Page 30 of A Rogue in Firelight
Pausing to catch her breath, spinning, Ellison did not see the dog, but noticed how far she had come from the house. The wind and slanting rain grew more forceful, and she drew the plaid close, lifting the drooping brim of her straw hat to look around.
“Balor!”
Desperate, she spun again and saw movement on the road. The black Strathniven carriage came around a curve, its red-painted wheels a blur. In a panic, Ellison hurried down the hill, waving her arms.
“MacNie! Mr. MacNie! Stop!” She ran, heels sliding on the slope, damp skirts clinging as she stepped onto the road. The carriage pulled to a sudden halt.
“Miss Ellison!” MacNie called. “Ye look a right banshee! What is it, lass?”
“Mr. MacNie! Donal!” She hurried toward the carriage as Donal Brodie climbed down to meet her. “Balor ran off in the storm. I cannot find him—I am so glad to see you! Can you help?” She spoke breathlessly, knowing she must look like a drowned harpy. Donal came near, and beyond, she saw a face at the coach window.
Dark hair, rough-bearded jaw, shoulder pressed to the glass. She felt a leap in her heart to see MacGregor there. But Balor was all that mattered.
“Miss Ellison, where did you see the dog last?” Donal asked.
She pointed. “Up there. He found a hiding spot somewhere. He is frightened of thunder.” Another roar punched through the clouds. She jumped.
MacNie climbed down, red plaid wrapped over coat and trews and draped high over his head and shoulders. “Which way, lass? The wee rascal! Donal, wi’ me.” He turned for the hill. “Wait in the coach, Miss.”
“I can help you find Balor!”
“Ye’re soaked through. Her ladyship will have my hide should ye take ill. Inside, now. Dinna mind the young man there. He’s all right,” he added, waving her away.
Just then MacGregor stepped out of the vehicle, pulling his dark plaid over his head too against the downpour. “Miss Graham! What is the trouble?”
“My dog is lost on the hill,” she said, distracted, pointing that way.
“We’re off to fetch him,” MacNie called. “Lass, to the coach!”
“Let me help,” MacGregor said. With a fleeting touch to her elbow—she felt the tender shock of it through to her knees—he hurried away, taking the slope in long strides. Watching the men, she then went to the coach and climbed inside.
Something tapped at her awareness, but she had no time to study it, anxious for the dog’s safety. She shook her skirts, stamped her muddy boots, sat on the edge of the leather bench, and watched the hill. Rain pounded on the roof, thunder rumbled, lightning cracked. Tugging off her wet gloves, she leaned to look up the slope.
On the hill’s crest, the men moved through a haze of rain, shouting, waving arms as if to herd the dog. Had they found him? Opening the door slightly, she listened to their shouts through the sound of the rain.
“Here—no, there! Over there! Hey! To me, wee rascal! Och, beastie, here to me!”
She could make out MacNie in his trousers and flat cap, Donal, lanky and fast, and MacGregor, tall and strong, arms extended, plaid flapping. When a small dark shape darted across the ridge, MacGregor spun after it and dove down.
Moments later came victorious shouts as the men headed down the hill. Seeing MacGregor clutching a squirming bundle inside his plaid, Ellison jumped from the coach and ran toward them.
He patted the bump in his plaid and glanced up at Ellison. He grinned. MacNie spoke and MacGregor replied, laughing, the sound warm through the rain. Here was a man at ease, confident, untroubled—no wary prisoner, but a Highlander in his element.
And he had rescued her pup. Grateful, relieved, she ran forward, tugging at her drenched shawl. The men were soaked, too. They would arrive at Strathniven in a sorry state. She hardly cared.
Donal spoke then, and MacGregor and MacNie laughed. Ellison smiled too, eager to join them. Then that sense of something missed, forgotten, suddenly came clear.
They all spoke English. So did MacGregor, with great ease.
Then Balor’s little snout poked out of the Highlander’s plaid. Crying out in relief, Ellison hurried forward.
“Is this the small one you are wanting?” MacGregor asked in Gaelic.
“Tapadh leat,”she said, hands open to lift the dog away. MacGregor cupped his large hand gently over the dog’s head.
“He is excited and may bolt again.” This in Gaelic too. “Come into the coach. You are wet and will catch your death.” He touched her elbow to guide her there.
Another incidental touch, another rush of safety and strength. She stepped away.
