Page 105 of A Rogue in Firelight
“I have just enough dancing to get by at a cèilidh or a ball. But it is not the dancing. It is having the afternoon to ourselves to practice—whatever we want to practice.” He swayed with her in his arms, turned with her.
“Well, Sorcha is resting in her room, Mrs. Barrow is preparing tea, and the housemaids are busy getting our things ready.”
“For Edinburgh?”
“For the dance and supper tomorrow evening. And MacNie has gone to Kinross.”
“I did not want a reminder of that errand.” As he stepped forward, she stepped back and then to the side, turning with him in the pattern until they spun on dancing feet, the hem of her gown filling out as she turned. She laughed with the dizziness and the delight of it.
“So you learned this in London? Do not tell me you have already met the king. Though I would not be surprised, you with your secrets.”
“Never met the gentleman.” He twirled her, pulled her close, leaned his cheek against her head. “I was there for a few weeks before India.”
She tilted back to look at him, and they whirled toward the other end of the wide room with soaring, turning steps. No music, just the natural rhythm of shared steps and breaths, as if they had always done this. “There is much I do not know about you.”
“You know more than most.”
“With no time to learn more.” She spun with him, captured in his steady formal embrace, as her spirit soared, feeling that strength and the grace of shared movement.
“This is not over,” he said, bringing her slowly to a stop. He tipped her chin up with a finger. “It is just beginning.”
“I wish it were so.” She drew a breath. “We both have secrets, and trust comes hard. But truth will out, so I should confess. What would you think if you discovered my secret was a disappointment to you?”
“You,” he said, “are a guileless and lovely creature. Whatever you may have done in the past does not worry me now.”
“You might think otherwise if you knew.”
“Would I? Who am I to judge another? Listen now.” Fully serious, he met her gaze. “I know your innocence and your naivete, your trust in people. I know your temper and your backbone, your secret about writing. I believe you understand more about life and sadness, loyalty and love, than most at your age. You have a strong will and you are not perfect. That is enough for me.”
“If there was something to forgive, could you?”
“Surely you did what you had to do. Lass, you have lived like a mouse in your father’s home, being meek, following orders, pleasing others instead of taking care of yourself. You were married and widowed and that was not easy. You would have had to protect yourself. But it is past. I see you changing, growing stronger every day.”
“Because of you.”
“Then we are in each other’s debt, and a support for each other. Whatever you did needs no one’s forgiveness. Least of all mine.”
“Others do not share that opinion.”
“That does not surprise me.” He sounded almost angry.
“My father never approved of Colin Leslie,” she said. “He was a poet, the son of a viscount whose title was not heritable. He had very little money of his own, but for a house and some valuables. My father thought him a useless lad—so he called him. A useless lad. But Colin was a good man, intelligent and kind, but did not know how to please my father. Mr. Corbie was very disapproving too, told me it would all come to naught and I should come to my senses and marry at my own level.”
“He wanted you for himself,” Ronan said, letting go of her to lean back against the library table, folding his arms as he listened.
“Perhaps. Lady Strathniven rather liked him, thought he was pleasant, but was convinced he would eventually make me unhappy. But—I loved him or thought I did. I was in love with the idea of love. And so,” she said, “I eloped.”
He waited, said nothing.
“It caused a terrible rift, embarrassed my father terribly, nearly cost him his position, or so he said, though he was appointed deputy lord provost regardless of what had happened. And my mother—” She paused.
“You rarely mention her. What did she think?”
“She was gone by then. My father made it clear she would have disapproved and been ill over it. But I rather think she would have applauded—any decision that chose love. But my father would not speak to me for a long time. But then—Colin died. An accident, fell from his horse when out riding with his friends. Reckless, he could be, but in good spirits, in fun. The shock—was awful. My father was good to me after that, invited me back to the house. I did not want to stay—where I had lived with Colin. But then,” she said, “Papa insisted that I must live quietly, take no more chances, do what was appropriate in all things. For my happiness, he said. For my safety.”
“For his own peace of mind.”
“He cares, in his way. I felt responsible because he was unhappy, you see. He changed so after Mama died. I felt responsible for—” She drew a breath, shook her head. “I just needed a little forgiveness, parent to a child. Lessons,” she said. “Always lessons from Papa, to improve me, more so than either of my sisters.”
