Page 7 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

F reedom. He had nearly forgotten the feeling.

Through the window of the rolling carriage, Ronan watched the morning fog lift away from buildings crowding the High Street. Two Regiment of Foot guards had escorted him from his cell to the castle forecourt and a waiting vehicle. Now the coach lurched along so quickly that he tilted on the cracked leather seat, hands and ankles bound with rope.

Where the devil were they taking him?

He gulped in cool summer air, enjoying the earthy scent of the cobbled streets, the tantalizing smells of bacon and new bread wafting from booths in the Lawnmarket where merchants were setting up for the day. Everywhere he saw farmers, merchants, women with baskets, children running, and a few soldiers of the Regiment of Foot in red coats, tartan trews, black hats. Overhead, the bells of Saint Giles rang out.

For them, an ordinary morning; for him, extraordinary.

The shabby vehicle was a hired hackney. Curious, he thought. A cart might mean he was headed for trial and hanging. A carriage meant a longer trip.

Earlier, MacInnes and Linhope had watched in alarm as the sentries removed him without explanation. He could not guess their fate now, or his. Whatever the day would bring, he must face it with fortitude.

Ahead he saw the rooftops of Holyroodhouse; to the left, the rugged incline of Calton Hill. Instead of heading there, the coach turned into a shadowed close and halted. Frowning, he recognized the building as the offices of the Constabulary. Dread punched through him.

Leaning to the window, he saw two guards walking with a portly gentleman in a black coat, his expansive chest draped with a blue ribbon, gold badge, silver whistle on a chain. An Edinburgh constable.

A guard opened the door and entered the coach; Ronan recognized Bain, the young sergeant who had interpreted Gaelic for the prisoners in the Castle. The constable thrust his beefy head inside and waved the papers clenched in his hand.

“Ronan MacGregor of Glenbrae in Perthshire, accused of offenses against the Crown, including trafficking of illegal goods,” he intoned.

Bain repeated in Gaelic. Ronan nodded; they believed he spoke no English.

“Mr. MacGregor, there are new orders for you,” Bain said in Gaelic.

“Am I bound for the gallows?”

“I only know that you are to be taken out of the city.”

“Did some rural court lay claim?”

The soldier leaned forward to speak low. “Listen now, for you are a Gael and a MacGregor, and my mother is a MacGregor, and so I will be honest with you.”

“Tapadh leat,” Ronan said. Thank you.

“What are you saying in there?” the constable demanded.

“The arrangements,” Bain answered. “Listen now, Glenbrae. Agree to whatever they ask on pain of consequences. Comply with any conditions proposed for you.”

“Why?”

“MacGregor!” The constable rustled the papers in his hand. “This writ is signed by the Right Honorable Sir Hector Graham, Deputy Lord Provost. You are to be released.” Bain’s Gaelic interpretation was unnecessary, but Ronan waited.

“On what condition? Who paid the surety for the release?” Ronan asked. Bain spoke to the constable.

“Criminals think they know the law better than lawyers,” the man groused. “Tell him he is discharged by petition to the Magistrate’s office. But he can be confined again for any offense not subject to the terms of this release. On one condition.”

“If I am free on discharge there should be no condition,” Ronan murmured in Gaelic.

“He is in the judicial custody of Sir Hector Graham,” the constable said.

“What interest does Graham have in me?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Bain answered. He relayed the question but got no reply.

Scowling, Ronan recalled that Miss Graham had mentioned that someone important was interested in Glenbrae whisky. Was this conditional release part of that odd request?

“Wait here.” The constable walked away. Ronan and Bain sat silent.

Shoulders tight, tension growing, Ronan puzzled over pieces that did not fit. Even if someone in authority wanted to see him, it was unusual to free a prisoner and even odder for the chief of the constabulary to guarantee it. Outside came more footsteps, and the coach door opened again.

Recognizing the man who had accompanied Miss Graham to the dungeon, Ronan felt a warning chill spiral through him.

“This is Mr. Adam Corbie,” Bain said in Gaelic. “Secretary to the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh. He has some information for you.”

“And I have questions. Ask if I am a judicial ward of the provost’s office or free on my own accord.” Bain did so.

“Temporary. Conditional,” Corbie said. “Ask MacGregor if he is responsible for Glenbrae whisky. Ask if he smuggles it.”

“Miss Graham asked that and I answered. Mr. Corbie cannot trick me into admitting a crime. I need not answer his inquiry, as he is not an officer of the court.”

The translation earned him a flat stare from Corbie. “Remind MacGregor he is liberated temporarily on a minor detail. Sixty-five days have passed since his arrest without trial. That entitles him to release. Such privilege is rarely granted. He is under Sir Hector’s protection and would be wise to accept it.”

“Then my friends should be released as well,” Ronan said, as Bain translated.

“They would require separate petitions. There is no time for that,” came the reply.

“Ask what the devil he wants,” Ronan snapped.

“The king is fond of Highland whisky.” Corbie sneered as he spoke. “We require a supply of your product as a gift for the king.”

“Tell him to send word to Glenbrae distillery to purchase what is needed.”

Bain translated and Corbie flicked his fingers dismissively. “It is complicated. MacGregor will learn more later.”

Was King George the important person? It seemed preposterous.

“Does the Provost’s office want to avoid embarrassment because the Glenbrae distiller is accused of smuggling?” Ronan asked. Bain repeated it in English. “Am I released to be located elsewhere until the king leaves Scotland?”

“MacGregor is heading north. That is all he needs to know,” Corbie said stiffly.

“What of my friends?” Again Bain translated.

“Tell him to be grateful for his situation. His friends’ welfare depends on his cooperation.”

“What the devil!” Ronan growled in English, glaring at Corbie.

“Ah, you do speak English,” Corbie drawled.

“Some,” he bit out.

“Tell him he is under the protection of Sir Hector Graham until otherwise decided. Comply, or his accomplices will pay the price. And he will be sent to Calton.”

“I will not comply with blackmail,” Ronan snarled in Gaelic. Bain interpreted.

Corbie lifted a hand. “Take him north, Sergeant. Ride with him until you meet the second coach. Then return to the city in this one.” Corbie opened the door, then turned.

“Tell MacGregor,” he added low, “when he sees Mrs. Graham-Leslie, he will keep his distance and speak only when chaperoned. Or else,” he growled, looking at Ronan, “I will see him arrested and hanged. Or kill him myself.” He walked away.

Bain did not translate.

Silent, Ronan fisted his hands, wrists still bound. Moments later, the driver stirred the horses and the vehicle climbed the slope to the High Street.

“Since they declared you free, there is no need for these.” Bain leaned forward, produced a small, sharp knife, and sliced through the ropes binding wrists and feet.

“Thank you.” Ronan rubbed his wrists. “Where are we headed?”

“North to Kinross to meet another coach. That is all I know.”

Heading north, Ronan watched the landscape flow past and nursed simmering anger over his baffling encounter. Freed by unexpected writ, he wanted to enjoy the luck, but could not. Threats, mystery, betrayal laced through the situation.

Hours passed as they took a barge over to Fife and headed northwest for Perthshire and Kinross. He knew the route well. Bain dozed. Ronan rested some, but turned the conundrum over in his mind.

Somehow the delectable Miss Graham was involved in this. When he sees her , Corbie had said. Not if.

Watching rainclouds over distant hills, he wondered if Graham and Corbie knew they had sent him home, where he had opportunity and hope.

*

“Aye, Mr. Balor, we will go out soon for a good run before supper,” Ellison said as the little terrier jumped about by the door that led to Strathniven’s kitchen garden. She bent to pat the terrier’s head, and Balor, his long dark coat nearly brushing the slate floor, stood as patiently as possible, his little body quivering with excitement.

Tying the black ribbons of her straw bonnet and adjusting the wide brim with its crescent of silk flowers, she smoothed the flounced skirts of her lavender day dress and plucked a tartan shawl from a hook to drape it over her shoulders in case of rain. Remembering the boots she kept at Strathniven for traversing the hills, she slid out of her black slippers, found the boots, tugged them on and tied the laces.

“Sensible shoes!” Lady Strathniven said as she stepped into the dim corridor. “These hills can be muddy. There was quite a bit of rain lately.”

Ellison straightened. “I fell once in slippers on a hill, which taught me a lesson.”

“Yes, you broke an ankle! I am glad you came up here for a little respite, dear.”

“We will not have much of that once our guest arrives.” She took the dog’s leash.

“You are the perfect tutor for the task. That sky looks ominous.” Lady Strathniven peered through the window. “Let one of the maids take the pup out.”

“Your staff are busy, and I enjoy walking him. Donal Brodie offered earlier today, but I have not seen him since.”

“He went to Kinross with Mr. MacNie to pick up the wee man. Sir Ronald.”

“Ronan,” Ellison said. “I did not know Mr. MacGregor was expected today.”

“Did I not mention it? What should we call him? Lord Darrach or Sir Ron—Ronan.”

“Glenbrae or Mr. MacGregor should do. We may need to call him Lord Darrach in company later, though I doubt he will like it much.”

“We shall see. MacNie will pick up some things while he is in town, including the post. They leave it at the inn now rather than bring it around as before. Efficiency for them is not very efficient for us. Hey, Balor!” The lady bent to pat his head. “Sweet pup!”

“He adores you. Papa thought I should leave him in Edinburgh to save your Turkey carpets.”

“I would rather he chewed all my carpets than stayed with that old numpty. Hey, my laddie,” she said to the dog in a silly voice.

Ellison laughed. “He loves the freedom here. So do I.”

“We do as we please here, my dear. It is part of why I love the Highlands.” She sighed. “I wish my nephew appreciated it as much as you do. I should leave the estate to him as my heir, but he has become such a sour fellow. I told him he must marry a practical and kind wife if he wants Strathniven. You know he is quite fond of you.”

Was that a hint? Tugging at her gloves, Ellison frowned. “I had that impression.”

“I am sure your father would approve.”

Ellison busied herself with the dog’s leash. She did not want to talk about the possibility of marrying Corbie.

“Adam did not inherit much from his father, alas, but he has a respectable income and an ambition to succeed.”

“I have noticed. Oh, look how anxious Balor is to be off. We will be back soon.”

“I know Adam does not think MacGregor should be treated as a guest here,” the lady went on. “And you two disagree at times. True, Ronald MacGregor must feel like a gentleman if he is to act like one.”

“Ronan,” Ellison said absently. “My lady, does this ruse trouble you?”

“It is necessary. With all the kerfuffle around King George, no one will think much about another Highland lord. Go, now.” The lady opened the door. “Hurry back.”

Balor half-dragged Ellison down the kitchen path toward the lawn and flower gardens. She guided him firmly beyond the low garden wall, crossing a meadow toward a hill behind the house.

On the incline, skirt hems brushing wet heather, she glanced back at Strathniven House. Golden sandstone walls soared on green lawns under gray clouds. An elegant windowed facade and jumble of slate roofs defined the main house, and an old stone tower, all that remained of the original castle, capped a far corner. Tucked against the foothills, it looked like a fairytale castle.

She loved every stone, every acre. Someday Adam Corbie would be its master, but for now, she was grateful to be here. She wondered if Corbie could truly care about the estate, cultivate it, protect it, be a fair landlord to the tenants on its vast acres. Lady Strathniven was right. Her nephew would need a capable wife and helpmate once he inherited the estate.

Much as she cared about Strathniven House, she could not be that helpmate.

*

The hills grew higher, steeper, and pines rose green and strong against rugged slopes misted in purple heather and yellow gorse. Here and there, wild roses clustered. Ronan savored the comfort of familiar beauty, grateful for the luck that had him rumbling toward home.

But he did not know his fate here, and dare not think longingly of Invermorie Castle, his property in these heathery hills, or of Darrach Castle, the stone tower that may or may not be his right someday. The tug in his heart felt almost physical.

Instead, he puzzled over the curious arrangement that had brought him this wee bout of freedom. It was cause for concern. What did the lovely Miss Ellison Graham have to do with this? He doubted King George cared a whit who distilled the whisky in his glass so long as it was abundantly supplied.

But he smiled, certain that Glenbrae whisky was just that good, especially the casks released earlier this year. Aged five years, it was exceptionally smooth and rich. A cache of Glenbrae whisky had made it to the king’s table two years ago, courtesy of a kinsman. That the king preferred it was fine news indeed.

The landscape streaming past grew even more familiar. In these glens, he knew every hill, path, and cave; every castle, croft, and bothy. There he would find home, kin, friends; enemies too.

Soon he saw the church steeple and market cross of the small town of Kinross. The coach drew to a stop in the forecourt of an inn he knew as well. And he was wary of being recognized by its patrons.

Bain stepped out of the hackney, stretching. “A coach waits for you over there,” he said, pointing. “The driver will take you onward. I wish you slàn leat, deagh fhortan. ”

Ronan stepped down into a drizzling rain. “Luck to you as well,” he replied in Gaelic. “If you and the hackney man want a pint and a meal before you return to the city, the fare is good here.” Across the yard sat a black brougham, old but well-kept, with two stocky horses, black and chestnut. The driver, an older fellow, sat beside a youth. Both pulled plaids and caps against the rain. Waving, the driver climbed down to approach.

Feeling a jolt to see a man he knew, Ronan pulled a swath of his own plaid over his head against rain and recognition.

“Ben MacNie here for the guest, sir,” the older man told Bain, and gave Ronan a keen glance. Head lowered, Ronan nodded in silence, glancing at the familiar face of a friend. MacNie had rough-carved, amiable features, a gray beard, and sharp blue eyes that studied him. Glancing past him, Ronan felt another tug when he saw the face of the young man seated on the driver’s bench.

He caught his breath. His ruse was all but done, and depended on these two.

“This is Mr. MacGregor. He speaks little English,” Bain told MacNie.

“Does he now,” MacNie drawled. “Come from Edinburgh with a military guard? I thought we were to fetch a gentleman guest.”

“He is a guest of Lady Strathniven.”

Keeping his head down, Ronan nodded curtly at the introduction, and wondered why the devil they would send him to Strathniven. What did they want of him?

“Aye well.” MacNie watched Ronan. “Sir, I am steward and factor at Strathniven House and estate, and keep the stables too. I will say the MacGregors are a good lot. My stable lad is of that ilk. Fàilte ,” he added in welcome.

“Tapadh leat,” Ronan murmured, head down.

“Lady Strathniven looks forward to your visit. We should go.”

“She is a kind lady,” Ronan replied carefully.

“Aye. This way, sir. Good day, Sergeant.”

Ronan thanked Bain and followed MacNie across the yard. The driver had guessed by now, no doubt, and soon enough the lad would too. He had to count on their silence. And he was determined to discover why he had been sent here.