Page 28 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Yes, you broke an ankle! I am glad you came up here for a little respite, dear.”
“We will not have much of that once our guest arrives.” She took the dog’s leash.
“You are the perfect tutor for the task. That sky looks ominous.” Lady Strathniven peered through the window. “Let one of the maids take the pup out.”
“Your staff are busy, and I enjoy walking him. Donal Brodie offered earlier today, but I have not seen him since.”
“He went to Kinross with Mr. MacNie to pick up the wee man. Sir Ronald.”
“Ronan,” Ellison said. “I did not know Mr. MacGregor was expected today.”
“Did I not mention it? What should we call him? Lord Darrach or Sir Ron—Ronan.”
“Glenbrae or Mr. MacGregor should do. We may need to call him Lord Darrach in company later, though I doubt he will like it much.”
“We shall see. MacNie will pick up some things while he is in town, including the post. They leave it at the inn now rather than bring it around as before. Efficiency for them is not very efficient for us. Hey, Balor!” The lady bent to pat his head. “Sweet pup!”
“He adores you. Papa thought I should leave him in Edinburgh to save your Turkey carpets.”
“I would rather he chewed all my carpets than stayed with that old numpty. Hey, my laddie,” she said to the dog in a silly voice.
Ellison laughed. “He loves the freedom here. So do I.”
“We do as we please here, my dear. It is part of why I love the Highlands.” She sighed. “I wish my nephew appreciated it as much as you do. I should leave the estate to him as my heir, but he has become such a sour fellow. I told him he must marry a practical and kind wife if he wants Strathniven. You know he is quite fond of you.”
Was that a hint? Tugging at her gloves, Ellison frowned. “I had that impression.”
“I am sure your father would approve.”
Ellison busied herself with the dog’s leash. She did not want to talk about the possibility of marrying Corbie.
“Adam did not inherit much from his father, alas, but he has a respectable income and an ambition to succeed.”
“I have noticed. Oh, look how anxious Balor is to be off. We will be back soon.”
“I know Adam does not think MacGregor should be treated as a guest here,” the lady went on. “And you two disagree at times. True, Ronald MacGregor must feel like a gentleman if he is to act like one.”
“Ronan,” Ellison said absently. “My lady, does this ruse trouble you?”
“It is necessary. With all the kerfuffle around King George, no one will think much about another Highland lord. Go, now.” The lady opened the door. “Hurry back.”
Balor half-dragged Ellison down the kitchen path toward the lawn and flower gardens. She guided him firmly beyond the low garden wall, crossing a meadow toward a hill behind the house.
On the incline, skirt hems brushing wet heather, she glanced back at Strathniven House. Golden sandstone walls soared on green lawns under gray clouds. An elegant windowed façade and jumble of slate roofs defined the main house, and an old stone tower, all that remained of the original castle, capped a far corner. Tucked against the foothills, it looked like a fairytale castle.
She loved every stone, every acre. Someday Adam Corbie would be its master, but for now, she was grateful to be here. She wondered if Corbie could truly care about the estate, cultivate it, protect it, be a fair landlord to the tenants on its vast acres. Lady Strathniven was right. Her nephew would need a capable wife and helpmate once he inherited the estate.
Much as she cared about Strathniven House, she could not be that helpmate.
*
The hills grewhigher, steeper, and pines rose green and strong against rugged slopes misted in purple heather and yellow gorse. Here and there, wild roses clustered. Ronan savored the comfort of familiar beauty, grateful for the luck that had him rumbling toward home.
But he did not know his fate here, and dare not think longingly of Invermorie Castle, his property in these heathery hills, or of Darrach Castle, the stone tower that may or may not be his right someday. The tug in his heart felt almost physical.
Instead, he puzzled over the curious arrangement that had brought him this wee bout of freedom. It was cause for concern. What did the lovely Miss Ellison Graham have to do with this? He doubted King George cared a whit who distilled the whisky in his glass so long as it was abundantly supplied.
But he smiled, certain that Glenbrae whisky was just that good, especially the casks released earlier this year. Aged five years, it was exceptionally smooth and rich. A cache of Glenbrae whisky had made it to the king’s table two years ago, courtesy of a kinsman. That the king preferred it was fine news indeed.
