Page 1 of A Rogue in Firelight
Prologue
“Oh, what a tangled web weweave
When first we practice todeceive...”
—Sir Walter Scott,Marmion,1808
Scotland, the Highlands
May 1, 1822
Moonlight and mistgleamed over cobblestones as Ronan MacGregor approached the tavern, wary as he went, boots echoing on the dark street. The old port town of Culross, known for coal and salt exports, favored smuggling traffic too. Free traders swept down from the hills to move clandestine goods swiftly out the harbor of a night. Soon another such cargo would go out.
He had numbered briefly among those rascals, but it was time he returned to life as laird, lawyer, whisky distiller. New-minted viscount as well, dare he claim it. That could bring an estate and suspicion too; some might assume he wanted the property that much. What he wanted was justice.
Tonight, traveling north from Edinburgh to his home in Perthshire, he intended to meet friends in a tavern. He had sent a message; what he had heard in the city made it imperative he find them.
Light glowed in the tavern’s crown-glass windows as he stepped into a haze of smoke, noise, and lamplight. His Highland gear—belted plaid, old jacket, tartan waistcoat—stood him in good stead here. In the city, he preferred well-tailored clothing of dark superfine, for the Courts of Session and Justiciary would look askance at a lawyer in Highland kit. Even so, he wore his hair longer than most and kept to the stubborn note of a tartan waistcoat. If a Whig eyebrow twitched here or there, so be it.
When attending to matters of whisky and transport, he and his companions kept to the tartan and the Gaelic as well. They knew the value of caution.
Entering the main room, he felt a prickle along his neck thanks to the watchful habit he had formed in war and occasional smuggling. The patrons looked ordinary enough; old men in plaids and bonnets sharing ale and playing cards, perhaps down from the hills for the cattle market; a weary family eating supper; the tavernkeeper, a maid. No excise officers here.
He pushed through a curtain into a smaller room. Two Highlanders sat at a table, one lean and fair, the other brawny and dark. They looked up.
“Glenbrae, here at last,” said the tall blond fellow in Gaelic.
“Greetings, Stewart. MacInnes.” He sat. The table held glasses, a squat brown crockery jug, and a plate with leftover crumbles of cheese and oatcakes.
Iain MacInnes reached for the jug and poured a dram into a small glass, handing it to Ronan. “How was the city?”
“Grand and busy. Filled with rumors of the king’s visit this summer.”
“His visit has been dangled and canceled for more than a year.” Arthur, Viscount Linhope—simply Mr. Stewart here—broke off a bit of cheese. “He may not come at all.”
“It seems likely in August.”
MacInnes raised his glass, amber liquid gleaming. “To King Geordie, may he learn to love the Scots, which he does not. How was court?”
“A verdict of ‘not proven’ for my client, so he is free. But the lad never should have been arrested. Remember,” Ronan added low, “John R. MacGregor, advocate, was never here. Nor were his friends, a doctor and an engineer. Just MacGregor, Stewart, and MacInnes. Three reprobates.”
MacInnes lifted his glass. “To rogues and reprobates.”
Linhope saluted too. “And here’s to Will MacGregor and John, Lord Darrach, who began this sore adventure.”
Ronan drew a breath against the names, the tug in his heart. His brother. His cousin. He took a sip.
MacInnes indicated the glass. “Tell us what you think.”
Ronan swirled the liquid. “It is not Glenbrae whisky, I know that.”
“Glenbrae has no equal,” Linhope laughed. “This is new.”
Ronan tasted again; malt, heather, peat, a hint of earth and stone in the water source, he decided. He cupped it on his tongue, seeking an elusive taste. Grass and wild garlic. He swallowed the sweet burn of it.
“Pitlinnie,” he declared. “Over three years in the keg.”
Iain butted Linhope with an elbow. “No one can tell the whisky like the laird of Glenbrae.”
