Page 9 of A Rogue in Firelight (The Whisky Rogues #1)

“W elcome, Glenbrae! We are so pleased you are here!” Lady Strathniven enunciated loudly, her voice echoing in the foyer. Ellison was pleased that Lady Strathniven acted as if she had never seen the man before. But he was not deaf.

MacGregor bowed his head. “My lady, thank you,” he replied in English.

“He speaks English?” Lady Strathniven said, turning to Ellison in surprise.

“A little,” Ellison said as she untied her soggy bonnet.

“Thank you for saving the pup today! Mr. MacNie told me all about your rescue!” As the lady continued to shout, the Highlander smiled amiably.

Ellison translated in Gaelic, though she knew it was unnecessary. Seeing sparks of humor in his blue eyes, she wondered how she had not discerned the truth sooner.

“He seems a nice young man to me.” Lady Strathniven turned to Ellison. “I do not understand the kerfuffle over bringing him here.”

“Please, my lady, may we talk about this later?” Ellison asked.

“Mr. MacNie says the dog likes him very well. Balor’s good opinion is golden.”

“It is. Dear me, I am drenched. I hope we did not track mud over the floor.”

“It can be cleaned. Did you have a nice chat with Glenbrae in the carriage?”

“A bit.” Ellison was keenly aware of the man standing so tall, so close, so attentive.

“You must continue to practice polite conversation with him. It is why we are here.” As the viscountess spoke, Ellison glanced at the Highlander. He cocked a brow.

“We are here for polite conversation?” he asked in Gaelic, with a tight smile.

“And other matters. Later, sir,” she said in Gaelic, unwilling to expose his ease with English. “My lady, our guest will want to rest after his long journey.”

“Mrs. Barrow prepared a room in the tower for him. My nephew wanted me to put him in the servant quarters. But I do not take instruction well.”

Ellison laughed. “You do not, to be sure.” She translated for MacGregor— your room is in the old tower. It is very private. You will be comfortable there— while avoiding his steady gaze. Looking down, she noticed his mud-plastered boots were worn and scuffed, the soles gaping in spots. His feet were long and large. His plaid and other garments were soaked and grimy. And the man had an earthy aroma that was not very gentlemanly.

She remembered Corbie’s list—bath, shave, clothing. She had to agree.

Now she wondered if the clothing she had asked Donal Brodie to find for their guest would suit him. Informing Donal that they expected a gentleman who was tall and fit and in need of clothing, she had told him to look at some things she’d stored in a chest in one of Strathniven’s attics. Because she and Colin had spent so much time at Strathniven, they both had clothing left here.

But she had misjudged. MacGregor was taller, heavier, more muscular than her late husband. Colin Leslie, tall and lean with a poet’s soul and an artist’s elegance, had preferred closely tailored suits and fashionable boots. Brawny MacGregor, quiet and powerful, could fill a space with his very presence; his build was only part of that.

“Will Glenbrae join us for supper? I asked Cook to prepare a simple meal.”

Turning, Ellison asked in Gaelic if he would care to have supper with them.

“An honor, but I must decline,” he replied in that language. His voice, even softly modulated, had a resonance that sank through her like whisky. “Please tell the lady that I am fatigued and would not be good company.”

“Just as well. You must be tired too, my dear,” Lady Strathniven said. “Let Mrs. Barrow see Glenbrae to his room. Your dress is quite ruined. A pity you did not bring a maid to see to your needs. My Jeanie is here, but keeps busy seeing to me. Young Mary can be assigned to help you.”

“Thank you. If she can clean my dress, I can make any repairs.” Glancing around for the housekeeper, Ellison was reluctant to leave the Highlander with the viscountess in her current talkative mood. He would hear too much before she could explain the plan. She needed an opportunity to talk to him in private.

“I vow, Adam thinks this fine Highland rascal cannot learn to act properly no matter what we do, but I disagree—”

“Mrs. Barrow!” Ellison called in relief, hearing the woman’s footsteps.

*

After leading Ronan through the house to a short corridor and the entrance to the old structure, Mrs. Barrow preceded him up spiral stone steps and flung open a door. “This is your room, Mr. MacGregor,” she said as loudly as the viscountess had done.

“Thank you.” Ducking slightly under the old lintel, he followed her inside. “A fine room.” He kept the English simple. She smiled.

The chamber was small but well-appointed, cozy, and somewhat antique, with whitewashed walls, a beamed ceiling, and worn patterned carpets on the planked floor. A large canopy bed with a red brocade coverlet filled much of the space; a small table and wooden chair sat beneath a mullioned window framing a misty view of hills. The room had an air of solitude, high in the old tower. He liked that.

Long ago, a MacGregor ancestor had designed and constructed this very tower. Bemused, he nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Very nice.”

“You-speak-English?” she enunciated.

“Some. Thank you.”

“Lady Strathniven thought you would be comfortable here.” The housekeeper pursed her mouth.

“Aye.”

“Huh, and Mr. MacNie out in the rain at his age, catching his death to fetch you,” she muttered half to herself, “and you bringing mud inside and much in need of a barber and a bath. What are we to do with you. Why are you here at all, at all. Curious, I say.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barrow.” He set a hand on the door.

“Glenbrae is a local name. Are you kin to the MacGregors of Glenbrae and Invermorie? And the late Darrach, God rest him?”

“Kin? Some.”

“I didna know the young viscount, but I knew his father. And you have the look of the Glenbrae MacGregors.” She squinted. “A handsome folk.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. The room is good.”

“ Och , not a word did he get,” she muttered. “MacGregor, if you wish a bath, we have a bathing apparatus here. Lord Strathniven had it brought up from London. You-may-use-the-bathing-apparatus,” she said loudly.

Ronan huffed in amusement. “Bathing apparatus. Thank you.”

“Down-the-stairs!” She pointed out and down.

“Aye.” He wanted a bath desperately. A basin and cloth would do, but he would try the shower machine, though he hated the things, having encountered them before.

“Clothes.” She pointed to the chair and the bed, where items were folded and stacked. “Towels. Soap. Bath!” she repeated with a sniff.

“Very kind.”

On the bed, he saw folded white linen towels, a fat ball of soap, and grooming items. The canopied frame was a dark, hefty monstrosity draped in red damask; the thick mattress was piled with pillows, and looked tempting after months on straw mats in a dungeon. A stiff chair held clothing items; polished boots sat on the floor.

He smiled, gritting his teeth, eager to be alone to bathe, change, rest, and think.

“Why does a guest arrive without his things, I wonder? But your manservant found some items for you to use.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “Manservant?”

“See, you know some words! Young Donal. Your manservant here.”

“Ah.” His nephew might be expected to guard him as well. A fortunate choice.

“Do-you-need-anything-more,” she boomed.

He shook his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Kind.”

“Supper? Hungry? I will send up a tray. Tomorrow, breakfast is in the main house. That way!” She pointed out again. “Dining Room. Understand?”

“Aye. Breakfast. You are kind.”

“Hmph,” she muttered. “You have more English than anyone knows, I suspect.”

When he twinkled his eyes at her, she brightened. “So, Glenbrae! They think you a simple Highland man, but I think differently. I know a few MacGregors hereabouts.”

“Aye?” He went wary.

“Most are good folk, but there are smugglers in these hills. Are you with them?”

“I bring no trouble here.” Her question deserved an immediate answer.

“Huh. We shall see. Good evening.” She left the room, closing the door.

He sighed, ran a hand through his disheveled hair, rubbed his scruffy beard, and reminded himself again to be extremely cautious at Strathniven.

Exploring the room, he sorted through the clothing—linen shirt, neckcloth, waistcoat of brown damask, and a coat and trousers of black superfine. He wondered whose they were; the cut was suited to a tall, trim man.

First, he needed to feel clean again. Gathering the towel, soap, and a leather case of grooming items, he went in search of the bathing machine.

Going down the stone steps, he opened one door after another, finding rooms with furniture draped in dusty sheets and a compact room that held bookshelves, a table, a couple of chairs. A library. He would like to use that if he had time.

On the lower level, he found a small room with a high raftered ceiling and walls covered in blue Delft tiles. The tall apparatus filled the center of the narrow room.

He eyed the contraption skeptically. A wooden tub fitted with tall iron struts formed a cage-like enclosure; above it, a metal tank bolted in the rafters connected through pipes to the showering cage. Water was drawn downward by operating a long cord inside the cage; pulling it would produce a rainlike shower.

That was the theory behind such things, but in Ronan’s experience, they spit and shuddered and trickled and were more trouble than convenience. Pipes could leak and refilling the tank required at least two men to do the job.

This beast acted as expected. Ronan tugged a lever and then the cord, and water spit slowly downward. Stripping out of his things, he stepped inside, catching just enough tepid trickle for a decent wash. Wary of the rickety frame and creaking valves, he hurried to lather his hair and body with the pine-scented soap ball.

Earlier, the downpour on the hillside had given him a natural shower, so the machine completed the task. Rinsing the soap, he pulled the cord and stepped out. Clean was clean, and he felt good and grateful.

Toweling off, he trimmed his beard with the grooming tools, then combed his too-long hair. His plaidie and other garments were filthy; he would ask Donal if someone could clean and repair them. Dressing in the things provided, he found they fit, just, the shirt and waistcoat snug, the trousers too short. The boots, hardly worn, were tight.

Climbing the stairs to the guest chamber, he winced with each step. Such footwear would discourage a man from escaping, he thought; his old brogues, hard-worn but comfortable, would need repair soon. Even so, his worn brogues were unsuited to a royal audience. He huffed at that thought.

At any rate, whether at court or at home, he would prefer to wear good Highland gear, with its handsome distinction and comfort. Another request for Donal, then; the lad would know just where to find Ronan’s things.

Supper waited on a covered tray in his room, left in his absence by a servant. Sitting by the window, Ronan tucked into barley soup and crowdie cheese on an oatcake, washed down with ale from a jug. There was a squat pottery jug of whisky, too. Perhaps Donal had been here to leave it. Pulling the wax plug free, he sniffed and sampled.

Pitlinnie. He knew the taste. Intrigued to find Pitlinnie whisky at Strathniven, he wondered if Mrs. Barrow had purchased it for the household from Sir Neill Pitlinnie. Perhaps the fellow gifted a supply to the household to buy silence and loyalty where goods were often smuggled. Ronan suspected the latter.

A folded paper was tucked under the china plate; the creamy stock was creased repeatedly in the manner of a secret note. Opening the tiny quartos fold by fold, he saw a missive written in a feminine hand.

Mr. MacGregor,

Lady Strathniven requests your company at breakfast tomorrow morning at nine o’clock in the dining room of the main house.

This evening, please visit the tower library at half eight. A message awaits you there.

E. S. G.

Ellison Graham’s writing hand was lovely, but a blot or two spoke of haste.

Hoping the message would add clarity to this odd situation, he sat back, sipping the Pitlinnie. The mantel clock chimed softly; he had a little time to spare. Grateful to be free, he thought of Linhope and MacInnes on Calton Hill by now. Their fate depended on what he did here.

He gazed at the evening sky, its clouds lessening, and felt weariness pull at him. He closed his eyes, dozed—and startled awake to see the time was nearly half eight.

Shrugging into the black coat—tight across the shoulders, sleeves too short, but it must do—he left the room, wincing as the boots pinched.

The door to the small library was ajar, showing lamplight and bookshelves. Miss Graham stood by the mullioned window, haloed in the glow of the twilight sky.

No message, then, but a conversation. Knocking softly, he entered, taking in the room—old ceiling beams, planked floors, hefty furniture—and bookshelves crammed with volumes, vases, globes, and more. Sturdy wooden chairs flanked the table and an oil lamp shed golden light on books and papers.

Ellison Graham turned. In the small room, she stood but a dozen paces away. “Mr. MacGregor—Glenbrae. Please come in.” She spoke in English.

“Miss Graham, good evening.” He too set the Gaelic aside.

“Please sit.” She indicated two armchairs by the window, upholstered in red brocade. He could look only at her for a moment—rosy light shone over the soft golden curls framing her face. She wore a dark blue gown, a prim thing with a high collar and long full sleeves that made her seem small and fragile. Nervous too, she twisted her fingers in a graceful yet anxious way.

Ronan eyed a red chair warily, which looked too slight to support a large male. Instead, he drew one of the wooden chairs close, angling it toward her.

“I thought to meet privately here,” she said. “Though it is not the most proper.”

“So long as you are comfortable, Miss Graham.”

“Aye. The sky is lovely now. The rain is lifting.” She flexed her clasped fingers. The light made her eyes translucent silver.

“Beautiful, aye.” The sky, his freedom. The girl.

“You and your friends have been quite popular in the city. The Whisky Rogues have won the public’s imagination.”

“We have Sir Walter Scott to thank for the name.”

“His opinion holds weight. My father said he called you the Whisky Rogues at a dinner party and mentioned that Highlanders move whisky efficiently and illegally, using the profits to help crofters in dire conditions. He compared you to Robin Hood and his merry men. A journalist overheard and it reached the newspaper.”

“It is a romantic notion and not quite truthful.”

“Sometimes Highlanders smuggle whisky simply to protect their families. Good intentions can cause good men to break laws. I find nobility in that.”

“An interesting thought from the daughter of a government official.”

“I respect Highlanders. I have seen the difficulties they face.”

“Ah.” Best to not pursue the subject of what Highlanders lacked under English governing; he might say too much. He glanced around. “What a fine library. The tower is very old, but well cared for.”

“I like the medieval part of this house. If you prefer something more modern, I will let Mrs. Barrow know.”

“Probably best to separate the rogue from the household,” he drawled. “Thank you for the hospitality and the excellent clothing.” He brushed at the coat sleeves.

“We have clothing in storage here, so I asked Donal to find something for a tall man.” She tipped her head. “If I may, sir, I wonder if the fit is comfortable.”

“These may have been tailored for a slighter gentleman,” he admitted.

“He was tall, but not as—robust. We can have your things cleaned.”

Curious, he did not ask whose suit this had been. “A Highland plaid may not be proper here.” He shifted, praying the coat seams would hold.

“Tartan is considered proper in Scotland again. And Lady Strathniven loves the Highlands, I assure you. As do I.”

He nodded. “So, Miss Graham. There is a message for me?”

“You are owed an explanation.”

“I am listening.” He watched her. Graceful, lightsome, yet something troubled her. Beneath her calm, fine-tuned beauty he sensed tensile energy and a strong spirit. Her fingers folded, then opened like a lotus.

“We—need your help, Mr. MacGregor.”

“I will provide the whisky. Just give me time. You mentioned the king earlier, but I see no need to meet him.”

“His Majesty requested to meet the distiller. Papa’s office is obliged to honor it.”

Questions crowded his mind, but he would be cautious. “What a fuss this visit will be for Scotland. The last English king to visit here, other than those who came here to make war, was Charles the Second, I think.”

“Your education was good in the glen school. My father will be pleased to know it.”

Good Lord, Ronan thought; this Highland savage act had gone too far. “I can read, write, and count on my fingers. I attended the glen school and a public academy in Perth.” He was sore tempted to add that he had studied law in Edinburgh, apprenticed in a law office in Perth, and practiced there still. “Tell Sir Hector the Highlander can quote the Greeks and Romans, spool on about history, philosophy, and maths, and even discuss points of law.”

Indignation flamed in him. He wanted an end to the ruse, but his friends needed protection. He waited, nostrils flared.

“I see.” Color rose in her cheeks. “But the king wants to meet you. He likes your whisky very much.”

“Then I assume this will be a fast introduction. I would bow, say something proper, and then be whisked away to meet my punitive fate.”

“Not so dire as that, I hope.”

He huffed. “And your role in this?”

“Tutoring you in protocol and manners.”

“I am not a savage, madam.” He took quick offense—tired, perplexed, insulted. He breathed out, willing his temper to subside.

She lifted her chin. “I know that. It is a complicated situation.”

“I dread to ask.”

“The king believes the distiller is a gentleman of rank. A peer.”

“Ah.” Pieces clicked into place, beads on an abacus. “Presenting a filthy prisoner is unthinkable, so he must be cleaned up and properly trained. A frog-and-princess tale, is it?” He tipped a brow.

Her cheeks burned deep pink. “I am to tutor you and translate, but clearly you do not need much.”

How ironic, he thought, to trade one ruse for another. “I can behave cordially enough—if I decide to do this.”

“Mr. MacGregor.” She sat forward. “You have little choice.”

“‘What a tangled web we weave,’” he quoted, “‘when first we practice to deceive.’”

She blinked. “Scott.”

“Appropriate, I thought.”

“The other reason for this plan involves the licensing of your whisky.”

“Ah. The landowner is legally the distiller no matter who makes it. So, Viscount Darrach. But he is dead.”

“Did you know him?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. Surely you do not expect me to pose as Darrach.”

She sighed. “You see our dilemma. It is—complicated.”

“Simplify it,” he clipped.

“The king expects to meet a viscount, not a prisoner. The Darrach inheritance is undecided.” She glanced down, as if her conscience troubled her. “Papa thinks the inheritance will not be decided for some time yet.”

“Possibly.” He knew the issue would go to court soon and he had a solid claim. “If an heir is found, Sir Hector’s scheme will collapse.”

She blushed, nodded. Her thoughts and feelings were transparent, a charming but vulnerable quality. He folded his arms against a protective urge.

“The royal assemblies will be huge, hundreds or thousands in attendance,” she said. “An unfamiliar viscount of a small estate would hardly be noticed. It would all go very quickly.”

“Whether a minute or a lifetime, impersonating a peer is punishable by prison or exile. Or worse. If this insult to the Crown is discovered, we could all be charged and sentenced with conspiracy. Even you.”

“You know something of the law.”

“A bit.”

“I know there are risks.” Her brow furrowed, her hands fluttered. She was frightened, he realized.

“So, you must train a peasant to act a peer, run him past the king, hope no one notices, and then escape the whole mess as fast as you can.”

“Do you need a tutor at all?” she snapped.

“Aye,” he bit out. “If I set a foot wrong and ruin your lunatic scheme, my friends could suffer. I can manage to be polite—briefly.” He spoke bitterly, but knew she did not deserve his anger; her father and his secretary did.

She wove her fingers in and out fretfully. He wanted to reach out and calm her hands. Calm her. She looked as delicate as porcelain, yet beneath her nervousness, he sensed strength, regret, and sadness. He had secrets and sadness too. His sympathy toward her grew, and something inside him succumbed.

“I apologize, Miss Graham. This appears to be none of your doing.”

“Will you agree to see this through?”

He ought to refuse, but his friends in Calton depended on him. The Highland rogue was more a gentleman than the schemers knew. But he must hide it.

He nodded. “I will.”

“Thank you.” She breathed out as if in relief.

“So, what will you teach me?”

“We will cover polite conversation, how to properly address nobility and royalty, some aspects of gentlemanly behavior, costume and comportment, and so on. And perhaps a dancing lesson.” Her fingers were like gentle, fluttering butterflies. He felt keenly that she had been forced into this, just as he was.

“Using the wrong fork is a serious matter, is it? Tie a cravat properly or someone will die?” He raised a brow. “A dangerous wee game, this. Then what?”

She ducked her head, went rosy. “I am not sure what happens afterward.”

“Bidh a h-uile càil gu math,” he said softly. All will be well. “I suppose polite chatter and a little dancing are preferable to hanging.”

Her earnest nod was endearing. That was dangerous too. He stood. “We have been alone too long. We must practice propriety.”

She stood, just at the height of his shoulder. He felt very tall and protective. Going to the door, he reached for the handle and paused.

“Miss Graham,” he murmured. “Whatever happens to me is my concern. Do not fret over it. You did a brave thing tonight.”

“Brave?” Her eyes were dark, sincere gray now. His breath stirred a soft curl at her brow. Aware he stood too close, he did not move, nor did she.

“You delivered a message that two men were too cowardly to give. Just who needs to learn some manners?”

She smiled. “Tutoring you should prove easy enough, sir.”

“See how quickly I learned English tonight. What shall we do tomorrow?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“I always do that,” he murmured, and reached over her head to open the door.