Page 120 of A Rogue in Firelight
He cupped her shoulders. “If anyone touched you, I will kill him—”
“Only to bind me up. One of them was at the dance. I think the other was with Pitlinnie the night we saw them out on the moor. Ronan, the whisky, it’s here! Come look!”
“Is it? I wondered.” He glanced toward the entrance. “We need to get out of here before they come back. Where is it?”
“Inside the walls.” She took his hand to tug him along, and he stepped ahead of her to make sure the going was safe. High overhead, visible in the wide ruined opening at the top of the tower, the moon slid out from behind clouds to spill more light into the wreckage of stone that filled the old floor of the structure.
“Over there, in that section, do you see?”
He did. Round casks, small kegs, stout wooden boxes. “My God,” he growled. He moved forward, ducking between broken chamber walls, and reached out to touch and examine the wooden containers.
“Is it all there?” she asked.
“Possibly. Come here.” He handed her toward him and pulled her to him to hug her closely, kiss her swiftly, then let go. “My dear lass, what tremendous luck to find this, though I am sorry for what you had to go through! I had a feeling we might find the whisky here, so I sent Donal to fetch Aleck with a cart so we can move the stuff. But I want to get you out of here.” He took her hand to guide her over rubble and debris toward the entrance.
“I can help move the whisky,” she said.
“No need, the lads and I will take care of it. But I will take you to Invermorie first.” He led her through the opening and into fresh, misty, moonlit air. “Down the slope and over the water. My horse is on the other side.”
“Ah—aye,” she said, and he heard the shivering in her voice.
Noticing then that all she wore was her thin, lacy, muddy dancing gown and a torn shawl, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders as they walked down the wet grassy slope.
“I am s-sorry—”
“Hush now. You, my love, have a warrior’s heart even if you do not know it. Into the boat with you.”
She stepped in readily, and he loved her even more for her pragmatism as she reached for an oar. He bade her sit, took both oars, and pulled out onto the loch.
Months ago when he first met her, she had seemed such a delicate and anxious creature, yet even then he had glimpsed courage in her. She had an ability to accept whatever came without complaint and press ahead. In mere weeks, he had watched her discover her strength, test her voice, find her wings like a kestrel perched on the edge of the nest. Now she was finding her freedom and the strength to fly out on her own.
But tonight above all, he wanted her safety. Pulling on the oars, he glanced about, looking for any movement, listening for any sound.
Darkness and mist obscured his view as the boat slipped over the water toward the center of the loch. Above, the moon was a soft blur, its light barely touching the ripples. He headed for the opposite shore on instinct, having rowed over this loch many times as boy and young man. Then he heard noises—shouts, horses neighing.
“They are back,” Ellison murmured.
He slowed, stilled the oars. Torchlight glowed like a golden blur through the fog. Shouts echoed over the water. He did not hear Donal or Aleck calling. Pitlinnie’s scoundrels, then.
Picking up the oars, he pulled hard and quiet. But the motion felt odd, slow, as if the boat went through syrup rather than water. With a soft thunk, the prow hit something, and the craft shuddered to a stop. Reaching out, he touched earth and something mossy rather than water. Had they hit the little island in the middle of the black water, or had they reached shore already?
He pulled backward, but the boat did not move, and the oar’s paddles thumped solid earth. He swore low. “We are hung up on something.”
“Ronan—is this the fairy isle?” Ellison whispered.
“The what?” He pushed, pulled, but the boat seemed stuck.
“The fairy isle. The one that appears in the mist.”
“It feels like a sand bar, but it might be the wee island. In this fog, I am not sure. Damn it,” he muttered as a thick blanket of mist swirled and settled all around. He could hardly see the boat or the oars, and Ellison, sitting across from him, had a curious glow around her, as if a strand of moonlight had threaded through to find her.
“Remember the legend? The isle that appears and disappears?” she whispered.
“Hush. They are shouting,” he said low. They quieted, waiting, listening as men yelled, their voices echoing over the water.
“Ellison Graham! Where are you, lass?”
“She cannae ha’ gone far,” another said.
