”

“Thank you.” Corbie said.

Ellison held Balor now, scruffing her fingers on his head as she stood beside Ronan, who briefly touched her elbow in discreet reassurance.

“Mr. Corbie,” he said.

Corbie looked sour, tired, and tight-lipped. Rather than feeling angry or resentful, Ellison felt sorry for him. Had he arrived earlier, he would have killed any impulse for merriment. Her heart sank as she hoped her newfound happiness had not abruptly ended with his footstep on the carpet.

“Please have a seat,” she said. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“Not particularly.” Corbie sat beside Sorcha on the narrow sofa, while Ellison took a wing chair, holding the dog. Ronan stood beside her, silent. “Your man MacNie kept me waiting while he finished a pint in the tavern—expecting me to wait for a servant! And just what is going on here?” He looked sternly from one to the other. “My lady aunt is not here at present. Cat’s away, mice will play, is that it?”

“Certainly not,” Ellison said.

“We were practicing dance steps,” Sorcha said. “You came just in time!”

“I have been in a coach for hours on rough roads. I am not in a mood for dancing.”

“I meant you are here just in time to join us tomorrow for a cèilidh at Duncraig,” Sorcha said. Even she sounded subdued now.

“I heard. My aunt wrote to invite Sir Hector and me as well. He is much too busy to come north, but sent me, as other matters require attention.” He lifted a brow to look at Ellison, then Ronan. But there his glance skittered away, as if he could not meet Ronan’s steady, searing gaze. “We must discuss why I came up here, and what has been going on at Strathniven.”

“Going on, Cousin?” Sorcha looked bewildered. “We are enjoying the summer and looking forward to the royal visit, so we have been practicing for introductions, if we are fortunate enough to be introduced.”

“Ah,” Corbie said.

“And looking forward to the dance tomorrow,” Sorcha added.

“I hope it proves as simple as you imagine, Cousin Sorcha. Just for now I need some rest. Did I miss supper? No one mentioned.”

He had given her no chance as yet, Ellison thought. “We had a light supper earlier, but Mrs. Barrow can prepare a tray for you. I will ask her to send it upstairs. You will be in your usual room.”

“Good. It has been a long day. Traveling north took longer due to the unusual traffic on the roads. Crowds at every stop, and the roads full of carriages. We will need to return very soon, Miss Ellison. Plan for a long journey due to the number of travelers heading to Edinburgh.”

“Very soon?” Ellison asked.

“Your father expects you home as soon as possible.”

“I—I thought there was more time,” she blurted. Beside her, she saw Ronan rest an arm on the high back of her chair, a simple gesture that made her relax. “What of Lord Darrach?” she asked.

“Expected as well. We will arrange a separate escort.”

“No need. I will find my way there,” Ronan said flatly.

“I was hoping we would all travel there together,” Sorcha said. “Oh, dear, it is getting late. We should all get some extra rest tonight. I am glad you are able to join us, Cousin Adam.”

“I have not yet decided,” he said, as Sorcha stood. “Good night, Cousin.”

“Mr. Corbie,” Ellison said when Sorcha left the parlor. “I promised to attend Mrs. Beaton’s cèilidh, and I plan to travel south with Lady Strathniven and Sorcha. Lord Darrach can travel with us. I am sorry if you have other plans.”

“Miss Ellison, your father is displeased that my aunt left you unchaperoned.”

She lifted her chin. “Sorcha is my companion here, since Lady Strathniven was called away to help her sister.”

“Sorcha’s mother is healthy enough to host a country dance, apparently. I am disappointed in my lady aunt for leaving you here.” He looked pointedly at Ronan.

Though she could not see Ronan’s reaction, she felt his ominous silence.

“Miss Ellison, you may not care that your father’s reputation rises or falls on the behavior of his family at this crucial time. We will discuss that later, you and I—and MacGregor too,” he added.

“You mean Lord Darrach,” she corrected.

“I know Sir Evan MacGregor requested that the inheritance go to his cousin. It came to our office for review. The law of succession is not a clear path in this case. We disagree with the decision to grant the title and estate to MacGregor.”

“‘We?’” Ellison repeated. “Presumptuous, sir.”

“I only share your father’s opinion as his secretary.”

“Yet you and Papa are willing to present him as Darrach to the king.”

Corbie’s nostrils flared. He stood. “That is different. A temporary necessity.”

“For whom?” she asked.

“We all know the answer to that.” Ronan spoke at last, his voice reverberating low. “The decision about the title is fortunate, Mr. Corbie. It eliminates a certain risk.”

“We are not prepared to accept the decision as final.”

“Usually, intestate succession in Scots law,” Ronan said, “results in the granting of goods equally among spouse, children, siblings and other kin if agreed by all parties. It has been a stable factor in Scots law. The difficulty comes when there are few relatives. My cousin, the previous Lord Darrach, had no clear inheritors other than myself. As his first cousin and nearest male relative, the title, land, and goods can legally come to me.”

“Except that the nearest male relative is a criminal.”

“That is not a factor under the law, sir. I have not been convicted, and have been pardoned—as you well know.”

“Conditional.”

“And innocent of charges unless proven otherwise. What is most unusual here, as you may be aware, is that a peerage title hangs in the balance as well as an estate. Therefore, the court deferred to the clan chief, which is their prerogative and his right. Sir Evan recommended in my favor. And that is that. You and Sir Hector cannot hold sway, as you have no legal claim or authority in the matter.”

Corbie gave a scoffing laugh. “Where did all that legal parlance come from? Pretending to be a lawyer as well as a peer?”

“I am a lawyer,” Ronan said calmly. Corbie stared.

“Sorry, did no one mention?” Ellison smiled, cool and quick. “He read for the law and is a very fine lawyer who practices in Perth and Edinburgh.” The smug satisfaction she felt seemed almost evil.

“That cannot be! He is a small laird, a smuggling thief, and an imposter.”

“I am an advocate for the defense, as it happens,” Ronan said.

“Outrageous,” Corbie sputtered. “You should have said so.”

“You never asked,” he drawled.

“If you advocate for criminals, how did you end up in a dungeon?”

“A question I intend to solve,” Ronan said.

“I am going to bed,” Corbie snapped, and turned on his heel for the door.

When he was gone, Ellison stood, and Ronan came around the chair, tipping a brow at her. “A very fine lawyer, is it?”

“I have every faith in the incomparable Lord Darrach.”

“Miss Graham,” he murmured, pulling her toward him to kiss her cheek, her ear, her lips, so that her melty knees nearly gave way. “You had best hurry away before I think of something two people could do in this room, all alone.”

She sighed. “I cannot feel alone anywhere now that he is here.”

“Aye so. Off with you, lass. Tomorrow will be a busy day indeed.”