Page 30 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

P ulling off her gloves, heart pounding, hoping for a welcome but realizing otherwise, Ellison stared at Ronan. He was in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, kilt, without cravat, his collar open to his strong throat. His dark hair was curled and mussed, his blue eyes glittered. So very blue, even in candlelight. He did not look glad to see her.

“Are you drunk?”

“A bit. Not much. Do not worry, it is not a usual state for me, my dear. Oh, wait, we will not be residing together after all, will we. What can I do for you?” He swept an arm toward the parlor. “Would you care to sit?”

“There is only one chair.” She walked into the room. He followed.

“I am enough of a gentleman to offer it to you.”

She whirled. “What is wrong?”

“Perhaps you can tell me.”

“I waited. I thought you might call at the house.”

“I have been very busy, madam.” He spoke with exaggeration, waving an arm at the empty house.

“You did not wait for me at Parliament Hall.”

“Should I have?” He leaned in the doorway, looming over her.

Hands folded, she regarded him, and chose not to sit. She noticed a glass upended in a little puddle on the floor. “I thought you might wait.”

“But she is independent now,” he said, his gaze intent. “She needs no one. Found her backbone, which she needed to do, I will admit. Come here alone, to a man’s home. Drove a gig herself?”

“Walked. To find her husband very drunk.”

“Not drunk. More—unhappy.” He gestured. “Please sit. Or did you come to inspect your property?”

She stifled the sob that came up quickly. His anger was clear and sharp, and she did not understand. “What is wrong?”

“Why are you here without your wee secretary on your heels?”

“Mr. Corbie is in jail with Mr. Pitlinnie.”

“Ah, justice will be served. I punched him,” he told her. “Both of them.”

“Good. I did not know. I came here tonight because I wanted to see you.” So much, she wanted to add, but his scowl discouraged her words.

“Did you want a signature?”

“For what?”

“For your paperwork, madam.”

“Well, if you want to speak as a witness, you may do that.”

“That is cold. I would not have credited you with that.”

“Ronan, I do not understand.” She was confused. They were talking at cross purposes, and he not listening. She drove her fingers together, twisted them. “I am at a loss here.”

“I am the one at a loss,” he murmured. “You are the one who knows what you want.”

“I thought we were—” In love . She hesitated. Love was strong and could survive anything. And love was also fragile, and needed careful handling. “I thought you were fond of me.”

A bitter laugh. “Fond! Aye, very fond. We shall be fast friends now.”

“Ronan.” A sob rose again. “Please, Ronan—”

“Shall I call you a hackney to take you home? I can find one.” He pushed away from the doorjamb.

“No! I thought—I might stay here tonight.”

He turned back. “Stay? Have your cake, is that it?”

“I am so confused. What has happened?”

“A great deal, apparently. I heard about the annulment. I wish you had warned me.”

She felt the blood drain from her head so quickly that she felt dizzy, and set a hand on the back of the empty chair. “Is that it? Who told you that?”

“Corbie said you brought annulment papers to be processed.”

“I never—”

“Meant to hurt me? It just slipped your mind?” He was bitter, a ferocious guardian of his anger. And like her father, he was not listening, just plowing ahead.

Her temper gathered like a storm cloud. “You are so wrong. And so drunk.”

“I am not so drunk. I am a gentleman. You ought to know that?”

“Not just now.”

“A gentleman, a lawyer, a distiller. A viscount. A rogue. Not a smuggler, not exactly.” He moved toward her. “I speak perfect English, Gaelic too. I can tie a cravat and polish my boots till they shine like steel. I know the proper fork to use.”

“Ronan—”

He took another step. He was steady, and she realized indeed not so drunk, but indignant. If he thought she had annulled the marriage, he had the right.

“Listen to me,” she said, but he was still talking.

“Ellison Graham, you listen to me. I would give you every part of me, I would share what others would never see. I would pledge my life to you because I love you beyond life.”

“Ronan.” Her voice trembled. Tears sprang.

“We both wanted freedom, did we not say that?”

“We did. Now listen. Listen! You are—you can be so beastly!”

He sighed, pushed a hand through his hair. “Best go before I say something else stupid. I do beg your pardon.” A wince flashed across his face. “I am cooling now. But best you go, if you have done this.

“Will you listen? I have not done this! Sit and listen!”

“A gentleman does not sit while a lady stands.”

“Did you know,” she said softly, “even when you are upset and beastly angry, you are still the finest gentleman and the very best man I have ever known? Did you know that?”

Fingers raking through his messy hair, he sent her a sidelong glance. “Whatever you have to say, out with it.”

“I did not submit an annulment, you vile beast.”

A quick, surprised look. A near smile, sheepish, clear-eyed. “You did not?”

“No! I brought an accusation of kidnapping against Corbie and Pitlinnie. They are in Calton Jail tonight.”

He stared. “No annulment.”

“None.”

“I am a vile beast.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“You are.”

“That took courage, if you did that.”

“It did. And I learned it from you.”

“You had it in you already.”

“Why did I ever listen to Mr. Corbie?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” He watched her. “You look like an angel.”

“And you,” she said, coming closer, “you are sometimes the perfect gentleman. You dance beautifully and catch fish in your bare hands. You distill the best whisky in the world, you always choose the right fork, and you defend others with your very life. And you make a lonely lass feel heard and seen and so good—” She drew a ragged breath.

“Ellison,” he murmured.

“And I love you with all my heart and soul. Madly so, even now. Beast.”

“I am. I am sorry.”

“I do not care a whit who you are, what title you have or do not have. I do not care if you live in a cave or a castle. Or in this house.” She gestured with a flailing hand. Tears were running down her cheeks. “It—is so clean. You made it so nice. When did you do that?”

“It has a chair. Two. And a bed.”

She sobbed a little, caught it behind her hand.

He opened his arms then, and she ran to him, deep into his embrace, knocking into him so that he huffed. She could get enough of his warmth and strength around her as he caught her deep in his arms, set his cheek against her bonnet, crushing it.

“Silly damn thing,” he said, and with deft fingers, stripped loose the bow and tore the hat free, tossing it aside. “Fetching creation, though.”

She laughed through tears, pressing tightly against him, inhaled his scent, male and musky, laced with whisky. The warmth and power of his body enveloped her. “I do so love you.”

“I love you,” he whispered. “I was wrong. I was—so upset.”

“I was wrong to not tell you what I meant to do. I am sorry Corbie got to you.”

“Well done for taking him down. Ellison—have I ever told you that I fell in love with you the moment you walked into that dungeon?”

“You never said that.”

“I am telling you now. You were my angel. The one who showed up to change me, change my life.” He cupped her cheek, tilted her face up, kissed her so gently she felt as if she melted there in his arms, had to clench her toes to make sure she was whole and standing.

“You did not need changing. I did. I am better for finding you.”

“You were perfect already, lass. You just did not know it.” He kissed her again, let it linger, pulled her against him, so that she knew his body was strong and awake and ready.

“God, Ronan, oh,” she said, sinking against him. “Oh! Another thing.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, deepening the kiss, rising again.

“My father—I told Papa”—she kissed him—“we were married and happy and he said—”

“No mention of your father now, aye?” He spoke softly, his voice driving downward in her body, his lips pressed to her hair, then tracing along her cheek. Crooking a finger, he tipped her chin up to touch her lips with his. “But I am proud of you.” The kiss was deep, exquisite.

She parted for a moment. “He says he was wrong about you.”

“Aye, he was.” Ronan laughed softly. Ellison renewed the next kiss and the next, each touch and taste hungrier, more fervent, heated and moist, yet her thoughts whirled yet. “I know it does not matter what he thinks, but—”

“It does matter. But hush now, later for that.” His lips on hers smothered her reply. Her limbs were dissolving so fast she nearly sagged in his arms. “Shall we go upstairs, darling girl?” He lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing and headed for the steps.

“Wait—the lock—”

“The lock.” He swung, carrying her as she reached out to latch the door. “Happy now?”

“So very,” she whispered against his neck.

“Nothing in the upper rooms,” he murmured. “Well. A bed. I can show you that.”

“Please.”

This time, she realized as she lay with him, they were finally and completely alone; no interruption, no obligation until dawn or beyond. This time, she felt their love, still so new, ripen into a commitment that they need not explain or examine. It simply existed, a deep trust that was full in every moment, with each touch, kiss, caress, each word. Beyond the darkness of this bed, it would last and deepen. His kisses were different now, hers were different too. The world had changed somehow.

This time she felt a freedom unlike any she had ever known—fear abandoned, worries loosening their hold, thoughts dissolving like mist off a fairy loch. As he explored her body with gentle, knowing fingertips, she discovered his with awe for his sinew and firmness, each taut muscle and velvety stretch of skin moving with strength and certainty. When he surged, she arched, when he stretched, she softened, and when his body eased into hers, her body gloved his.

This time, as the old, plain bed dipped and creaked with their rhythms, they laughed and then grew serious, and when the blankets slipped away, he covered and warmed her. She felt stronger, safer than ever before—and she wanted to give him all that he needed too. She wanted him to know he was loved beyond love in the truth of who he was here and now. He was the hero in her life, the man she had dreamed of, the man she allowed into her heart, vital and real and powerful, embodying the warrior she had created on scraps of paper smeared with ink. Ronan MacGregor was her knight, her rogue, her defender, her dearest friend and tender lover, her rock and anchor. She wanted to be all to him too.

“Dawn,” he murmured after a while.

“Let it be,” she said. “We need not move.”

“Just a little,” he whispered, sliding his warm, slow, sleepy touch over her shoulder, his curious fingers finding the softest parts of her, his lips finding hers.

“But I am hungry,” she admitted.

“You ought to be, Lady Darrach,” he said, and she laughed into his shoulder.

*

Ronan adjusted the plaid draped over his shoulder, patterned in MacGregor blood red and forest green, tugged at his black coat, and straightened his bonnet with its fir sprig for the Gregorach, and the two feathers of a chieftain. The morning was already warm and humid, and gray skies foretold another bout of the rains that threatened to drench the royal visit. He looped a painted shield over one arm, checked the sheathed sword and pistol that he carried, and patted his horse’s neck. He smiled to himself, grateful to his core to be here, to be clear of worries, to be content and happy in the day and his future.

Behind him were fifty Highlanders replete in bright plaids, gleaming weapons, and feathered and sprigged bonnets. Donal Brodie stood proudly with them. The MacGregors would lead the enormous gathering comprised of over a thousand Highlanders that formed part of the procession set to escort the royal regalia, crown and scepter and more, from Edinburgh Castle down to Holyroodhouse at the foot of the High Street.

Beside him, magnificently dressed in the Highland gear of the chief, Sir Evan MacGregor sat his own horse. Between them, riding a pony, was Evan’s eldest son, all of twelve and proudly dressed in full Highland kit too.

“Are you ready, sir?” the MacGregor asked Ronan.

“I am. And I thank you for placing me here with you.”

“No one more deserving. I mean that.” His cousin smiled, his handsome face puckered with the deep scar running from brow to chin. His right arm lay still on the reins, limp fingers protected in a thick leather glove. Sir Evan MacGregor was known for leadership, pragmatism, kindness—and for surviving devastating injuries and returning to lead his clan. He was also famed in social circles for a singular physical beauty undimmed by scarring. The handsomest man in Scotland, they called him. And one of the most respected, Ronan knew.

“No one I would rather have here,” Sir Evan said. “I would not be here today if not for your actions in India. You saved my life—and dragged me back to Scotland when I was weak and vulnerable and furious, blaming you for my brother’s death on the battlefield behind us. But I was wrong about that, and it is past time I apologized for it.”

“Not necessary, Evan.”

“I held it against you. But I am alive because of you, and I will not forget that again.”

Ronan smiled, accepting the apology and shrugging away the compliment. “The memories are difficult, I know, and hard for me too.”

“I owe you more than I can say. I mean it sincerely. And I owe you congratulations as well. The deputy lord provost’s daughter, indeed! My wife is eager to meet her, and we would like you both to stay with us for a long visit after this infernal commotion is done in Edinburgh. Now—shall we get this moving?”

“If you are ready, sir, we are all ready.”

“Then let us show the king and all of Edinburgh the strength and majesty of the Scottish Highlanders.” Riding forward with Ronan and his young son, Sir Evan drew his sword and raised it high, looking over his shoulder.

“An Griogarach!” he shouted.

A huge clamor of voices echoed his cry as the Highlanders stepped forward.