Page 3 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“‘P eople visit the Castle dungeons just to see the prisoners, while ladies brave enough to venture there are alarmed, fanning themselves madly, distressed at the sight of these dangerous Highland rogues—’”

Ellison paused, reading aloud from that day’s edition of The Edinburgh Observer. Her attention was caught by the illustration showing the smugglers in the dungeon: three bearded men in plaid. More, the article provided names.

Stewart, MacInnes. MacGregor of Glenbrae. But which was which?

“Read on,” her younger sister Juliet said impatiently. Ellison glanced up to see Juliet, Lady Strathniven, and Adam Corbie all waiting expectantly.

Rain pattered at the windows as they sat together at breakfast in the dining room of the Graham home on George Street. Despite the morning’s downpour, Corbie had arrived early, as usual, to work with Sir Hector in the study. Lady Strathniven had arrived soon after, eager to escape some renovation work in her home on nearby Charlotte Square.

“Go on,” Corbie picked up his cup of coffee. “Distressed ladies, etcetera.”

“We were not distressed in the least, Adam,” his aunt replied.

“We?” Juliet squeaked. No one answered.

Corbie huffed and rose from the table to refresh his coffee at the sideboard, then heaped sausages onto a plate. He returned and sat.

“I would like to see the prisoners,” Juliet said, “but Papa will not allow it.”

“You are thirteen, dear,” said Lady Strathniven. “None of us would allow it.”

“Ellison, I nearly forgot,” Juliet said. “Papa wants to speak with you this morning. I came down earlier and saw him going to his study.”

“Thank you, dear.” Ellison’s stomach sank. Did Papa know about yesterday’s visit to the Castle—or, worse, had he learned about the novel she was writing? But she kept the manuscript locked away, and Sir Hector rarely ventured into his daughters’ territory.

“He seemed displeased. But Papa is hardly ever pleased,” Juliet added blithely. “Do finish reading before you go.”

Ellison resumed. “‘Despite being rough and uneducated, the Whisky Rogues are strong, healthy, and pleasing in visage,’” she read.

“And very polite,” Lady Strathniven added, then nibbled at her toast.

“Don’t stop, Ellie.” Juliet leaned forward. Rain sluiced against the windows, diluting the sunny cheerfulness of the floral wallpaper and golden damask curtains chosen by their mother. For a moment, Ellison wondered what Lady Graham would have thought of her visiting the dungeons. Likely she would have approved, sweetly and firmly overriding her husband. But Mama had passed just after Ellison’s fourteenth birthday.

As she narrated, Corbie demolished his sausages. “Yes, yes—they fiddle, read, play cards, but they are thieves,” he said then. “The noble Highlander is a myth.”

“Every Highlander I have ever met was polite and intelligent,” Ellison defended.

“Clearly, you have not met enough of them, Miss Ellison.”

“I spent my childhood in the Highlands and we still go there often, you know that. To a one, they are considerate and kind. I am sorry you have a different opinion.”

“Read!” Juliet urged.

“‘Visiting the dungeon to see the prisoners is a popular outing this summer. Even notable citizens appear. Recently seen were—’” Ellison stopped.

“Who?” Juliet asked.

Corbie plucked the page away from Ellison. “Ah! ‘Lady Strathniven and Miss Graham in the company of a gentleman were admitted privately—’”

Juliet squealed, leaning forward in a flurry of white muslin and red-gold curls, but missed grabbing the newspaper. “You all went there? Does Papa know?”

“In my defense, Miss Juliet, the ladies hounded me like harridans.”

“Mr. Corbie! We asked nicely, and you agreed,” Ellison said. Surely her father had seen the newspaper by now, she thought. “But how did The Observer know?”

“Journalists are busy, curious, and always interested in our sort,” Corbie said.

“Our sort? Papa is of interest due to his position, but we are not.”

“Papa must let me see the Highlanders too,” Juliet said.

“You are too young,” said Lady Strathniven. “Married ladies, especially widowed ladies, may do as they please. Your sister Deirdre is married and might have gone too if she had not chosen isolation in the north.”

“The Isles are cooler in summer, and Deirdre and her husband have a beautiful estate there,” Ellison said. “Besides, she is expecting a blessed arrival and should not travel. She must be disappointed to miss the royal visit.”

“Deirdre invited me this summer, and asked Cousin Lucie to bring me with her this very week,” Juliet said. “So I suppose I will miss seeing the famous prisoners and the king’s visit too. Deirdre and Lucie will not treat me like a wee girl.”

“One day you will have more privilege, my dear. You and your sisters have all grown up too quickly, I vow,” Lady Strathniven said.

“My lady, Mother would have been so grateful to you for all you have done for us these years,” Ellison said gently.

“Thank you, dear. I have tried to do my best. Shall we hear the rest of the article?”

“Let me read it!” Juliet reached for the paper. “‘The Highland criminals may display a noble spirit, but poor actions invite poor circumstances.’”

“Indeed, they would look as noble as clan chiefs, given proper Highland dress,” Lady Strathniven said dreamily.

“I hope this entire debacle ends soon,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Ellison looked up as her father entered the dining room. Tall and imposing with iron-gray hair, his broad torso encased in black with a brown damask waistcoat, Sir Hector Graham was a fine-looking man even in his late sixties. But deep lines framing his mouth had replaced the smiles Ellison remembered.

As he entered, a little dog trotted in on his heels. Sir Hector narrowly avoided stepping on the long-haired terrier that sat to look up at him.

“Ellison, your pup is always underfoot,” Sir Hector muttered.

“Here, Balor!” When the dog came to her, she broke off a bit of bacon for him.

Sir Hector went to the sideboard and peered at the silver samovar as if it might magically produce coffee. Ellison rose and filled a cup, adding cream for him.

“Good morning, my lady,” he told Lady Strathniven as he took a chair. “How goes the work at your house?”

“Endless, Hector,” Lady Strathniven said; they had known each other since childhood. “I am heading to the Highlands for the summer and will leave them to it. Will you come up to visit as usual?”

“This summer will be too busy. We will miss seeing you, of course.” He took up a newspaper from the stack and snapped its pages open.

Ellison felt her stomach drop. “Would you like sausages and eggs, Papa?”

“I had breakfast earlier. Coffee will fortify me until luncheon. Ah, the Observer has another piece about the Highlanders,” he said, turning a page. “The Courant too.”

“Papa, may I see them before I leave for the summer?” Juliet asked.

“Absolutely not. I’d prefer none of you saw them, but it seems I am too late.” He peeked past the page. “Juliet, you have music lessons today. I pay dearly for your tutors. Go practice.”

“Yes, Papa.” She rose and left the room. Ellison wished she could leave too.

“Hector, please do not be cross with us,” Lady Strathniven said.

“My dear Marjorie, a widow of your standing may do as she pleases.”

“Your daughter, as a widow, has that right too.”

“I am sorry, Papa,” Ellison blurted. “We did not want to trouble you.”

He lowered the paper. “Mr. Corbie could have troubled me with this. I thought the permission I signed was for you, sir. Harangued, were you?”

“In a word,” Corbie said.

“My fault, Hector. I asked Ellison to come with me. Adam obliged as our escort.”

“So you could indulge in a common spectacle.” He lowered bushy eyebrows over gray eyes. “Ellison, I hope it was an unpleasant lesson in the consequences of poor decisions.”

“The girl is hardly planning a life of crime,” Lady Strathniven said.

“I have a bigger problem regarding these whisky runners. Mr. Corbie, I will need you to compose a reply to the royal secretary. A letter was delivered to me last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Ellison, I will see you in half an hour in my study.”

She gulped. “Yes, sir. But Papa—what if those men are wrongly accused? Everyone assumes their guilt.”

“Leave that to the Court of Justiciary, Miss Ellison,” Corbie said.

“True, men are sometimes unfairly accused,” her father replied. “But our legal system usually discovers such things. Highlanders have some hardships, but we must pursue and punish those who break our laws, whether the writ is Scots or English. The government is not so mean an institution as you may think, Ellison.”

“These Whisky Rogues have captured your daughter’s fancy, sir,” Corbie said.

“Our Ellison is not easily dissuaded of dreams and ideals,” Sir Hector agreed.

Not eager to hear a fresh analysis of her faults, Ellison set down her napkin and stood. “I must go. I have correspondence to finish.”

She went to the door, Balor trotting along behind her. Stepping out of the room, she sighed. Somehow she always managed to displease her father. Deirdre lived an idyllic life with her handsome earl now, after a harrowing year; Juliet was outspoken but charming. And Ellison had made an impulsive, romantic mistake that her father would neither forget nor forgive.

As she walked away, she heard Lady Strathniven.

“Hector, leave her be. She has been through enough at twenty-six. Her dreams have given her a fine talent for writing, to her credit.”

“Her poetry is good. But her dreamy nature will be her undoing. I had hoped she’d marry again, but I fear her impulsive character counts against her.”

“Sir, and my lady aunt—if I may speak,” Corbie said. “You may have guessed already how fond I am of Miss Ellison. I would like your approval to court her with an intent to marry. I am aware of her—foibles.”

“Oh,” said Lady Strathniven. “I wonder if she—”

“We can discuss it later, Adam. I must go back to my office.”

Ellison hurried to her room, fighting tears. If Papa wanted her to marry stiff-necked Adam Corbie, a man with no imagination and a lofty opinion of himself, her refusal might cause strife. Corbie was sole heir to the wealthy Strathniven estate, which would be enough to decide the matter for everyone but her.

As a widow, she had earned the right to make her own decisions. But her father consistently dismissed that.

This summer, she decided, she would make sure to enjoy her independence somehow. She would ask Lady Strathniven if she could go to the Highlands with her. There, she had the freedom to write, and recover from lingering heartbreak—and perhaps she could restore her fading spirit before it was too late.

That renewed her determination and sensed of hope.

Soon she was seated at her desk, taking her manuscript from its locked drawer. She wanted to shape the story’s hero, an ancient Highland lord, to resemble the Highlander she had seen yesterday.

She smoothed a fresh sheet of paper, dipped pen in ink, and began.

The Highlander’s eyes, the deep blue of a lochan in summer twilight, went soft and sad as he remembered once more the hurt that had torn his heart like the sharpest blade. To see Lady Isabella again after five years was a blow to his very soul. He had immured his heart against her charms after she had dealt him a deep and unseen wound on the day that Isabella Grant had chosen the Earl of Strathearn over Ruari MacAlpin of Garslie.

Small laird by sunlight, poet by candlelight, cattle-thief by moonlight—yet Garslie’s strength, cleverness, and devotion could not compete with wealth and treachery.

He scrabbled a living on rocky land, scratched heartfelt words on parchment, borrowed cattle when it was merited, and loved a lass who looked away.

She crossed out a word, scribbled a change, wrote on.

*

“That’s a mournful tune, lad,” Iain MacInnes said. “Brings the ghosts out the very walls.”

Linhope shifted to a livelier melody while Iain flipped cards on the bench next to Ronan. They had cards, books, even a chess set. If the backward Whisky Rogues acted like fine lords, the Castle Governor had declared, more visitors would come.

Ronan leaned back against the wall, unaccountably irritated by the joyful song and Iain’s foot tapping in time. His nerves felt raw. Weeks of being trapped here threatened to break his usual reserve.

Arthur, Lord Linhope, was skilled in music as well as medicine; MacInnes was content with cards, books, sketching plans on the walls, and was annoyingly cheerful. Both were making the best of incarceration. Ronan knew he should take a lesson from them, but today he just needed a good glower.

He had no talent for whiling away the hours. Once he had aspired to bad poetry, and could cut a neat step on a dance floor. But he’d be damned if he’d dance to that fiddle to amuse the visitors here.

Cards, then. He dealt a quick hand on the bench.

“ Ach, ” Iain said, tossing a card to the floor. “Nine of diamonds! Curse of Scotland, they call it. More bad luck we do not need.”

Hearing footsteps and the chatter of a new group of visitors, Ronan did not look up. People often came to gawk, but the angel of a few days ago had not returned. He might show some interest if she did.

Miss Ellison Graham. Recalling her delicate loveliness, he reminded himself she had stared at them like all the onlookers before she left.

Linhope stopped playing. “The ladies enjoy the music,” he said in Gaelic. “May it stir them to plead for mercy for three captive lads. And if their kinsmen are court judges, that may help too.”

“Most justices are stonehearted fellows who do not give a damn what the ladies of Edinburgh think.” Ronan tossed down a card. “I know many of them.”

“I wonder when we will have word of a trial or a transfer,” Iain said.

“Fifty-eight days since the night of our arrest, fifty-three since we came to Edinburgh,” Ronan said. “I am keeping count.”

“What does it matter? It is too long.” Sighing heavily, Linhope sank to sit on the straw-littered floor. “Public sentiment favors us. That may help.”

“Perhaps the jury of fifteen will include someone who enjoyed your fiddling,” Ronan said. “Still, there may be a way out of this.”

“Escape?” Iain asked hopefully.

Ronan glanced at the cluster of muttering visitors and lowered his voice, even speaking Gaelic. “That was done here long ago when a cattle reiver went out a window in a high dungeon cell on bed linens and shirts, and climbed down the castle rock. He got away.”

“Huh. None of us would fit through that window, even if we could climb up there.” Iain pointed to a narrow aperture high in the rock wall.

“Well, escape is punishable by further imprisonment,” Ronan said. “There may be a legal way to get out of here.”

“How?” Linhope asked.

“I am thinking. If I could visit the Advocates Library down the street, I could find a solution quickly.”

“Not likely you’ll get there. If we were in Calton jail, we might escape,” Iain said. “I know the building’s plan.”

Ronan huffed. “Be glad we are not there.”

“Horrible place,” Linhope agreed. “That handsome new building is already a hellish prison. Worse than the old Tolbooth it replaced.”

“It is a pretty fortress on its high hill, all towers and turrets,” Iain said. “A fine design. Visitors even mistake Calton for the Castle.” He threw down a couple of cards and crowed. Ronan groaned, seeing them.

“Last year I visited the Calton infirmary with a colleague,” Linhope said. “We could do little for the men there. The guards are not allowed to summon medical assistance except in severe cases. The Deputy Lord Provost is in charge of the constabulary, but either he is unaware of the conditions, or does not care to improve them.”

Hearing footsteps out in the corridor, Ronan glanced up as that afternoon’s crop of visitors walked away. “Someone dropped a news journal.”

Linhope went to the wide grate to stretch an arm through the lower bars, managing to grab the paper. Returning to sit and study the pages, he laughed.

“We are mentioned here. Smugglers, ruffians, brigands... Hah! A sketch of three hairy beasts in plaid.” He held up the page.

“A fair description,” Ronan grunted. “What’s the date?”

“Thirtieth of July,” Linhope said. “Have we been here that long? Tempus fugit . And look here. The king is expected to arrive in August.”

Iain huffed. “I shall get my best Highland kit ready.”

“By God,” Linhope said then. “‘The Duke of Atholl will be returning to Perthshire from his property on the Isle of Man. He plans to attend the funeral of a friend.’” He glanced up. “Sir John Murray MacGregor. A kinsman, Ronan? I am sorry.”

Ronan felt a clench of sadness. “A cousin, aye. Chief of the Gregorach, the MacGregors. My father grew up with him. Sir John was tough as old leather but a fair man. We admired him, even as boys.” Memories flew past, some happy, some tainted with regret. He scowled.

“Sir Evan is now chief of the MacGregors,” Iain said. “Your second cousin, that one.”

“A good man. The clan will do well by him.”

“Thanks to you. He owes you his life, Ronan. A hero’s stand, they say,” Iain added.

Ronan shook his head. “Evan was the hero that day in India, facing the odds as he did. We fought to save him and each other. Not everyone made it out,” he murmured, thinking of lost kin and friends and recalling courage and grief on a day he wished he could forget. Years ago, he had sailed to India to join his cousin, exchanging out of a Highland regiment to the dragoons to be at Evan’s back. Since then, feelings had gone sour between them.

“Once the Darrach estate is yours, you will have the right to be part of the chief’s tail,” Linhope said. “A full chieftain of the Gregorach.”

“The matter still needs sorting. And Sir Evan will not welcome a kinsman accused of smuggling. But he will be a fine leader.” He threw down his cards, and now Iain groaned.

Linhope picked up his fiddle again to begin a slow tune. The music seemed to draw the sadness out of the very air, transforming the mood. Ronan leaned back, closed his eyes. Thoughts of his Highland home past with the melody—the breeze over the hills, the heather in summer, the cool drench of a stream, the honeyed fire of whisky down the throat. He imagined lying in a meadow in clear, fresh air, laughing, a woman in his arms, soft and warm. Nameless, faceless, but someday—

He frowned as the imaginary lover became the delectable Miss Graham. No. If he had a future at all, he would not trade a Highland life for life with a city lass, especially one whose very kinsman held the fate of prisoners.

Dreams were a long way off. For now, his concern was how to avoid a hanging.