Page 17 of A Rogue in Firelight
“They may understand some,” she answered. “Mr. Corbie, please wait outside. I need a few minutes.” She shooed him away with a gloved hand.
Ronan pinched back a smile. Corbie seemed oblivious to her subtle impatience with him. And, he noted, the young lady had a married name. Interesting.
Stepping outside, Adam Corbie stood close to the grating to watch them. The young woman smiled as if she had just arrived at a garden party. As she moved, a floral and vanilla scent wafted lightly over the dungeon’s older, less pleasant odors. She was as delicate and divine as a beam of sunlight in this dank place.
“Beannachdan, a dhaoine uaisle,”she said. “Greetings, gentlemen.” Her accent was good, but not native. “You are Mr. MacInnes, Mr. Stewart, Mr. MacGregor?”
Iain bobbed clumsily and Linhope made a proper bow.“Fàilte,” he said, welcoming her in Gaelic. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The good doctor stopped short of kissing her hand, Ronan noted sourly. As for his turn, he only nodded in silence.
“I am pleased to meet you.” Her smile was as impish as it was angelic, with fleeting dimples. Altogether a devastating sight in this sorry place, Ronan thought. She was petite, with lush curves and graceful bones, and a serene air that held a thread of steely determination. The effect took him down swiftly, though he gave nothing away.
“May we offer you tea, Mrs. Graham-Leslie?” Linhope asked in Gaelic.
“Keep your distance, sir,” Corbie growled, watching like a hawk beyond the bars.
“Miss Graham will do. I am widowed and do not use my married name.”
Ronan raised a brow. Some Scotswomen kept their maiden names; Mairi Brodie had done so. Yet this girl from an aristocratic family in the city had made an unusual choice; the status of widow could reap benefits in social circles. He glanced toward the disapproving, possessive fellow at the cell door. Perhaps he was courting her.
“Miss Graham—” Linhope indicated a bale of straw. “Would you care to sit?”
She tipped her bonneted head, a golden curl slipping free. Ronan savored the rare sight of beauty and grace, so extraordinary in this dreary underworld. Surprisingly, she seemed at ease, not in the least uncomfortable. It was almost as if she enjoyed it.
He narrowed his eyes. Why was she here, and what did she want?
She picked up the teapot. “Am bu toil leat tì? Do you want tea?”
Iain and Linhope both thanked her. She began to pour into three cracked cups.
“Cha toil leam tì,”Ronan said. I do not want tea. He folded his arms petulantly, but only against the damnable effect she had on him. Her mere presence, this delicate wee widow who tossed her suitor out and bravely faced three accused criminals, softened his hard reserve. He liked tea; he disliked a breach of his emotional barricade.
Linhope shot him a dark glance.Behave,it said.
Ignoring Ronan, she poured tea and served cakes as if the cell were a parlor in a fine mansion. The little cakes were studded with currants. Likely stale as a rock, he thought.
Iain and Linhope accepted cups and cakes, and when the girl offered a cup to Ronan, he took it and declined the cake. What did this pretty visitor want? Instinct urged him to hide his ease with teacups and manners and lovely ladies pouring for gentlemen. The same instinct told him to keep to the Gaelic and play the simple crofter.
He glanced at his companions to remind them, but they were too besotted to notice. Linhope sipped, Iain slurped, both smiled. Ronan held his cup and scowled.
“Now,” Miss Graham said, balancing her teacup in white-gloved hands, “which of you is Glenbrae?”
Startled, Ronan said nothing, but Iain pointed. “That’s him.”
“I amfromGlenbrae,” Ronan emphasized in Gaelic, shooting a sight-dagger toward Iain for good measure. The fellow missed it, content as a happy pup.
“Mr. MacGregor—Glenbrae—may I have a word with you?”
“Me?” His surprised retort slipped out.
“If you please,” she said in all her angel brightness. She moved toward him, barely coming to his shoulder. He looked down at her. Too close. Stepped back.
“What is it, Miss Graham?”
“It is Mr. Ronan MacGregor? Of Glenbrae? Is that correct?”
He paused. His baptized name was John Ronan MacGregor; as a lawyer, he was John R. MacGregor, while Ronan was used by kin and friends—and the justiciary court.
