Page 27 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Ask what the devil he wants,” Ronan snapped.
“The king is fond of Highland whisky.” Corbie sneered as he spoke. “We require a supply of your product as a gift for the king.”
“Tell him to send word to Glenbrae distillery to purchase what is needed.”
Bain translated and Corbie flicked his fingers dismissively. “It is complicated. MacGregor will learn more later.”
Was King George the important person? It seemed preposterous.
“Does the Provost’s office want to avoid embarrassment because the Glenbrae distiller is accused of smuggling?” Ronan asked. Bain repeated it in English. “Am I released to be located elsewhere until the king leaves Scotland?”
“MacGregor is heading north. That is all he needs to know,” Corbie said stiffly.
“What of my friends?” Again Bain translated.
“Tell him to be grateful for his situation. His friends’ welfare depends on his cooperation.”
“What the devil!” Ronan growled in English, glaring at Corbie.
“Ah, you do speak English,” Corbie drawled.
“Some,” he bit out.
“Tell him he is under the protection of Sir Hector Graham until otherwise decided. Comply, or his accomplices will pay the price. And he will be sent to Calton.”
“I will not comply with blackmail,” Ronan snarled in Gaelic. Bain interpreted.
Corbie lifted a hand. “Take him north, Sergeant. Ride with him until you meet the second coach. Then return to the city in this one.” Corbie opened the door, then turned.
“Tell MacGregor,” he added low, “when he sees Mrs. Graham-Leslie, he will keep his distance and speak only when chaperoned. Or else,” he growled, looking at Ronan, “I will see him arrested and hanged. Or kill him myself.” He walked away.
Bain did not translate.
Silent, Ronan fisted his hands, wrists still bound. Moments later, the driver stirred the horses and the vehicle climbed the slope to the High Street.
“Since they declared you free, there is no need for these.” Bain leaned forward, produced a small, sharp knife, and sliced through the ropes binding wrists and feet.
“Thank you.” Ronan rubbed his wrists. “Where are we headed?”
“North to Kinross to meet another coach. That is all I know.”
Heading north, Ronan watched the landscape flow past and nursed simmering anger over his baffling encounter. Freed by unexpected writ, he wanted to enjoy the luck, but could not. Threats, mystery, betrayal laced through the situation.
Hours passed as they took a barge over to Fife and headed northwest for Perthshire and Kinross. He knew the route well. Bain dozed. Ronan rested some, but turned the conundrum over in his mind.
Somehow the delectable Miss Graham was involved in this.When he sees her, Corbie had said. Notif.
Watching rainclouds over distant hills, he wondered if Graham and Corbie knew they had sent him home, where he had opportunity and hope.
*
“Aye, Mr. Balor,we will go out soon for a good run before supper,” Ellison said as the little terrier jumped about by the door that led to Strathniven’s kitchen garden. She bent to pat the terrier’s head, and Balor, his long dark coat nearly brushing the slate floor, stood as patiently as possible, his little body quivering with excitement.
Tying the black ribbons of her straw bonnet and adjusting the wide brim with its crescent of silk flowers, she smoothed the flounced skirts of her lavender day dress and plucked a tartan shawl from a hook to drape it over her shoulders in case of rain. Remembering the boots she kept at Strathniven for traversing the hills, she slid out of her black slippers, found the boots, tugged them on and tied the laces.
“Sensible shoes!” Lady Strathniven said as she stepped into the dim corridor. “These hills can be muddy. There was quite a bit of rain lately.”
Ellison straightened. “I fell once in slippers on a hill, which taught me a lesson.”
