Page 24 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

S ecuring his horse under trees in the moonlight, Ronan patted the steadfast bay and headed toward the loch. Donal and Aleck would soon return with a cart, but he wanted to explore to see if the whisky was hidden in the tower despite its precarious state. Instinct had drawn him here like a lodestone, and he had to know why.

Hearing hoofbeats, he stepped back under the dark and leafy canopy, then eased out to see two men ride across the moorland toward the loch. When he realized they were not Donal and Aleck, he drew back.

The riders dismounted, leaving their horses to graze, and walked toward the water. Their voices floated back in the quiet.

“There should be a wee boat here—” said one.

“Further down,” said the other.

“We left that lass too long. Something might have happened.”

“That scrap of a lassie is tied snug and fears for her life. She will be there.”

“The reward for this better be worth the trouble,” the first one complained.

Ronan felt his heart sink, then anger flame . Ellison . He had to do something quickly. If he could distract them, he could get to the boat and cross the loch shielded by the mist on its surface. Slipping out of the grove of trees, he ran to the grazing horses, released their pegged leads, slapped their hindquarters, and sent them whickering and cantering in an opposite direction.

Shouting, the men frantically chased after the escaping horses. Fast and silent, Ronan went down to the lochside to find a small rowboat nudged among the reeds. Fog swirled thick over the water as he pushed it free and set off over the smooth, quiet water.

The loch was a narrow stretch here, and soon he passed the little island, hardly seeing it through the mist. Reaching the shore in the darkness, he berthed the boat among reeds and stepped to the bank. Cautious, glancing about, he climbed the slope to the broch’s curving foundation, looking for the old entrance, wary of falling stones.

A crude wooden ramp creaked beneath his boots. As he edged through the tumble of stones in the entrance, his footsteps crunching over pebbles and earth, he glanced about in utter darkness. The only light came from far above as moonbeams filtered into the center depths. Just to his left, he glimpsed the movement of a pale shadow.

“Ellison?” he whispered.

Just as he spoke, a missile flew toward him. He ducked barely in time as a stone crashed into the wall behind him. Another followed swiftly. Ronan put up an arm to protect his head from falling debris as he sidestepped the onslaught.

A wraith flew out of the shadows, a fairy bit of a girl in a pale gown with pale hair, arms out now as she ran toward him, sobbing. He pulled her into his arms, every fiber in him infused with gratitude, relief, love. “Ellison!”

“You came for me, you are here, oh, Ronan,” she sobbed against his chest.

“I am here,” he whispered, kissing her hair, her brow, her lips, cupping her face in his hands. “What happened? How did you get here? Did those bastards—”

“They did not hurt me. They only tied my hands and took me in here. Gagged me, too, when I screamed—”

“Was that you I heard out on the moor? I did not know it was you—but that shriek brought me here. Who took you? You were at Duncraig when I saw you last.”

“Pitlinnie,” she said breathlessly. “He loaned me his carriage, and was so polite. He apologized and I believed him. I am such a fool. I am sorry. His men took me here, but they left and I got free. And now you are here, and oh, Ronan, I must show you!”

He cupped her shoulders. “If anyone touched you, I will kill him—”

“Only to bind me up. One of them was at the dance. I think the other was with Pitlinnie the night we saw them out on the moor. Ronan, the whisky, it’s here! Come look!”

“Is it? I wondered.” He glanced toward the entrance. “We need to get out of here before they come back. Where is it?”

“Inside the walls.” She took his hand to tug him along, and he stepped ahead of her to make sure the going was safe. High overhead, visible in the wide ruined opening at the top of the tower, the moon slid out from behind clouds to spill more light into the wreckage of stone that filled the old floor of the structure.

“Over there, in that section, do you see?”

He did. Round casks, small kegs, stout wooden boxes. “My God,” he growled. He moved forward, ducking between broken chamber walls, and reached out to touch and examine the wooden containers.

“Is it all there?” she asked.

“Possibly. Come here.” He handed her toward him and pulled her to him to hug her closely, kiss her swiftly, then let go. “My dear lass, what tremendous luck to find this, though I am sorry for what you had to go through! I had a feeling we might find the whisky here, so I sent Donal to fetch Aleck with a cart so we can move the stuff. But I want to get you out of here.” He took her hand to guide her over rubble and debris toward the entrance.

“I can help move the whisky,” she said.

“No need, the lads and I will take care of it. But I will take you to Invermorie first.” He led her through the opening and into fresh, misty, moonlit air. “Down the slope and over the water. My horse is on the other side.”

“Ah—aye,” she said, and he heard the shivering in her voice.

Noticing then that all she wore was her thin, lacy, muddy dancing gown and a torn shawl, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders as they walked down the wet grassy slope.

“I am s-sorry—”

“Hush now. You, my love, have a warrior’s heart even if you do not know it. Into the boat with you.”

She stepped in readily, and he loved her even more for her pragmatism as she reached for an oar. He bade her sit, took both oars, and pulled out onto the loch.

Months ago when he first met her, she had seemed such a delicate and anxious creature, yet even then he had glimpsed courage in her. She had an ability to accept whatever came without complaint and press ahead. In mere weeks, he had watched her discover her strength, test her voice, find her wings like a kestrel perched on the edge of the nest. Now she was finding her freedom and the strength to fly out on her own.

But tonight above all, he wanted her safety. Pulling on the oars, he glanced about, looking for any movement, listening for any sound.

Darkness and mist obscured his view as the boat slipped over the water toward the center of the loch. Above, the moon was a soft blur, its light barely touching the ripples. He headed for the opposite shore on instinct, having rowed over this loch many times as boy and young man. Then he heard noises—shouts, horses neighing.

“They are back,” Ellison murmured.

He slowed, stilled the oars. Torchlight glowed like a golden blur through the fog. Shouts echoed over the water. He did not hear Donal or Aleck calling. Pitlinnie’s scoundrels, then.

Picking up the oars, he pulled hard and quiet. But the motion felt odd, slow, as if the boat went through syrup rather than water. With a soft thunk, the prow hit something, and the craft shuddered to a stop. Reaching out, he touched earth and something mossy rather than water. Had they hit the little island in the middle of the black water, or had they reached shore already?

He pulled backward, but the boat did not move, and the oar’s paddles thumped solid earth. He swore low. “We are hung up on something.”

“Ronan—is this the fairy isle?” Ellison whispered.

“The what?” He pushed, pulled, but the boat seemed stuck.

“The fairy isle. The one that appears in the mist.”

“It feels like a sand bar, but it might be the wee island. In this fog, I am not sure. Damn it,” he muttered as a thick blanket of mist swirled and settled all around. He could hardly see the boat or the oars, and Ellison, sitting across from him, had a curious glow around her, as if a strand of moonlight had threaded through to find her.

“Remember the legend? The isle that appears and disappears?” she whispered.

“Hush. They are shouting,” he said low. They quieted, waiting, listening as men yelled, their voices echoing over the water.

“Ellison Graham! Where are you, lass?”

“She cannae ha’ gone far,” another said.

“Perhaps she escaped and swam the loch!”

“If she drowns in this murk, we are done for. Ellison Graham!”

“Lads! The wee boat is gone! There is another down this way. Hurry!”

Ronan heard splashing, swearing, and then oars moving through the water.

“We can get out on the island,” Ellison whispered. “Come on.” Without waiting, she stepped quickly out of the boat, rocking it. Ronan dug an oar into earth to stabilize it—solid earth. He stood and reached for her, though she all but vanished in the mist.

“Ellison Graham!” The voice echoed over the water. “Your father wants you back! Your betrothed is looking for you!”

“Betrothed! But you found me.” Her whisper was disembodied, and her hand came out of the fog to beckon to Ronan. “Come this way.” Her voice was soft, a hiss.

He stepped out of the boat. The ground underfoot rocked gently but held. It could not be, and yet it was so. There was no solid island in this loch, just a bar of sand and grass and water plants. Yet he stood on firm earth. Ellison took his hand.

Ellison clung to Ronan’s hand, warm and strong in hers, while water licked at her shoes and her limbs trembled like the earth beneath her feet. She could hear voices calling through the mist, hooting her name, threats that chilled her. Ronan’s fingers pressed hers, real and safe.

Mist swirled and poured around them, a cloud-ring that surrounded them, shielded them, even covering the rowboat beached on the narrow shore. She stood silently beside Ronan while the fog enveloped them like an embrace.

Shouts echoed again over the water. She heard the splash and creak of oars as her captors—she knew their voices—glided nearer. She could hear the lap and surge of the water, heard one of the men swear in a low tone. Any moment now, they would strike the mossy bank where Ellison and Ronan stood.

Now the soft blanket of mist erased the water, the isle, the boat, all but what was nearest her—Ronan’s sleeve and shoulder as he held her hand.

“Cannae see a damn thing,” a man groused. “Where the devil are we?”

“Go back to shore. We darena go through this soup. ’Tisna like anything I’ve ever seen. Turn back!”

“What about the lass?”

“If she escaped, she either drowned in this accursed loch or she’s out in the hills. We cannae go on—must come back later to look for her.”

“Nor has that other fool shown up,” the man said. “This is an accursed night! Why did we agree to this madness?”

“Coin, that is why!”

“But there are tales about this loch and the auld tower—bad tales. Best get away quick before this water takes us doon, lad.”

Ellison heard the long swish of oars as the boat rounded in its path through the water. Breathing out in relief, she stood with Ronan in silence long after the sounds of the boat, then the voices, faded.

Ronan pulled her close. “They could easily have seen us standing here, yet they did not. What luck the mist came in so thick and fast just then.”

“The Fey protect their own.”

He huffed. “The Fey, is it?”

“You said it yourself once. The island is here and then gone, and no one knows why. But it was here for us when we needed protection. The isle, and the Fey, saved us.”

“It is just a legend, love, and a small spit of land that is hardly noticeable.”

“It appeared for us when we needed it. I am sure of it. And you carry fairy ancestry in your blood.”

“So they say.” He kissed her head. “You have an imagination, love. The hour is late, and this has been quite the night.”

“The Fey protect their own, and you are one of them.”

“A lovely tale for you to write into your story. Watch your step into the boat.” He guided her and she sat, the boat rocking. “Let us hope this magical mass of vegetation lets go of us.”

“You do not believe me,” she said.

He chuckled as he took up the oars and pulled hard to disengage from the land bar. Looking over her shoulder, Ellison saw the mist thin to a vapor. The little isle was revealed in the moonlight—a narrow, shallow hump of earth and scrub that was hardly visible on the glittering water surface.

“Ronan, look. It is all but gone now. Surely the fairies watched over their own.”

“And over my love too, who believes in fairies, much to their delight.”

She smiled, weary, chilled, and so glad he was with her. When they reached the shoreline, he nudged the vessel in among the reeds, then Ronan lifted a hand to wait.

“They are gone,” he said finally. “Do you see them far off, riding away? They are not heading for Invermorie, but into the hills.”

They left the boat and went toward the grove of trees. He stayed in front, an arm out protectively. Then he stopped, and she bumped into him in the dark. Hearing the thud of hooves and creak-creak of wheels, she peered around his arm.

“Is that Donal riding? And Aleck in the cart?”

“So it is. Good lads. Come ahead, my girl.”