Page 121 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Perhaps she escaped and swam the loch!”
“If she drowns in this murk, we are done for. Ellison Graham!”
“Lads! The wee boat is gone! There is another down this way. Hurry!”
Ronan heard splashing, swearing, and then oars moving through the water.
“We can get out on the island,” Ellison whispered. “Come on.” Without waiting, she stepped quickly out of the boat, rocking it. Ronan dug an oar into earth to stabilize it—solid earth. He stood and reached for her, though she all but vanished in the mist.
“Ellison Graham!” The voice echoed over the water. “Your father wants you back! Your betrothed is looking for you!”
“Betrothed! But you found me.” Her whisper was disembodied, and her hand came out of the fog to beckon to Ronan. “Come this way.” Her voice was soft, a hiss.
He stepped out of the boat. The ground underfoot rocked gently but held. It could not be, and yet it was so. There was no solid island in this loch, just a bar of sand and grass and water plants. Yet he stood on firm earth. Ellison took his hand.
Ellison clung toRonan’s hand, warm and strong in hers, while water licked at her shoes and her limbs trembled like the earth beneath her feet. She could hear voices calling through the mist, hooting her name, threats that chilled her. Ronan’s fingers pressed hers, real and safe.
Mist swirled and poured around them, a cloud-ring that surrounded them, shielded them, even covering the rowboat beached on the narrow shore. She stood silently beside Ronan while the fog enveloped them like an embrace.
Shouts echoed again over the water. She heard the splash and creak of oars as her captors—she knew their voices—glided nearer. She could hear the lap and surge of the water, heard one of the men swear in a low tone. Any moment now, they would strike the mossy bank where Ellison and Ronan stood.
Now the soft blanket of mist erased the water, the isle, the boat, all but what was nearest her—Ronan’s sleeve and shoulder as he held her hand.
“Cannae see a damn thing,” a man groused. “Where the devil are we?”
“Go back to shore. We darena go through this soup. ’Tisna like anything I’ve ever seen. Turn back!”
“What about the lass?”
“If she escaped, she either drowned in this accursed loch or she’s out in the hills. We cannae go on—must come back later to look for her.”
“Nor has that other fool shown up,” the man said. “This is an accursed night! Why did we agree to this madness?”
“Coin, that is why!”
“But there are tales about this loch and the auld tower—bad tales. Best get away quick before this water takes us doon, lad.”
Ellison heard the long swish of oars as the boat rounded in its path through the water. Breathing out in relief, she stood with Ronan in silence long after the sounds of the boat, then the voices, faded.
Ronan pulled her close. “They could easily have seen us standing here, yet they did not. What luck the mist came in so thick and fast just then.”
“The Fey protect their own.”
He huffed. “The Fey, is it?”
“You said it yourself once. The island is here and then gone, and no one knows why. But it was here for us when we needed protection. The isle, and the Fey, saved us.”
“It is just a legend, love, and a small spit of land that is hardly noticeable.”
“It appeared for us when we needed it. I am sure of it. And you carry fairy ancestry in your blood.”
“So they say.” He kissed her head. “You have an imagination, love. The hour is late, and this has been quite the night.”
“The Fey protect their own, and you are one of them.”
“A lovely tale for you to write into your story. Watch your step into the boat.” He guided her and she sat, the boat rocking. “Let us hope this magical mass of vegetation lets go of us.”
“You do not believe me,” she said.
