Page 31 of A Rogue in Firelight
“I will walk, Mr. MacGregor,” she said in precise English. “Give me my dog.”
*
Thunder boomed, lightningsnapped, the dog in his arms yelped. Ronan took the girl’s elbow firmly.“A-steach don charbad, mo nighean.”Into the carriage, my girl.
She glared at him, eyes gone stormy gray. He frowned, wondering what had sparked her temper. And then he knew.
What a fool to forget his ruse. He had naturally used English while the men chased the dog, reverting to Gaelic when he spoke to Miss Graham. She, a clever girl, had noticed.
Thunder again. The dog jerked. Ronan guided the girl toward the carriage. She relented, letting him assist her inside. Her fingers were slender and cool, attitude cooler.
She sat, smoothing her damp skirts. He sat opposite, cradling the pup in one arm. He knew she was angry and knew he deserved it.
“You can take the pup and I will do the walking,” he offered in Gaelic.
“Then you will be the one catching your death,” she responded in that tongue.
“If I do not catch it from you first.”
She opened her mouth to speak just as the carriage lurched forward. Ronan swayed, holding the dog. The girl nearly tumbled from her seat, righting herself and turning indignantly away from him. He noticed her gown had fared poorly in the rain, soggy flounces at the hem, wet lace at the bodice. When dry, the thing would be fetching; the lavender hue would complement the flash of those irate eyes.
His mouth twitched. He stroked the quivering dog’s head, waiting. Miss Graham lifted her chin, fussed at the damp shawl, pushed at her drooping bonnet with its bedraggled silk flowers, her wet golden curls straggling free. She glanced at him, cheeks high pink, rain-colored eyes snapping.
“Do you want the pup?” He used Gaelic stubbornly to push against the strong attraction he felt. Tension hung between them. She did not reply.
Wriggling and warm, the dog stretched its snout to lick Ronan’s bearded chin. He laughed—he could not help it. The girl melted a little and reached out.
“Wee laddie, come here,” she cooed, and took the creature, cuddling it, heedless of mud and damp. The love between the two warmed the dreary carriage interior like sunlight.
It warmed Ronan’s heart, too, though he folded his arms over his chest, suddenly aware just how easily he could fall for this sopping, messy, indignant, beautiful girl and her mucky wee pup.
He needed to stay aloof, needed to mistrust her, her father, and Corbie. With his freedom in question, his friends threatened, and this journey benefiting others somehow, he had to remain vigilant.
Thunder rolled above, loud and startling. The dog barked, and the girl squeaked as the carriage hurtled onward. “MacNie and Donal are seated outside in this awful storm. It is dangerous for them to be up there.” She spoke in English.
So did he. “Your man drives like the very devil.”
“He drives fast no matter the weather.” She held the whimpering dog close. The coach rocked, pitching her sideways. Ronan straightened his leg, bracing his boot against the opposite seat to keep her from falling.
“Beg pardon,” he muttered, dropping his foot to the floor.
She watched him over the dog’s head. “So you have English.”
“I have.” He felt a little of the burden lift.
“A good bit, I think.” She lifted her chin defiantly, a habit he had noticed in her.
“Aye so.” He inclined his head.
“Did you need the Gaelic for protection?”
“It proved convenient.” Her observation was kind as well as perceptive. But he could not allow kindness, or this drenched, charming, delicate vision, to sway him.
“May we use English between us, then?” An offer of peace rather than an accusation, it revealed her character. He liked that. He nodded.
“The ruse has been helpful,” he said.
“Ruse?” Her hands clenched. “I will not keep your secret. But tell me—are you a true Highland man? There is more to you than one might guess.”
