Page 118 of A Rogue in Firelight
Few ventured to the ancient ruin due to the danger of stones that might collapse, ancient ghosts that might appear, and the risk of injury or worse. Yet it was an excellent spot to hide a stock of stolen whisky for a while, though it was sure to be guarded.
“Donal.” He stopped the horse. “Ride to Invermorie and get Aleck if he is still there. If we are correct, we will also need a cart to move our brew out of there.”
Waving a hand, Donal turned his horse and rode off to take the military road, the fastest and safest route to Invermorie.
Urging his horse forward, Ronan followed the drover’s track until it faded into a grassy hillside. Desperate to see his instinct through, he cantered forward as the loch came into sight.
At last, theywere gone.
Tilting her head in the darkness, Ellison waited, hands bound, holding her breath as she listened. Not long ago, she had heard the men’s voices fade. They must be heading back to the carriage they had left on the moor. Now the silence inside the old broch felt safer. She heard the shush of wind through trees, midnight birdsong, and nearby, water lapping softly. She sighed, releasing fear with a long exhale.
Uncertain how much time had passed, she knew she had to find an escape before they returned. She struggled against the dry, choking grip of the gag in her mouth, and pulled at the rope binding her wrists in front of her. Her hair shook down in loose tendrils, obscuring her vision. There must be some way to get free of the ropes. If she could do that, she could run out of the broch, and find her way back to the road, and Strathniven.
She scooted along the floor, just earth and some flat stones overgrown with moss and grass. They had left her leaning against a stone wall with the smell of stone and earth strong around her. But somewhere above, she sensed fresh night air coming from somewhere. Looking up, she glimpsed the night sky and a sprinkling of stars.
The structure was an ancient round tower, its roof gone, so that the massive cylindrical walls opened like an upright tunnel. The rooms of such a fortified keep were usually built inside the wide hollow walls, she knew from reading about ancient architecture one summer. A honeycomb of chambers could be separated by dividing walls. But she was in the central area, and had to locate an exit.
Scuttling along, resting, moving again, she paused to breathe and listen. Silence continued. Frowning, she thought back to what the men had said, looking for any hint that would help her understand what had happened and what they wanted.
A scrap of conversation between her captors came back. “He should be here,” one man had said to the other. “Should have met us by now.”
“He will be here. He wants this. He will pay well.”
“What of the other one?”
“If he finds the place, then pity the man, for he will step into a trap.”
She froze with dread at the memory. A trap—for Ronan. Surely they referred to him. The other man they spoke of had to be Pitlinnie.
She had to get free, find Ronan and warn him.
Something else came back to her. “We must leave the lass here. We canna wait longer. Have to find him.”
“Keep her bound. She will go nowhere. When this is done, we will have gold in our pockets.”
“We’d earn more if we took what’s hidden here, hey.” They laughed as they left.
Moving again, scooching awkwardly, her hand struck something hard, and she heard the dull thunk of wood. In the darkness, she could just see a wooden chest of some kind.
Along its edge, the wood had split, and a large nail stuck out. Wondering if it was sharp enough to cut rope, she maneuvered until the rope caught on the metal edge. Shifting, rocking her hands, she sawed the rope against the metal piece. After a while, shoulders aching unmercifully, she nearly gave up. But she felt the fibers weaken a little. Pulling and sawing anew, she kept at it.
The wooden chest was heavy, hardly shifting as she worked the rope over the edge of the large nail. Her movements created a chinking sound. What was in there? China or pottery? How odd to store such in this ancient place.
Whisky, she thought then. Whisky in glass bottles or pottery jugs. It must be.
Then the fibers collapsed around her wrists and she pulled her hands free. Wincing, she eased her stiff arms, rubbed her hands, tore off the gag, and got to her feet. Shaking out her muddied satin gown and sagging shawl, she looked around.
Standing on the earthen level of the broch, she could make out broken walls and jumbled stones in the moonlight, but did not see an exit immediately. She remembered stumbling over a maze of stones when the men led her inside. She knew there was a narrow opening somewhere in the tumble of broken stones.
She peered again at the wooden box, which was a crate built of rough wood, its lid broken and split. The contents had made a chinking sound. Poking a hand inside, she felt straw packed around the shoulders of crockery jugs, the sort used for ale or liquor.
She knelt, snatched up a small flat stone, and pried the rest of the lid away. Reaching inside, she pulled out a squat crockery vessel plugged with wax. A pale paper label was glued to the shoulders. She rotated the jug in a moonbeam.
Glenbrae Distillery, Perthshire, Scotland.An ink drawing showed the profile of Invermorie Castle.
She had to find Ronan quickly.
She made her way around the broch, hands skimming mossy walls, feet careful on cracked and tumbled stones. As she went, she listened for hoofbeats and voices, praying she could get away before her captors returned.
