Page 8 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“B alor!” Ellison called as the terrier scampered ahead, pausing to glance at her as if considering his choices, though the leash limited those. Tail wagging, he came to her when she called again, and took the bit of oatcake she offered from a pocket.

Keeping pace with the dog as he explored the damp hillside, Ellison raised her face to the drizzling rain, enjoying its soft, clean wetness and the freedom she felt. At Strathniven, she felt untethered and could reclaim herself for a little while.

Balor enjoyed the same, and because he was good about returning when she called, she let him off the leash. Then she called him back for a pat and praise, and followed where he went.

She was glad of a little time to think about what was expected of her with these lessons, how she should proceed with tutoring, and how she felt about this scheme. A gentleman was essential for this royal request. She knew that. But she disliked Corbie’s barely veiled threats and her father’s desire to have little to do with it.

Thinking of Corbie, she shivered. His disrespect toward MacGregor revealed a colder heart than Ellison had realized. For all his haughtiness, she had not thought him capable of cruelty before, but now, she was not so sure. If her father expected her to accept a match, he and Corbie would be sorely disappointed.

Looking around, she saw Balor happily nosing nearby. A burst of wind stirred her skirts, and fat raindrops splattered the turf, the rocks, her bonnet. “Come here, Balor!”

Digging and busy, the dog ignored her. Walking closer, Ellison glanced down to see the road that swept north from Kinross to curve around the foothills. Mr. MacNie would bring the coach carrying MacGregor along that road, and soon the lessons would begin. She breathed in, feeling a thrill at the thought of this adventure.

Hearing a bark, she saw Balor running along the slope, tail wagging madly. She followed a rough path between heather, gorse, and rocks, determined to fetch him. Rain was falling in earnest now, and it was to head back to the house.

“Balor!” The dog forged ahead through brush and bramble, nose down, tail straight, silently intent on a quest. Sighing, Ellison followed. “Come here!”

Distant thunder rumbled, and the dog bolted like an arrow. Ellison knew he hated thunder and lightning, usually hiding under furniture. Now he ran in a panic.

“Balor!” She turned, searching the slopes. He had vanished, having found some niche behind a rock or a bush. Spotting his little dark rump beside some gorse, fearing his coat would be full of the painful spines, she ran toward him.

More thunder, then a bright crack of lightning overhead. The rain turned to a downpour. Running, heels sliding, she nearly fell, catching herself with a hand splayed on the turf, a knee to the mud. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried, calling out. The delay of her fall, then a new round of thunder, caused Balor to flee again.

Pausing to catch her breath, spinning, Ellison did not see the dog, but noticed how far she had come from the house. The wind and slanting rain grew more forceful, and she drew the plaid close, lifting the drooping brim of her straw hat to look around.

“Balor!”

Desperate, she spun again and saw movement on the road. The black Strathniven carriage came around a curve, its red-painted wheels a blur. In a panic, Ellison hurried down the hill, waving her arms.

“MacNie! Mr. MacNie! Stop!” She ran, heels sliding on the slope, damp skirts clinging as she stepped onto the road. The carriage pulled to a sudden halt.

“Miss Ellison!” MacNie called. “Ye look a right banshee! What is it, lass?”

“Mr. MacNie! Donal!” She hurried toward the carriage as Donal Brodie climbed down to meet her. “Balor ran off in the storm. I cannot find him—I am so glad to see you! Can you help?” She spoke breathlessly, knowing she must look like a drowned harpy. Donal came near, and beyond, she saw a face at the coach window.

Dark hair, rough-bearded jaw, shoulder pressed to the glass. She felt a leap in her heart to see MacGregor there. But Balor was all that mattered.

“Miss Ellison, where did you see the dog last?” Donal asked.

She pointed. “Up there. He found a hiding spot somewhere. He is frightened of thunder.” Another roar punched through the clouds. She jumped.

MacNie climbed down, red plaid wrapped over coat and trews and draped high over his head and shoulders. “Which way, lass? The wee rascal! Donal, wi’ me.” He turned for the hill. “Wait in the coach, Miss.”

“I can help you find Balor!”

“Ye’re soaked through. Her ladyship will have my hide should ye take ill. Inside, now. Dinna mind the young man there. He’s all right,” he added, waving her away.

Just then MacGregor stepped out of the vehicle, pulling his dark plaid over his head too against the downpour. “Miss Graham! What is the trouble?”

“My dog is lost on the hill,” she said, distracted, pointing that way.

“We’re off to fetch him,” MacNie called. “Lass, to the coach!”

“Let me help,” MacGregor said. With a fleeting touch to her elbow—she felt the tender shock of it through to her knees—he hurried away, taking the slope in long strides. Watching the men, she then went to the coach and climbed inside.

Something tapped at her awareness, but she had no time to study it, anxious for the dog’s safety. She shook her skirts, stamped her muddy boots, sat on the edge of the leather bench, and watched the hill. Rain pounded on the roof, thunder rumbled, lightning cracked. Tugging off her wet gloves, she leaned to look up the slope.

On the hill’s crest, the men moved through a haze of rain, shouting, waving arms as if to herd the dog. Had they found him? Opening the door slightly, she listened to their shouts through the sound of the rain.

“Here—no, there! Over there! Hey! To me, wee rascal! Och, beastie, here to me!”

She could make out MacNie in his trousers and flat cap, Donal, lanky and fast, and MacGregor, tall and strong, arms extended, plaid flapping. When a small dark shape darted across the ridge, MacGregor spun after it and dove down.

Moments later came victorious shouts as the men headed down the hill. Seeing MacGregor clutching a squirming bundle inside his plaid, Ellison jumped from the coach and ran toward them.

He patted the bump in his plaid and glanced up at Ellison. He grinned. MacNie spoke and MacGregor replied, laughing, the sound warm through the rain. Here was a man at ease, confident, untroubled—no wary prisoner, but a Highlander in his element.

And he had rescued her pup. Grateful, relieved, she ran forward, tugging at her drenched shawl. The men were soaked, too. They would arrive at Strathniven in a sorry state. She hardly cared.

Donal spoke then, and MacGregor and MacNie laughed. Ellison smiled too, eager to join them. Then that sense of something missed, forgotten, suddenly came clear.

They all spoke English. So did MacGregor, with great ease.

Then Balor’s little snout poked out of the Highlander’s plaid. Crying out in relief, Ellison hurried forward.

“Is this the small one you are wanting?” MacGregor asked in Gaelic.

“Tapadh leat,” she said, hands open to lift the dog away. MacGregor cupped his large hand gently over the dog’s head.

“He is excited and may bolt again.” This in Gaelic too. “Come into the coach. You are wet and will catch your death.” He touched her elbow to guide her there.

Another incidental touch, another rush of safety and strength. She stepped away.

“I will walk, Mr. MacGregor,” she said in precise English. “Give me my dog.”

*

Thunder boomed, lightning snapped, the dog in his arms yelped. Ronan took the girl’s elbow firmly. “A-steach don charbad, mo nighean.” Into the carriage, my girl.

She glared at him, eyes gone stormy gray. He frowned, wondering what had sparked her temper. And then he knew.

What a fool to forget his ruse. He had naturally used English while the men chased the dog, reverting to Gaelic when he spoke to Miss Graham. She, a clever girl, had noticed.

Thunder again. The dog jerked. Ronan guided the girl toward the carriage. She relented, letting him assist her inside. Her fingers were slender and cool, attitude cooler.

She sat, smoothing her damp skirts. He sat opposite, cradling the pup in one arm. He knew she was angry and knew he deserved it.

“You can take the pup and I will do the walking,” he offered in Gaelic.

“Then you will be the one catching your death,” she responded in that tongue.

“If I do not catch it from you first.”

She opened her mouth to speak just as the carriage lurched forward. Ronan swayed, holding the dog. The girl nearly tumbled from her seat, righting herself and turning indignantly away from him. He noticed her gown had fared poorly in the rain, soggy flounces at the hem, wet lace at the bodice. When dry, the thing would be fetching; the lavender hue would complement the flash of those irate eyes.

His mouth twitched. He stroked the quivering dog’s head, waiting. Miss Graham lifted her chin, fussed at the damp shawl, pushed at her drooping bonnet with its bedraggled silk flowers, her wet golden curls straggling free. She glanced at him, cheeks high pink, rain-colored eyes snapping.

“Do you want the pup?” He used Gaelic stubbornly to push against the strong attraction he felt. Tension hung between them. She did not reply.

Wriggling and warm, the dog stretched its snout to lick Ronan’s bearded chin. He laughed—he could not help it. The girl melted a little and reached out.

“Wee laddie, come here,” she cooed, and took the creature, cuddling it, heedless of mud and damp. The love between the two warmed the dreary carriage interior like sunlight.

It warmed Ronan’s heart, too, though he folded his arms over his chest, suddenly aware just how easily he could fall for this sopping, messy, indignant, beautiful girl and her mucky wee pup.

He needed to stay aloof, needed to mistrust her, her father, and Corbie. With his freedom in question, his friends threatened, and this journey benefiting others somehow, he had to remain vigilant.

Thunder rolled above, loud and startling. The dog barked, and the girl squeaked as the carriage hurtled onward. “MacNie and Donal are seated outside in this awful storm. It is dangerous for them to be up there.” She spoke in English.

So did he. “Your man drives like the very devil.”

“He drives fast no matter the weather.” She held the whimpering dog close. The coach rocked, pitching her sideways. Ronan straightened his leg, bracing his boot against the opposite seat to keep her from falling.

“Beg pardon,” he muttered, dropping his foot to the floor.

She watched him over the dog’s head. “So you have English.”

“I have.” He felt a little of the burden lift.

“A good bit, I think.” She lifted her chin defiantly, a habit he had noticed in her.

“Aye so.” He inclined his head.

“Did you need the Gaelic for protection?”

“It proved convenient.” Her observation was kind as well as perceptive. But he could not allow kindness, or this drenched, charming, delicate vision, to sway him.

“May we use English between us, then?” An offer of peace rather than an accusation, it revealed her character. He liked that. He nodded.

“The ruse has been helpful,” he said.

“Ruse?” Her hands clenched. “I will not keep your secret. But tell me—are you a true Highland man? There is more to you than one might guess.”

“One might say the same for you, Miss Graham.” She was learning about him as fast as he was discerning her. “I am Highland born and bred and have spoken the Gaelic since my first words. English too. Lately the native tongue suited best.”

“It would have been risky to reveal too much about yourself.”

“I can hide little from you, Miss Graham. I am warned.”

“I am not your enemy.” She watched him for a moment, then looked out the window. “Cha mhòr an sin.” Almost there.

Gaelic again. Bless the girl. “Strathniven House?” Looking through a haze of rain, he glimpsed the massive sandstone facade in the distance.

“It is.” Tugging at her bonnet, she swept her fingers through the wet, honey-colored curls spilling along one shoulder. “I look a fright.”

“Not at all.” She looked a wee goddess. Not just lovely, but intelligent, forthright, unpretentious. Such virtues in a woman were his downfall. He yearned for a woman with inner strength, a sharp mind, kindness, even a touch of whimsy. One such woman had slipped through his grasp years ago, and his uncertain future might not allow him to find another. Yet this girl fair glowed with allure, wit, compassion, and more. He felt himself falling.

Careful, lad . This fleeting moment was no place to rest his hopes and dreams.

“Miss Graham, only your wee hat looks a fright.”

She laughed, touched the woebegone flowers. “Your things are soaked too. Thank you for fetching my dog. I appreciate it more than I can say.”

“It is I who must thank you. I enjoyed chasing about in the rain. It has been too long.”

“Thank Balor for running away.” She ruffled the dog’s head.

“Balor, is it? Chief of the Fomorians in Irish myth—the ‘deadly one’—a formidable name for a wee Skye terrier.” He reached across the gap to scratch the little head and received a licking of the fingers in return. “Fierce laddie.”

She laughed again. “Do you have a dog?”

“Two deerhounds, staying with kin while I have been away.” He went silent, having eased up caution too soon. The girl broke his focus.

She giggled as the dog licked her chin. Ronan enjoyed the silvery sound and her impish, fairylike smile. Affection and contentment warmed him out of nowhere.

“Regardless of the reason,” he ventured, “it is good to be out in the world again.”

“I am glad. So you agreed to what was asked of you?”

“I was told the king has a fondness for my whisky. I saw your Mr. Corbie.”

“And he explained the rest?”

“The king would like a supply of Glenbrae whisky, and it seems I am expected to provide it. That may take some doing.”

“You have a few weeks to arrange it.”

“Mr. Corbie hinted at some difficulty for my friends if I do not comply. With what,” he murmured, “should I comply?”

“Oh.” She worried her teeth against her lower lip. “I thought you knew.”

“I am to obtain whisky. And it seems I am being removed from Edinburgh to avoid embarrassment for Scotland.”

“That is part of it.” She paused. “Do you not know?”

“Know what?” He waited.

“Mr. MacGregor, I must warn you.”

He leaned back. “If you feel this space is too close, I apologize. But you are safe from me. Your Corbie warned me to keep my distance from you.”

“He is not my Corbie. And he should not have told you that. He misspoke.”

“If I am missing something here, best say it out.”

“I must warn you that Mr. Corbie thinks you should be a—a hostage.”

“Does he,” he drawled. “Are you my custodian, then?”

“Not me. But there are expectations of you. Truly, he did not explain?”

“All I know is that I have been liberated. What expectations?”

“Liberated?” She tipped her head in surprise.

“A nicety of the law fell in my favor. I hope to extend it permanently.” He waved a hand. “What is expected of me, Miss Graham?”

A worry, something unsettled, flickered in her eyes. “I believe Mr. Corbie meant hostage in the old sense—a hostage for good behavior, as in earlier days.”

“I know what it means. Held in abeyance. My good behavior in exchange for the safety of my friends. What is expected in return?”

“Please understand that I am not part of any threat to you.”

“I would quake in my boots if you were. Out with it, Miss.”

“There is an arrangement. It should have been explained.”

“I am to keep my distance from you. Must I also display excellent manners at your country house? Pretend to be a better man than I am? I can manage it briefly. It will try me so,” he snapped.

She winced, cheeks going pink. “M-manners?”

“I assume I must be isolated here while the king is in the city.”

“I know you are upset, but you must agree to what is asked.” Above the sound of rain and wheels, her voice turned urgent. “And you must not try to escape.”

“Or your spiteful wee clerk will be after me?” He huffed a laugh.

“He is my father’s secretary.”

“And in love with you, if I am not mistaken.”

“I do not know what he thinks of me.” She looked away.

He did not believe that, but he was after a different truth. “Miss Graham, I sense something afoot here. It seems your Mr. Corbie has gallantly left it to the lady to explain. And he calls himself a gentleman,” he muttered.

“Gentleman! Oh.” She held the dog tightly against her.

“You will smother that pup. Tell me.”

“You are to be introduced to the king,” she blurted. “At one of the assemblies. As a gentleman. Perhaps—under another name. Because of your—predicament.”

Of all the possibilities, he had not expected that. “How absurd.”

“The king expects to meet the distiller of Glenbrae whisky. He likes your whisky very much.”

“Ah.” The pieces came together swiftly. “Alas, the distiller is a smuggler, even worse, a prisoner, but the Provost’s office cannot refuse the king. What to do? Aha!” He spoke swiftly, with an edge. “Hide the scoundrel away until the king departs—or shall we clean him up and trot him past the king? Is that it?”

“Uh—oh, look!” She pointed out the window. “Strathniven House.”

Now he noticed they were rolling between two stone gates to enter an earthen courtyard edged by pine trees. Sandstone walls were articulated by rows of gleaming windows overlooking lawns and gardens. To one side were stables and sheds; to the other, soaring blue and heathered hills.

This was the fine house and estate his great-grandfather had lost long ago.

Strathniven is no longer ours, lad, his father had told him once. But Glenbrae and Invermorie will be yours after I am gone, and your cousin will have Darrach. The two of you must guard the land and tenants.

A task that had proven all but impossible.

“May we speak of this matter later?” she asked. “Mr. MacGregor?”

“What? Aye.” The carriage slowed. “Have MacNie leave me at the servants’ door.”

“You are a guest here,” she said as the coach stopped. “Welcome to Strathniven, Mr. MacGregor. Shall I call you Glenbrae?”

“If you like,” he said, distracted, thoughts racing.

The carriage door opened, and Donal peered inside, tall and thin, black-haired, with the rounded beauty of a young man who would one day grow into handsomeness.

“Miss Ellison,” the lad said, handing her out.

“Donal, this is MacGregor of Glenbrae. He is our guest. Sir, this is Donal Brodie, one of our grooms.”

“Sir.” The lad touched his cap. Ronan nodded in silence, stepping down. Lanky young Donal took the dog from Miss Graham and set the pup on the ground. “I will take Balor to the kitchen and dry him off, Miss.”

“Thank you. Oh, Donal,” she said, turning, “Glenbrae does not have much English. Your Gaelic is good enough for conversation, I think?”

“Gaelic?” The lad’s brows lifted under the dark gloss of his hair, and his whisky-brown eyes widened in surprise. “I know a bit.”

“Good. That will be a help.” She turned for the house.

Ronan waited until she was out of earshot. “Donal Brodie,” he murmured, “you have sprouted since I saw you last.”

“That I have. Welcome back to Perthshire, Uncle.” Donal grinned.

Ronan’s throat tightened. For a moment he could not speak. Then he clapped his brother’s stepson on the shoulder and walked with him toward the entrance.