Page 16 of A Rogue in Firelight
Astonished, Ellison looked at her father. His gray eyes were hooded like a hawk’s; he might suggest it, but wanted nothing to do with it.
“Never mind,” she said. “I will speak to the man and ask your questions.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
The little flood of enthusiasm faded. “Papa, is possible to pardon this man? Then you would not be presenting a prisoner.”
“Good heavens, we can hardly do that!” he replied.
“The king’s desire to meet him might warrant it,” she pointed out.
Corbie huffed. “You know little of the law, Miss Ellison. Sir, your daughter is a perpetual romantic. This is not helpful.”
“Mr. Corbie, since you need my help, be gracious about it,” she snapped.
“Ellison,” her father warned.
Twisting her fingers in her lap, she smothered her impatience. If she could prove helpful, she could win back some of her father’s regard. And she could see the Highland prisoners again and satisfy her curiosity about such things. Her dull existence made her long for some small adventure, and here it was.
“That will be all, Ellison,” her father said. “Arrangements will be made for you to speak with this fellow.”
She stood. “Papa, if you do decide to introduce Mr. MacGregor, he will need a translator then too.”
Sir Hector sighed. “Another consideration. Adam, assist my daughter with whatever is needed. Now, to other business.” He picked up a document in dismissal, as if she was instantly forgotten.
Ellison went to the door and opened it as the men quietly conferred.
“Preposterous, sir, to involve the prisoner. Even dangerous,” Corbie said.
“We are in a precarious position and must consider all angles. The king could cancel altogether. What is this request from Scott about scaffolding?”
“Scaffold seating will be erected on Castle Hill for the crowds, and he wants blue bunting installed with it.”
“Expensive and excessive!”
Ellison shut the door silently behind her.
Chapter Four
“Tea,” the guardcalled as he pushed a wooden cart, china and silverware rattling on a small tray, into the cell. Unlocking the iron grate, he entered and set the tray on a rickety table, where the tea things wobbled precariously. “Tea and visitors!”
Iain yawned; Linhope, also dozing, sat up. Ronan closed the book he was reading, not keen on tepid tea or tittering guests this afternoon. He was weary of this place and the ruse as Highland scoundrels, but the guises protected their identities, their kin, and glen folk too. With luck, one day he and his friends would return to their lives and livelihoods.
These weeks had made him more determined to push for greater justice for Highland folk, once he was free. Too often they were thought common, uneducated, simple, unworthy, and he felt it keenly here. The culture, the legacy, the loyalty and pride of the Gaels deserved appreciation and preservation. More than ever, he wanted to promote the truth to help them. But for now, this ploy must continue.
“Hey,” Iain murmured. “The angel is here again.”
Ronan looked toward the door. She was there, setting gentle foot on stone, crossing the straw as if floating—a vision in lavender trimmed in black lace, a little bonnet curving around her head, a few golden curls escaping. The gentleman who had accompanied her before was back as well. Corbie, he recalled.
Ronan stood, as did his friends, in expectant silence.
Her companion stepped forward. “I am Mr. Adam Corbie, secretary to the Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh.” He was a slight man, sandy and plain in a tailored suit. The curl of his lip matched his sneering tone.
The young woman translated into Gaelic, not realizing it was not necessary.
“This is Mrs. Graham-Leslie,” Corbie went on, indicating her. “She will speak with you briefly. You will show decent manners in her presence, or the guards will be on you directly.” She translated, cheeks turning pink.
Corbie huffed and looked at her. “They do not have a word of proper English.”
