Page 5 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“T ea,” the guard called as he pushed a wooden cart, china and silverware rattling on a small tray, into the cell. Unlocking the iron grate, he entered and set the tray on a rickety table, where the tea things wobbled precariously. “Tea and visitors!”

Iain yawned; Linhope, also dozing, sat up. Ronan closed the book he was reading, not keen on tepid tea or tittering guests this afternoon. He was weary of this place and the ruse as Highland scoundrels, but the guises protected their identities, their kin, and glen folk too. With luck, one day he and his friends would return to their lives and livelihoods.

These weeks had made him more determined to push for greater justice for Highland folk, once he was free. Too often they were thought common, uneducated, simple, unworthy, and he felt it keenly here. The culture, the legacy, the loyalty and pride of the Gaels deserved appreciation and preservation. More than ever, he wanted to promote the truth to help them. But for now, this ploy must continue.

“Hey,” Iain murmured. “The angel is here again.”

Ronan looked toward the door. She was there, setting gentle foot on stone, crossing the straw as if floating—a vision in lavender trimmed in black lace, a little bonnet curving around her head, a few golden curls escaping. The gentleman who had accompanied her before was back as well. Corbie, he recalled.

Ronan stood, as did his friends, in expectant silence.

Her companion stepped forward. “I am Mr. Adam Corbie, secretary to the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh.” He was a slight man, sandy and plain in a tailored suit. The curl of his lip matched his sneering tone.

The young woman translated into Gaelic, not realizing it was not necessary.

“This is Mrs. Graham-Leslie,” Corbie went on, indicating her. “She will speak with you briefly. You will show decent manners in her presence, or the guards will be on you directly.” She translated, cheeks turning pink.

Corbie huffed and looked at her. “They do not have a word of proper English.”

“They may understand some,” she answered. “Mr. Corbie, please wait outside. I need a few minutes.” She shooed him away with a gloved hand.

Ronan pinched back a smile. Corbie seemed oblivious to her subtle impatience with him. And, he noted, the young lady had a married name. Interesting.

Stepping outside, Adam Corbie stood close to the grating to watch them. The young woman smiled as if she had just arrived at a garden party. As she moved, a floral and vanilla scent wafted lightly over the dungeon’s older, less pleasant odors. She was as delicate and divine as a beam of sunlight in this dank place.

“Beannachdan, a dhaoine uaisle,” she said. “Greetings, gentlemen.” Her accent was good, but not native. “You are Mr. MacInnes, Mr. Stewart, Mr. MacGregor?”

Iain bobbed clumsily and Linhope made a proper bow. “Fàilte ,” he said, welcoming her in Gaelic. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The good doctor stopped short of kissing her hand, Ronan noted sourly. As for his turn, he only nodded in silence.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Her smile was as impish as it was angelic, with fleeting dimples. Altogether a devastating sight in this sorry place, Ronan thought. She was petite, with lush curves and graceful bones, and a serene air that held a thread of steely determination. The effect took him down swiftly, though he gave nothing away.

“May we offer you tea, Mrs. Graham-Leslie?” Linhope asked in Gaelic.

“Keep your distance, sir,” Corbie growled, watching like a hawk beyond the bars.

“Miss Graham will do. I am widowed and do not use my married name.”

Ronan raised a brow. Some Scotswomen kept their maiden names; Mairi Brodie had done so. Yet this girl from an aristocratic family in the city had made an unusual choice; the status of widow could reap benefits in social circles. He glanced toward the disapproving, possessive fellow at the cell door. Perhaps he was courting her.

“Miss Graham—” Linhope indicated a bale of straw. “Would you care to sit?”

She tipped her bonneted head, a golden curl slipping free. Ronan savored the rare sight of beauty and grace, so extraordinary in this dreary underworld. Surprisingly, she seemed at ease, not in the least uncomfortable. It was almost as if she enjoyed it.

He narrowed his eyes. Why was she here, and what did she want?

She picked up the teapot. “ Am bu toil leat tì ? Do you want tea?”

Iain and Linhope both thanked her. She began to pour into three cracked cups.

“Cha toil leam tì,” Ronan said. I do not want tea. He folded his arms petulantly, but only against the damnable effect she had on him. Her mere presence, this delicate wee widow who tossed her suitor out and bravely faced three accused criminals, softened his hard reserve. He liked tea; he disliked a breach of his emotional barricade.

Linhope shot him a dark glance. Behave, it said.

Ignoring Ronan, she poured tea and served cakes as if the cell were a parlor in a fine mansion. The little cakes were studded with currants. Likely stale as a rock, he thought.

Iain and Linhope accepted cups and cakes, and when the girl offered a cup to Ronan, he took it and declined the cake. What did this pretty visitor want? Instinct urged him to hide his ease with teacups and manners and lovely ladies pouring for gentlemen. The same instinct told him to keep to the Gaelic and play the simple crofter.

He glanced at his companions to remind them, but they were too besotted to notice. Linhope sipped, Iain slurped, both smiled. Ronan held his cup and scowled.

“Now,” Miss Graham said, balancing her teacup in white-gloved hands, “which of you is Glenbrae?”

Startled, Ronan said nothing, but Iain pointed. “That’s him.”

“I am from Glenbrae,” Ronan emphasized in Gaelic, shooting a sight-dagger toward Iain for good measure. The fellow missed it, content as a happy pup.

“Mr. MacGregor—Glenbrae—may I have a word with you?”

“Me?” His surprised retort slipped out.

“If you please,” she said in all her angel brightness. She moved toward him, barely coming to his shoulder. He looked down at her. Too close. Stepped back.

“What is it, Miss Graham?”

“It is Mr. Ronan MacGregor? Of Glenbrae? Is that correct?”

He paused. His baptized name was John Ronan MacGregor; as a lawyer, he was John R. MacGregor, while Ronan was used by kin and friends—and the justiciary court.

“What do you want of me?” he asked stiffly.

“I have your welfare in mind with only good intentions. I was sent by my father.”

Ah. There it was. “We do not need saving by heaven’s grace. Goodbye, Miss.”

“Oh! Not that!” She nearly spilled her tea. “My father is the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh. Sir Hector Graham. He sent me here with a message for you.”

Ronan frowned. “Why would a father send his daughter to such a place?”

“He cannot be seen here himself. I offered to translate.”

“Miss Ellison, are you done?” This from Corbie at the grate.

“Not yet,” she called, adding in Gaelic to Ronan, “I trust I am perfectly safe here.”

He bent slightly. “You are safe, madam,” he replied softly. “But do not try to change me with charitable intentions or a churchy mission—or try to convince me of your father’s demands if he will not face me but sends a slip of a lass in his stead.”

“Change you and convince you?” She looked up. “But Mr. MacGregor, that is precisely what I mean to do.”

Her eyes were silvery gray, wide and limpid, her lips full and rosy, her gaze guileless and sparkling with intelligence. Ronan’s heart succumbed in that moment to her candid, whimsical, sensual charm. He stepped back against its subtle force.

“Miss Ellison,” said the fellow at the door. “Shall I come in there now?”

“I am fine, Mr. Corbie,” she said in English.

Intrigued by the girl and irritated by the fellow, Ronan leaned close. “Call off Sir Hound and tell me your business here. You and I are not acquainted. I would certainly have remembered you. Go on, deliver your father’s message.”

She looked up at him, face tilted, eyes bright. He was as wary of her innocent appearance as her mysterious mission. “You are the distiller of Glenbrae whisky?”

“I am.”

“Miss Graham.” Now the pesky escort grabbed the bars. “We have been here too long. Come out, please, or I will fetch you out for your safety.”

“One moment, Mr. Corbie.” Her gaze stayed with Ronan.

“Is he being discourteous, Miss Graham?” Ronan murmured.

“It is just his nature.”

“Since your young man is anxious, I assume your visit is unofficial and your father’s request clandestine.”

“Somewhat.” She glanced sideways at Corbie.

“The man is about to stuff himself between the bars,” Ronan said. A smile teased her soft, rosy lips.

“You there!” Corbie called. “Move away from the lady. I have my eye on you!”

Ronan thrust out an arm, palm flat, for silence. All the while he watched the Graham girl. Corbie bit off the next word and glared through the bars.

“What about my whisky?” Ronan asked.

“Do you have a supply hidden away? Do you smuggle whisky?”

“I will not answer either question. Hector Graham knows better than to ask.”

“Will you reveal where your whisky is located if it was to your advantage?”

“Advantage? That depends. Why these questions?”

“We must know, you see, because—well, an important gentleman enjoys your whisky and would like to meet you.”

“What nonsense is this?” he asked in a flat tone.

“It is not my place to say. You may learn more later.”

“I can hardly wait,” he drawled.

She watched him for a heartbeat, two. “The Whisky Rogues are folk heroes, did you know?”

“Not heroes, lass. We are fiction, courtesy of Sir Walter Scott. But if this important gentleman wants to send a key, clean clothing, and a horse, I might agree to meet him.”

A tiny dimple danced beside her mouth as she smiled. That whimsical little hook drew him in like a lure for a fish. “I am sure you would.”

“One favor for another.” He shrugged.

“Miss Ellison, I am coming in,” Corbie said. “Guard, open the door.”

“I must go.” Ellison Graham set down her cup and turned, nodding farewell to MacInnes and Linhope. She glanced back at Ronan. Something flickered in those silvery eyes that he could not quite read. Regret? “I am sorry, Mr. MacGregor. I wanted more time to talk.”

“Not with your watchdog growling at us. Shall I have a word with him concerning his manners?”

“Manners!” She laughed, dimple flashing, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, no. I must leave. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Miss Graham.” All in soft Gaelic, their private conversation thrummed through him as she turned away.

The guard opened the door and she slipped through. Corbie took her arm to squire her away, even as he sent Ronan a dark glance. Then they vanished into the shadowy corridor.

Ronan turned to see Linhope and Iain watching. “What?”

“The deputy lord provost sent her?” Linhope asked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “To ask if I distill Glenbrae whisky and if I have a secret store of it. Some important fellow wants it.”

“If he could show us some favor, give it to him,” Linhope said.

“I suspect she knows little about it and wanted a bit of adventure. I sensed a spot of rebellion.”

“I like a lass with a spirited nature,” Iain said.

“Aye.” Ronan glanced toward the empty corridor. Her presence and her soft scent lingered. He breathed in, out. “If they knew where our cache is hidden, they would be quick to claim it.”

“We can do little about that from here,” Linhope muttered.