Page 139 of A Rogue in Firelight
“He did, my lord,” Cameron said.
“I knew my kinfolk might be threatened or killed. I knew innocent people would suffer and our legitimate distillery would be destroyed by rivals.”
“I see. Well. In my experience, Highland whisky tends to be far superior to other kinds, especially English grain whiskies. Many would go to great lengths to protect it.”
“Lord Justice,” Sir Hector said, “Darrach will not bring attention to it, but you should know that King George favors Glenbrae whisky so much that he personally requested to meet its distiller. Lord Darrach will be introduced this week.”
“Interesting.” Jameson tapped the pages again, loudly and slowly.
Ellison flattened a hand over her chest, waiting in the silence. She did not know some of what Ronan had explained, but she knew his actions had stemmed from integrity, courage, and love. He was not driven by greed and had no disdain for the law. He was not the rogue others made him out to be.
She glanced around the room at those she loved dearly, and two she mistrusted. They were all motionless, somber, hanging on the moment. But Jameson continued to seem annoyed.
Tap, tap, tap.“When were you named Viscount Darrach?”
“My lord, Sir Evan Murray-MacGregor, chief of Clan Gregor, awarded the title with the approval of the Lyon Court,” Hugh explained.
Thud.Jameson slapped the desk, folded the papers, crammed them into a drawer and slammed it shut. “Mr. Cameron, Darrach, return here when I am ready to discuss these matters further. You, in the back! What did you want to bring to my attention? May as well hear it.”
Corbie stood and spoke before Ellison had the chance to move. “My lord! I believe the charge of smuggling must be revisited. MacGregor, who calls himself Darrach, recently transported illicit whisky by sea. Yesterday he arrived in Leith with goods smuggled out of Perthshire.” He walked forward. “I ask the court to renew the charges against MacGregor.”
“Darrach comes by his title decently, and you will respect that. Who are you again?”
“Adam Corbie, secretary to the Deputy Lord Provost.”
“You bring a serious allegation, Mr. Corbie. Darrach! Is this true?”
“I brought Glenbrae whisky into Leith Harbor, aye. Five casks, seven kegs, and three crates of crockery jugs.”
“A good deal more than is allowed for personal use, sir.”
“Some was delivered to Holyroodhouse yesterday. The rest went elsewhere.”
“Sold? If you sold it, you endanger yourself.”
“The rest was taken up to the Castle as a donation to the Highland contingency. Thousands of Highlanders are in Edinburgh now to march in parades and act as honor guards for the royal party. The cost of provisions for them is considerable. The whisky went to the attention of Sir Evan MacGregor and Sir Walter Scott to be dispersed among the clans.”
Jameson looked at Sir Hector. “Did you know about this?”
“I did not. Darrach is to be thanked for a generous gift.”
“Indeed. But why send so much to the king?” Jameson swiveled toward Ronan. “He will be in Scotland a fortnight at most.”
“My lord, he can take it back to England for his personal use.”
Jameson nodded, chuckled—then guffawed. He laughed so heartily, smacking the desk, that others smiled uncertainly. “Ha ha! If the king ships that lot home to England—that could make him a smuggler in the letter of the law.”
“It could, Your Honor.” Ronan smiled.
“A good lawyer would not miss that detail.” Ronan shrugged a shoulder in answer and Jameson guffawed again. Then he beckoned to Corbie. “You! The secretary!”
“Adam Corbie, my lord,” he reminded Jameson.
“Your request is denied. Foolish and spiteful. Darrach will not be charged. But the king as a smuggler—aye, that fits the regrettable spectacle out there.”
A knock at the door interrupted him. As it opened, the clerk looked in. “My lord, you asked to be notified when Lord Beaton was available. He is here now.” He stepped aside.
Archibald Beaton entered the room, lifted a hand toward Jameson, and turned to his young sister, taking her hands. “I heard you were here. What a surprise.”
