Page 23 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)
T he fiddlers swept their bows over the strings in unison as Ronan led Ellison through the slow beat of the strathspey, following the patterns and rhythms as the couples moved in alternating loops. He smiled, seeing Ellison’s grace as she flowed through the movements of the dance. Corbie, who had stayed for his aunt, clomped along while Lady Strathniven proved a lively dancer, hopping about with enthusiasm.
Ellison circled with Corbie in turn, turning away before he could speak to her, which Ronan was glad to see. He wanted to remove the man brusquely, but the urge passed when he saw Ellison’s lightsome beauty and felt the pull of love within him.
The principals’ dance ended and other couples took the floor as the fiddlers struck up a fast reel. Soon the dancers were stepping right, left, hopping, whirling, and laughing as they kept up with the rhythms. Ronan led Ellison into the fray, wanting to keep her dancing, keep her merry and breathless as she whirled in his arms.
Later, in the supper room among the crowd, he roamed past tables groaning with food—roast mutton, fowl, beef, haggis; steaming vegetables in sauces; plates of oatcakes and bannocks with butter and cheese. Another table held puddings, pies, cakes, bowls of fruity ices, while bowls of whisky punch and decanters of sherry wine filled another table, along with coffee and port. Finally, as servants cleared away dishes, couples took chairs to rest and visit, and then in pairs, resumed dancing.
Watching Ellison, Ronan was glad to see that she glowed with happiness in the moment. But he kept watch, alert for anything that might disturb the mood and the camaraderie. Too soon, he was proved right.
Though the fellow should have departed, Corbie stood in a shadowy corner engaged in earnest conversation with Pitlinnie and a bearded Highlander. As Corbie gestured, Pitlinnie shook his head and the third man hunched his shoulders, listening.
What the devil was this? Ronan crossed the room, determined to interrupt, but the trio separated. A few dancers whirled through, so that Ronan paused, and when the path cleared, the three men were gone. He hoped Corbie had finally left, but he felt a distinct unease.
“Lord Darrach!” Hearing Sorcha’s voice, he turned to see her with a tall, thin man who looked deucedly familiar. He had seen the fellow in Edinburgh’s Parliament House. On a bench. In a wig and the dark red robes of a lord justice.
Sorcha’s brother, The Honorable Lord Justice. His heart sank. Sorcha called again, and Ronan approached reluctantly.
“Lord Darrach, let me introduce The Honorable Lord Justice Beaton. My brother,” she added, smiling.
“My lord.” Ronan took the man’s extended hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Justice Beaton. Ronan had passed the judge often enough in the halls of the Scottish parliament in Edinburgh, had even argued before his bench a few times.
“I was just telling my little sister how familiar you look. Then it occurred to me. Sir John MacGregor, one of our most capable advocates. Now Viscount Darrach, by God! Excellent.”
Nothing for it but to own it. “Thank you, sir. I am occasionally in Edinburgh, though most often I practice in Perth.”
“Which explains why I have not seen you of late,” Beaton added, and his eyes narrowed. The man was no fool, and might know more about John Ronan MacGregor than was comfortable. If so, the judge did not allude to it.
Hearing Ellison’s greeting, Ronan felt relief and tension both. She greeted the Beaton siblings, whom she knew well, and stood beside Ronan, not close enough to draw attention, yet close enough that he felt buoyed up.
“I understand your cousin is the new chief of the MacGregors,” Beaton said.
“Sir Evan MacGregor, aye.”
“He was invited tonight,” Sorcha said, “but he and his lady have gone to Edinburgh already.”
“Sir Evan owes his life to Darrach,” Beaton told the others. “Saved his cousin’s life in India. Sir Evan suffered terrible injuries. But Darrach here pulled him out of the fray in a brutal ambush. Sir Evan is hearty today because of it.”
“Many fought alongside Sir Evan that day. He was the very soul of courage,” Ronan said. He disliked talking about it. “His brother was lost in the battle. We all helped each other survive that day.”
“Must have been hellish.” Beaton shook his head. “Sir Evan owes you. Indeed, the entire clan is in your debt.”
Ronan was uncomfortably aware of how intently the others listened. He had told Ellison little of that part of his life. Yet now he felt her warmth and faith like a blanket.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said simply.
“Anything you need, sir. Anything at all,” Beaton said. “Miss Graham, I nearly forgot. I have some news for you from Mr. Cameron. There was an issue with a house on Castle Street, I think?”
She lifted her brows. “North Castle, aye. Mr. Cameron brought it to you?”
“It came to me and was decided. The previous tenants are gone,” he said tactfully. “A new tenant already offered to rent it for a generous sum. Rental fees are exorbitant in Edinburgh this summer, which is fortunate for you! Mr. Cameron has the papers.”
“Thank you! It is a lovely house and I hope the new tenants will be happy there.”
“It is a very desirable location,” Lady Strathniven said, having joined them.
Silent, Ronan only smiled, hoping for a chance to step away before Beaton remembered more.
“Oh, there is the Duke of Gordon,” Beaton said. “I must speak with him about the procession planned in the city. We are both on Scott’s Celtic committee. Scott is a grand fellow,” he confided, “but his precious project, representing what he calls Celtified Scotland, has required a great deal of effort. Please excuse me.” He departed the group.
“Ellison, it is good to know the problem with the house is solved. And a paying tenant as well, excellent! You must stay with me if you ever tire of your dear Papa. And Darrach,” she added, startling him. “You saved Sir Evan! I had no idea!”
“A testament to Darrach’s humility, for none of us knew.” Ellison looked up at him, her eyes limpid gray, searching. Someday he would tell her all of it and more. Suddenly it occurred to him, standing with Lady Strathniven, Sorcha, and his lady love, that he owed all of them affection and gratitude for helping him these last weeks.
“I am glad you three found out,” he murmured, his gaze touching Ellison’s. “But keep it to yourselves, aye?”
“Darrach does like his secrets,” Ellison said with a light laugh.
Much later, Ellison stood outside watching the line of carriages crawl past Duncraig’s entrance and down the drive to the main road. Drawing her paisley shawl closer in the light chill of the late summer evening, she looked around for Sorcha or Lady Strathniven among the clusters of guests chatting as they waited. Stifling a yawn, she realized how very weary she was, almost swaying on her feet. All she could think of was getting home to Strathniven, to her bed and pillows and dreams.
And to the last chance to see Ronan there before they all left for Edinburgh and the commotion—and risks—of the king’s visit.
Earlier, Ronan had reminded her that he and Donal had ridden to Duncraig and would head out on horseback to return to Strathniven. When he asked if she wanted him to follow as she rode in a carriage with the other women, she shook her head.
“We will only slow you down,” she said. “Lady Strathniven planned to ask her sister to lend a carriage, since Mr. Corbie left in our barouche. I regret giving him the idea, as there is a great scramble for carriages this evening.”
“Better that you do not ride back with him. But if you wish to wait for Lady Strathniven and Sorcha, I will go back with Donal and see you at the house.” He had briefly touched her shoulder before leaving. She had felt his caring and her own rush of desire. But it did not matter if they were seen. She did not care what the rumors were.
Hearing Sorcha, she turned. “Mama wants us to stay the night,” she said. “So far all the carriages are in use, and she would like us to stay and leave tomorrow. I am to ask what you prefer.”
“I would rather ride back to Strathniven if a vehicle is available. I so want to be home after such an exhausting—and lovely—night. But I have found no carriage yet. And Lord Darrach already left with Donal on horseback. I may have to stay.”
“Wait here, and I will see what can be done.” Sorcha hurried away.
Gathering her shawl around her, Ellison stood watching, glancing up at the stars, delicate against the indigo sky. Hearing a step as someone approached, she turned.
“Miss Graham.” Neill Pitlinnie stood behind her. “I overheard your conversation. Mr. Corbie has taken your carriage? I wonder if I could offer mine.”
Startled, she shook her head. “I will stay if I can find no other way back.”
“You would not be riding with me,” he said. “I am happy to loan you my barouche, which is not being used. I mean to ride back, as I brought a horse here as well, as friends needed transportation. I—owe you an apology, Miss Graham.”
That surprised her. “You owe me nothing, sir.” She looked about for Sorcha.
“I realize that I shared news that was not mine to tell. Accept my congratulations and my apologies. Let me direct my driver to take you home.”
She had not expected that, but perhaps he had a moment of conscience. Ronan would not be happy about it, but she was so very tired, and could explain later. “A kind offer,” she said.
“Here is my driver now. Go on. I will tell Lady Strathniven your plans.”
The carriage pulled up, a sleek black barouche with seats of cushioned red velvet. She relented, seeing that temptation. She wanted to meet Ronan at Strathniven. If Lady Strathniven and Sorcha stayed here, and Corbie had gone on to Edinburgh, or at least the inn at Kinross as he had threatened, she would be alone with Ronan. It could be their last night together before returning to the city and the unknown.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling up at the bearded driver.
“To Strathniven, and hurry, for the lady is weary,” Pitlinnie told the man. He opened the door. “Miss Graham, I hope you will forgive me. Enjoy your journey.”
“I am grateful, sir.” She mounted the lowered step, accepting the support of his hand, sitting and sat as he shut the door and tapped the carriage roof.
Sinking onto the cushioned bench, she leaned back as the carriage lumbered away to join the long line of vehicles rolling down the road. Seeing a plaid folded on the seat, she drew it over lap and sighed, lulled by the swaying motion and the darkness.
Somewhat later, she woke, noticing that the rocking motion of the carriage had stopped. Strathniven already? Rousing herself, gathering her shawl, she felt the vehicle lurch as the driver dismounted and came around to open the door.
“Miss,” he said, “out now.” Before she could answer, he reached in to grab her. Shocked, she pulled away, and saw another man standing behind the driver.
“I do not understand—”
“Out. Now!” The driver grabbed for her again. Standing, she exited, trembling.
“What is this? Where are we?” She looked around. In the darkness, she did not see Strathniven House—just a wide stretch of bleak, dark moorland, hills to one side, a gleam of water elsewhere.
“Come along. And dinna try to get away.” The bearded man clutched at her then, pulling her toward him, while the second man looped a rope around her hands. Roughly shoved, she fell to her knees in mucky grass, unable to stop herself with her hands tied.
As they took her arms to haul her to her feet, she took a breath, lifted her head, and screamed with all the fervor she could muster, hearing the sound travel over moor and water before a brutish hand clapped over her mouth.
The driver grabbed her shawl and she heard a ripping sound. Then a wad of cloth was forcibly tied around her jaw, gagging her.
“Now she will be quiet,” he growled. “We should hae done that first. Come along. ’Tisna far to walk. I wouldna drag a wee lassie aboot, see, but it canna be helped. Come.”
She could not form words, could only concentrate on walking forward, keeping her balance, breathing, as they pulled her between them along the edge of the water toward the tower in the distance.
Looking around, she saw a small island in the water, and glancing further, began to recognize where they were walking. They were walking beside the narrow stretch of Loch Brae, where the fairy isle sat in the middle. Ahead of them, yards away, she saw the massive ruin of a tower—the ancient ruin that she had wanted to visit.
Nearby would be the birch grove where a fast-flowing burn cut through moor and meadow, where she and Ronan had fished. They had met Pitlinnie near the meadowland. And he had lent her the use of his carriage that evening.
Not so kindly as she had thought. She had been na?ve to trust him. But why would he lure her deliberately?
Then she knew. He meant to use her to lure and harm Ronan.
“What was that?” Donal halted his horse and looked at Ronan. “Did you hear it?”
“Aye.” Ronan stopped too, looking about. The sound, oddly familiar, sent a chill down his back.
“Fox, most like. They can shriek something fierce.” Donal gathered the reins.
“Huh,” Ronan agreed, but instinct told him otherwise. That was no fox. He looked around in the darkness. “I saw a coach heading that way not long ago. Odd.”
“I saw too, but dozens of coaches left Duncraig tonight. It would be one of those just heading home.”
“But this one took drover’s track in that direction. There are no houses or villages that way, and it is too dark for a carriage to take such a rough track.” The uneasy feeling plunged through him again. He stopped, and Donal did the same.
“What is it?” the lad asked.
“That way lies the Lealtie Burn and Loch Brae, and a crumbling old ruin. Nothing else for miles. It is a bit late for fishing, but not too late for free traders to be about.”
“They might go that way, but it is not the best route through this part of the glen.”
“I saw Pitlinnie and his lot come this way one evening, and I wondered why for that very reason. The only thing out here is—” Quick as a falling star, he knew.
“What?” Donal asked.
“The old broch tower. Have you been there recently?”
“Not since I was a boy. Too dangerous. The walls are near to collapsing. No one goes there. But—” He whistled. “No one goes there.”
“Exactly. I wonder if we might find our whisky there. Come on!”
As he rode, he searched in the moonlight for any trace that would tell him a vehicle had come this way. He stopped once or twice, noting wheel marks, and then saw footprints and mashed grasses. Those subtle marks led eastward toward the loch.
Something compelled him this way, a strong pull in gut and heart. If Pitlinnie and his men intended to hide a quantity of whisky in casks and kegs, the deserted old broch would be ideal. Why had he not thought of it before? Logic simply said the place was ruinous, useless. But that might not be the case.
Few ventured to the ancient ruin due to the danger of stones that might collapse, ancient ghosts that might appear, and the risk of injury or worse. Yet it was an excellent spot to hide a stock of stolen whisky for a while, though it was sure to be guarded.
“Donal.” He stopped the horse. “Ride to Invermorie and get Aleck if he is still there. If we are correct, we will also need a cart to move our brew out of there.”
Waving a hand, Donal turned his horse and rode off to take the military road, the fastest and safest route to Invermorie.
Urging his horse forward, Ronan followed the drover’s track until it faded into a grassy hillside. Desperate to see his instinct through, he cantered forward as the loch came into sight.
At last, they were gone.
Tilting her head in the darkness, Ellison waited, hands bound, holding her breath as she listened. Not long ago, she had heard the men’s voices fade. They must be heading back to the carriage they had left on the moor. Now the silence inside the old broch felt safer. She heard the shush of wind through trees, midnight birdsong, and nearby, water lapping softly. She sighed, releasing fear with a long exhale.
Uncertain how much time had passed, she knew she had to find an escape before they returned. She struggled against the dry, choking grip of the gag in her mouth, and pulled at the rope binding her wrists in front of her. Her hair shook down in loose tendrils, obscuring her vision. There must be some way to get free of the ropes. If she could do that, she could run out of the broch, and find her way back to the road, and Strathniven.
She scooted along the floor, just earth and some flat stones overgrown with moss and grass. They had left her leaning against a stone wall with the smell of stone and earth strong around her. But somewhere above, she sensed fresh night air coming from somewhere. Looking up, she glimpsed the night sky and a sprinkling of stars.
The structure was an ancient round tower, its roof gone, so that the massive cylindrical walls opened like an upright tunnel. The rooms of such a fortified keep were usually built inside the wide hollow walls, she knew from reading about ancient architecture one summer. A honeycomb of chambers could be separated by dividing walls. But she was in the central area, and had to locate an exit.
Scuttling along, resting, moving again, she paused to breathe and listen. Silence continued. Frowning, she thought back to what the men had said, looking for any hint that would help her understand what had happened and what they wanted.
A scrap of conversation between her captors came back. “He should be here,” one man had said to the other. “Should have met us by now.”
“He will be here. He wants this. He will pay well.”
“What of the other one?”
“If he finds the place, then pity the man, for he will step into a trap.”
She froze with dread at the memory. A trap—for Ronan. Surely they referred to him. The other man they spoke of had to be Pitlinnie.
She had to get free, find Ronan and warn him.
Something else came back to her. “We must leave the lass here. We canna wait longer. Have to find him.”
“Keep her bound. She will go nowhere. When this is done, we will have gold in our pockets.”
“We’d earn more if we took what’s hidden here, hey.” They laughed as they left.
Moving again, scooching awkwardly, her hand struck something hard, and she heard the dull thunk of wood. In the darkness, she could just see a wooden chest of some kind.
Along its edge, the wood had split, and a large nail stuck out. Wondering if it was sharp enough to cut rope, she maneuvered until the rope caught on the metal edge. Shifting, rocking her hands, she sawed the rope against the metal piece. After a while, shoulders aching unmercifully, she nearly gave up. But she felt the fibers weaken a little. Pulling and sawing anew, she kept at it.
The wooden chest was heavy, hardly shifting as she worked the rope over the edge of the large nail. Her movements created a chinking sound. What was in there? China or pottery? How odd to store such in this ancient place.
Whisky , she thought then. Whisky in glass bottles or pottery jugs. It must be.
Then the fibers collapsed around her wrists and she pulled her hands free. Wincing, she eased her stiff arms, rubbed her hands, tore off the gag, and got to her feet. Shaking out her muddied satin gown and sagging shawl, she looked around.
Standing on the earthen level of the broch, she could make out broken walls and jumbled stones in the moonlight, but did not see an exit immediately. She remembered stumbling over a maze of stones when the men led her inside. She knew there was a narrow opening somewhere in the tumble of broken stones.
She peered again at the wooden box, which was a crate built of rough wood, its lid broken and split. The contents had made a chinking sound. Poking a hand inside, she felt straw packed around the shoulders of crockery jugs, the sort used for ale or liquor.
She knelt, snatched up a small flat stone, and pried the rest of the lid away. Reaching inside, she pulled out a squat crockery vessel plugged with wax. A pale paper label was glued to the shoulders. She rotated the jug in a moonbeam.
Glenbrae Distillery, Perthshire, Scotland. An ink drawing showed the profile of Invermorie Castle.
She had to find Ronan quickly.
She made her way around the broch, hands skimming mossy walls, feet careful on cracked and tumbled stones. As she went, she listened for hoofbeats and voices, praying she could get away before her captors returned.
The men were expecting at least one more man, likely Pitlinnie. No one else would steal and hide a stock of Glenbrae whisky. Perhaps Sir Neill had heard it would be sent to the king. But why would that even matter to him?
The broch was widest at its base, and enormous cracks in the old stones revealed the double stone walls where interior rooms had once existed, now filled with rubble and risk. Moonlight picked out uneven shapes and shadows.
Yet she could see regular shapes in some of the niches. Those had to be crates and kegs. Moving cautiously, she went toward them and gasped.
As clouds shifted overhead, cool moonbeams brightened the space to show stacks of casks, kegs, and crates.
Heart pounding, she knew she had to get out—and find Ronan. Whirling, she ran, stumbled, her knee hitting stone. She rose up and ran on. A line of light appeared in the shadows, an opening in the immense and partially collapsed retaining wall.
Then her dancing slippers met a wooden ramp and she was outside in the night air. Overhead, a canopy of stars sprinkled across an amethyst sky and a bright blur of the moon. Down the hill, mist floated over the dark loch like a cloud.
Recalling which direction led to Invermorie, she ran through the grass keeping the narrow loch to her right, the broch behind her, and miles of meadow ahead.
Hearing shouts and the thud of horse hooves, she stopped short. As she stood there exposed in moonlight, the splash of oars sounded in the water. Someone was crossing the loch toward the hillside bank where she stood.
Spinning, she hurried back to the broch. Her best chance was to hide in a shadowy niche and hope the thugs would think she had escaped the ancient tower.