Page 3 of A Rogue in Firelight
He stepped outside first, leery, seeing only empty tavern steps, moonlit street, and dark buildings. Down the way, two carts. Horses. Something was not right—
Footsteps, shadows, the glint of pistols as men swarmed out of the darkness. “Stop!” a man called. “His Majesty’s excise officers. Which of you is Glenbrae?”
Whirling, Ronan felt a pistol poke hard in his back. He spun away, but meaty hands grabbed, yanked, punched, held him. A shot rang out and whizzed past his head. He struck out an elbow to catch a jaw, ducked to evade a clubbing. Beside him, Linhope and Iain took and gave blows as the fierce brawl escalated on the tavern steps.
“Stand fast!” Two men had MacInnes by the arms now, the big man nearly wrenching free. Others knocked Linhope to his knees. Feeling cold steel press against his temple, Ronan went still. Two men grabbed his arms from behind.
“MacGregor of Glenbrae,” another man growled. “Aye, you are the one.”
“Where is your warrant?” Ronan demanded. “On the very steps of this tavern, you need permission to invade its boundary or threaten its patrons.”
“Talks like a long-robe! Hah! You lot are the ones we seek. Whisky Rogues, found at last!” The man spit. “MacGregor of Glenbrae, with cronies Stewart and MacInnes. We are the excise, arresting you for crimes.”
Held fast, breathing hard, Ronan recognized Peter Dawson, an excise officer who had come close to catching them twice before. His late brother Will had believed that Dawson was in the pay of others set on taking down the Whisky Rogues. Suspecting Dawson was responsible for the deaths of his brother and cousin, Ronan felt sure of it now.
“Specify the crimes you witnessed,” Ronan said. “We have done no wrong here.”
“We had word you three are moving illicit parcels tonight. A load o’ peat reek just left by secret transport. Take ’em,” Dawson ordered.
Someone shoved Linhope forward. MacInnes bellowed, his arms pulled hard behind him. Ronan felt a slam to his head, cobbles lurching toward him. Blackness.
Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland
June 1822
The stone stepsleading down to the dungeon vaults beneath Edinburgh Castle were steep and timeworn, so Ellison Graham proceeded carefully in thin slippers. In one gloved hand, she held the skirt of her gown, lavender muslin trimmed in black ribbon; with the other hand she took Lady Strathniven’s arm to steady the older woman as they descended toward the ancient wooden door where a red-coated guard stood.
Ahead, Adam Corbie, nephew of the viscountess and secretary to Ellison’s father, spoke to the sentry and waved a folded letter. “This letter of permission is signed by Sir Hector Graham, Deputy Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and allows us entry.”
“My gracious, it is hot today,” Lady Strathniven remarked, her dimpled cheeks flushed, the color creeping upward to the iron-gray curls neatly framing her face.
“It will be cooler inside, my lady,” Ellison said.
“I hope so. But I trust this will prove worth the trouble.” The lady fluttered a silken fan and peered impishly at Ellison, brown eyes twinkling the brim of her straw bonnet clustered with silk flowers and ribbons.
Ellison laughed affectionately. Lady Strathniven’s beauty had endured, though she was the same age as Ellison’s father, her longtime friend. Sir Hector had gone gray too, becoming even more stodgy and grumpy. He would strongly disapprove of their visit today if he had known.
They joined Mr. Corbie as the sentry beckoned them into the dark interior to meet a second guard. Both wore scarlet coats, white cross-bands, dark tartan trousers, and black tricorns as soldiers of the Regiment of Foot assigned to Edinburgh Castle. And both looked displeased to see the visitors.
“This is not the public entrance, sir,” the sentry told Adam Corbie. “Visitors who wish to see these prisoners must purchase a ticket from the office of the Governor of the Castle and come in through the main entrance.”
“This letter exempts us,” Corbie said stiffly. “These ladies need not wait with the public. Miss Graham is the daughter of the deputy lord provost, who is also chief of the constabulary. And this lady is my aunt, Lady Strathniven. They wish to privately view the prisoners.”
As the guards conferred, Corbie glanced back. “Ladies, I am glad I could ensure privacy for us away from the public.”
“Thank you, Mr. Corbie,” Ellison said. “Papa refused when I asked his permission to visit the dungeon.”
“He is protective of you, Miss Ellison.” They had known each other for so many years that he familiarly used her name; she had ceased to do so, wanting a bit of distance. Lately, Corbie had made it clear that he was fond of her, perhaps too fond.
“Adam, we are widowed ladies who need no escort,” his aunt pointed out, “but we do appreciate it. I am very curious to see the Highland fellows the whole city is talking about, but the crowds have been so large.”
“You need not wait with the common crowd, my lady. It is my pleasure to escort you and Miss Ellison.”
She gave him a cool smile, trying not to encourage his interest. Knowing him since her girlhood, she understood his haughty air masked a need for praise. Wanting to be kind and polite, she also wanted to keep him at arm’s length; she feared that too much familiarity might stir him to think of marriage.
She did appreciate his use of her maiden name rather than her married name, a choice many Scotswomen made. ‘Mrs. Leslie’ seemed like another person now, a foolish girl freed from a calamitous marriage by tragedy. She had strived to be complacent and subdued for her father’s sake since the scandal, glad for the chance to start over.
