Page 27 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

L eith Harbor was busier than Ronan had ever seen, with sailing ships and steamships arriving ahead of the royal party. He stepped aside as a group of English gentlemen passed with barely a glance for the kilted Highlander standing beside a stack of kegs and crates. He waved to see Hugh Cameron coming toward him.

“A madhouse,” Hugh said over the cacophony on the quay. “But I managed to hire a cart to deliver the whisky lot to Holyroodhouse, and I found a hackney to take us into Edinburgh. Once the whisky reaches the palace, your obligation ends.”

“Not quite. There is still the king’s levee and the introduction. But before that, I need to see that a legal issue is properly cleared.”

“I know which one you mean. We had best get to that today if you will meet me at Parliament House this afternoon. First, I must see my mother, who expects me today. Will you come along? She would be very glad to see you.”

“I have a pressing errand. But open one of the crates and bring her a jug of Glenbrae with my compliments. Hugh, listen.” Ronan shrugged. “When all this is over, I want to build a new distillery on Darrach property and devote time to creating an even better brew someday.” The notion that he would lose his glen and the distillery of Glenbrae hurt deeply.

“Does your bride know you want to stay in the north?”

“I am sure she will want to be in the city near her father, but I will also continue practicing law here. We can travel back and forth as I have always done.”

“I am sure our firm would be able to give you plenty of cases.”

“Thank you.”

“I was surprised but very glad to hear about your marriage. You could not find a finer lady than Ellison Graham. Nor could she find a better man.”

Ronan smiled. “There is still the dragon to confront in his den.”

“Sir Hector? He will see reason. He is more bluster than malice, in my experience. The real threat is from his secretary, it seems.”

“A matter I intend to address. Ah, here is our cart.”

Later, as they rode the short distance to the city, Ronan thought of the last time he had been in a hackney on the same streets. He had been baffled and weary, in need of a bath and burdened with participating in an unsavory scheme. Yet fate placed him in the hands of an angel.

He felt he was a changed man now, more firm of purpose, certainly lighter of heart, walking a path that had appeared unexpectedly. Ellison Graham was a gift in his life, and he was grateful. Whatever she needed, he would provide; whatever she wanted, he would give. He wanted her to feel more cherished, loved, and valued than she had ever known.

As the hackney drew up along the Canongate, Hugh turned. “I will leave you here, lad. Are you sure you will not join us? My mother has invited nearly every relative we have, I think.”

Ronan laughed. “I am off to my rented place, then straight to the dragon’s den. I will see you later at Parliament House.”

“You will find the key under an urn and the place in good repair. By the way, the judicial courts are open today but closed tomorrow for the royal procession, and will likely stay closed for a few days. Today is your best chance to put things right.”

“I will do my best. Look at that crowd,” Ronan said, watching the throngs that filled the streets. “I have never seen so many Highlanders in full, fierce gear. The gathering of the clans has surely come to Edinburgh.”

“Sir Evan expects you to be part of the procession, you know, as one of his chieftains, helping to display and promote the strength of the clans of Scotland.”

“He stated that in his letter, aye, so I brought my gear along. Let the grand Celtic spectacle begin as we show the English what authentic Scotland is all about.”

“Which His Majesty will miss if his ship does not dock soon. Either way, he is about to experience some miserably authentic Scottish weather.”

Laughing, Ronan bid him good day, and the driver progressed up the hill through the center of town. The streets were densely crowded as people moved in a noisy mass of color and bright tartan patterns. Bagpipes skirled somewhere as Highland units practiced for the procession, and above the other sounds, the bells of Saint Giles’ cathedral rang out the hour.

He reached into a jacket pocket to pull out one of the visiting cards that Corbie had delivered at Strathniven. John MacGregor, 6 th Viscount Darrach, it read, of Darrach Castle in Glen Darrach, Perthshire. A printed image depicted the crest of Clan Gregor, a crowned lion, a buckled belt, and the motto S’rioghal mo dhream” —royal is my blood. The Gregorach, a proud clan, went far back in time.

“Driver,” he called. “George Street, if you please.”

The ride through crowded streets took longer than usual. Once the carriage stopped, Ronan asked the driver to wait, then went to the Graham house to knock.

The butler studied his card. “Lord Darrach. We understood you might call.”

“I would like to see Miss Graham if she has returned to the city.”

“Miss Graham has returned but is not home at present.”

“I see. May I ask if Sir Hector is available?”

“The Deputy Lord Provost has gone to his offices for the day. It is a busy time.”

“Of course.”

He returned to the carriage, disappointed to have missed Ellison and Sir Hector both. He wanted to resolve the situation—and he longed to hold his bride in his arms.

Next the driver stopped on the cobbled slope of North Castle Street in front of the house he was renting. Narrow yet elegant, its stone facade was set with a bow-curved window and a tall red door. Tucked beneath a stone urn filled with flowers, he found the key. He let himself into Ellison’s house.

Inside, the hallway divided a parlor to the right and a dining room to the left, with the kitchen at the back. Upstairs, he found two bedrooms and a bathing room. On the uppermost floor were three small empty rooms. It was a simple but handsome house, freshly painted, repaired, and scrubbed, and would be the perfect home for a newly married couple, and someday a family.

Just now the place was scarcely furnished, with a chair and table in the parlor, a chair and table in the kitchen, and a bed and small furnishings in an upstairs room.

Later Ellison could furnish it however she liked. They could live here, or rent it out, or sell it altogether. He would leave that up to her. In the Highlands, they would have Darrach Castle and perhaps other properties once all was sorted. Whatever she wanted, he meant to see she had.

He changed quickly from his plaidie and jacket to frock coat, trousers, waistcoat, and the lot. Downstairs, he stood looking out the wide bowed window in the parlor, with its view of Edinburgh Castle in the distance, high on a dark cliff overlooking the city. Rainclouds gathered overhead.

An odd feeling swirled through him. He frowned, trying to define it. Not weariness, though he was tired after the journey and a few trying days. Not dread, for he knew he and Ellison had made the right choice. Hurdles lay ahead, but he had hope.

Happiness, he realized. That was it. For the first time in years, he felt content.

He left the house to walk toward the bridge and up the High Street. The city teemed with people, with the tantalizing smells of food cooking, bread baking, with the pandemonium of merchants and visitors, soldiers and errand-boys, flags and tartan and heather wherever he looked. The sound of bagpipes and drums filled the air.

Scottish pride had overtaken the city. Sir Walter and his Celtic Society’s design of a magnificent, exhilarating spectacle infused every corner, every sound, the very air.

Walking along, shouldering here, begging pardon there, Ronan enjoyed the anonymity and the freedom. He was just another tall gentleman, another lawyer, another husband, just another Scotsman heading up the High Street. He smiled as he went.

“Do stop, Ellison, I nearly lost my slipper,” Sorcha said. “You are in such a hurry!”

Ellison slowed as she walked beside Sorcha up the High Street. They were surrounded by pedestrians bumping, pushing, edging past each other. Bells pealed overhead, and the haunting skirl of bagpipes filled the air.

“Such a warm day, despite the rain. Look, Saint Giles!” Sorcha pointed to the high spires of the cathedral on the High Street. “Let’s go inside. It will be cooler there.”

“Not yet. I have to do something,” Ellison said. She locked elbows with Sorcha as they crossed the wide earthen street, avoiding calamity with other pedestrians and a constant stream of carts and horses. Walking past the cathedral, she led the way toward the wide square formed by the cathedral and the massive Scottish Parliament building behind it that held courts, offices, a law library, and more. Papa would be in his office there, but she had another purpose in mind here.

She adjusted the heather sprig in her bonnet and the fat blue bow under her chin, then smoothed her dark blue skirt and tugged at her spencer jacket of blue-and-green tartan. The elegant outfit would lend her the look of a lady of merit. She would need that today.

“Now to gird the lion in its den,” she told Sorcha. “Thank you for coming with me. I did not want to do this alone.”

“After what you told me after we left the hat shop, I would not miss this for the world! What a kerfuffle!”

“I hope it will not take long.” Ellison pushed through the doors to enter the bright, high-ceilinged hall of Parliament House. Sorcha stopped to read a brass plaque. “Court of Session, this way. Court of Justiciary, over there.”

“Justiciary,” Ellison said, and marched toward a huge polished door to push through. Inside a waiting area with a large desk and some chairs, she approached the young clerk behind the desk.

“Yes, Miss—?”

“Miss Graham. I wish to file a complaint.”

“Then you want the constable’s office. I can direct you.”

“I have spoken to the chief of the constabulary.” Partly true, for she had not yet seen her father that day. “I wish to see a lord justice regarding a legal matter.”

“I could refer you to an advocate to discuss it. It is not necessary to see one of the justices.”

“But I am in such a hurry, Mr. Robertson.” She smiled sweetly, reading the name plaque on his desk. “And quite desperate. If you please, I must see a justice.”

“Well—first, provide your name and address and the reason for your visit.” He handed her a paper. “There is an inkstand on that table. But those who are still here will likely refuse to see you. We are closing early today. May I ask the nature of your legal matter?”

“I wish to report a kidnapping,” she said.

Walking across the enormous entrance of Parliament Hall, with its marble floors and soaring walls, Ronan strode toward wide oak doors trimmed in brass. Hugh was beside him as they passed several men strolling through or gathered in conversation. He pushed through the doors leading to Court of Justiciary.

“Let us hope it is still open,” Hugh said.

“We have a little time yet.” As a nearby door opened, a few men came through deep in discussion. Ronan paused.

“Blast it,” Hugh muttered. “Of all the luck.”

Steeling his spine, Ronan waited as Sir Hector, Adam Corbie, and Sir Neill Pitlinnie crossed the vast hallway. Neither of the men, at first, looked around.

When at last they did, Ronan would have given any amount for a sketch of Corbie’s expression in that moment. The man looked stunned, then alarmed, then frightened. He stumbled back as Sir Hector and Pitlinnie looked around too.

“Lord Darrach!” Sir Hector said in a booming voice.

Ronan inclined his head as all three came closer. “Sir Hector,” he said. “Good to see you. Mr. Corbie. And Sir Neill. What a surprise.”

“MacGregor,” Pitlinnie muttered. Corbie gaped like a fish.

“I believe you know my solicitor, Mr. Cameron,” Ronan said, as Hugh nodded.

“What brings you here?” Sir Hector asked.

“A judiciary matter,” Ronan said. “As it happens, I am an advocate.”

“I heard that recently,” Sir Hector said. “Wish I had known earlier. Mr. Corbie has filled me in on some events of the past weeks. You have been—perseverant, sir,” he added, with a pinch of the lips that Ronan could not quite decipher.

“I hope so,” Ronan drawled. “Has Mr. Corbie told you what he and Pitlinnie were up to in the Highlands last week?”

“This is not the time, MacGregor,” Corbie muttered.

“Darrach,” Ronan corrected, fixing a searing gaze on him.

“Sir Hector, we have some business to complete,” Corbie said. “We must hurry. Sir Neill has documents to sign.” He gave Ronan a smug smile. “Speaking of Glenbrae.”

“That can wait,” Sir Hector said. “What exactly is your business today, Darrach?”

“Mr. Cameron and I intend to submit a warrant for the release of two individuals in Calton Jail.”

“Impossible,” Corbie said.

“On what grounds?” Sir Hector asked.

“We cannot disclose that here in a public space,” Hugh said. “You understand.”

“Sir, you are welcome to accompany us if you wish to know more,” Ronan said.

“I do want to hear this,” Sir Hector growled, gesturing for Ronan to open the door to the judiciary area. As the deputy lord provost went inside, followed by Hugh, Ronan shut the door firmly before Corbie and Pitlinnie could enter.

“Go easy, man,” Hugh warned.

“I will,” Ronan clipped out.

Entering the judiciary office area, Ronan hardly glanced at the people in the room—a few men, two women. Approaching the clerk, he began to speak when Sir Hector stepped up beside him.

“Mr. Robertson, which justices are still here?” he demanded.

“Sir, Jameson and Beaton are here, I believe. We close soon.”

“I am aware. This way,” Sir Hector told Ronan as he cut around the clerk’s desk and left the waiting area with hardly a glance around. Ronan and Hugh followed.

Ellison gasped to see Ronan and her father on the far side of the room. She rushed toward the desk, Sorcha hurrying after her. “Ellison, what is it?”

“I do not know,” Ellison said. Then she caught her breath, seeing another man walk toward the same desk. “Mr. Corbie!”

“Why, Miss Graham,” he purred. “You cannot go back there without authority. What brings you to Parliament Hall today?”

“I am submitting papers,” she said, folding the papers she had just completed and sliding them quickly into her mesh reticule.

“Just as I suggested. Good. You remember Sir Neill Pitlinnie,” he continued.

“Aye,” she said stiffly, glancing past them to the door where Ronan and her father had gone. “Why is Papa with Darrach?”

“I do not know, but Sir Hector will likely see to Darrach quickly,” he drawled.

“What have you done, Mr. Corbie? And why are you and Pitlinnie here?”

“Just signing papers. And looking forward to the celebration in the city.”

“Come, Sorcha, we will find out what is going on.” She took Sorcha’s arm and rushed past the desk as the clerk sprang up.

“Miss Graham! You cannot go back there!”

“Sir Hector is my father. I must see him.”

“Your father? Still, I should not—”

“And I am Lord Beaton’s sister,” Sorcha said. “This is urgent!” She pushed Ellison through the doorway as the clerk sputtered in protest.

“Mr. Robertson, I will see to this,” Corbie said, and followed them.

Ellison hurried beside Sorcha looking at brass plaques on the doors. Finding “The Rt. Honorable Justice E. Jameson” and hearing muffled voices behind the door, she raised a gloved fist to rap.