Page 32 of A Rogue in Firelight
“One might say the same for you, Miss Graham.” She was learning about him as fast as he was discerning her. “I am Highland born and bred and have spoken the Gaelic since my first words. English too. Lately the native tongue suited best.”
“It would have been risky to reveal too much about yourself.”
“I can hide little from you, Miss Graham. I am warned.”
“I am not your enemy.” She watched him for a moment, then looked out the window.“Cha mhòr an sin.”Almost there.
Gaelic again. Bless the girl. “Strathniven House?” Looking through a haze of rain, he glimpsed the massive sandstone façade in the distance.
“It is.” Tugging at her bonnet, she swept her fingers through the wet, honey-colored curls spilling along one shoulder. “I look a fright.”
“Not at all.” She looked a wee goddess. Not just lovely, but intelligent, forthright, unpretentious. Such virtues in a woman were his downfall. He yearned for a woman with inner strength, a sharp mind, kindness, even a touch of whimsy. One such woman had slipped through his grasp years ago, and his uncertain future might not allow him to find another. Yet this girl fair glowed with allure, wit, compassion, and more. He felt himself falling.
Careful, lad. This fleeting moment was no place to rest his hopes and dreams.
“Miss Graham, only your wee hat looks a fright.”
She laughed, touched the woebegone flowers. “Your things are soaked too. Thank you for fetching my dog. I appreciate it more than I can say.”
“It is I who must thank you. I enjoyed chasing about in the rain. It has been too long.”
“Thank Balor for running away.” She ruffled the dog’s head.
“Balor, is it? Chief of the Fomorians in Irish myth—the ‘deadly one’—a formidable name for a wee Skye terrier.” He reached across the gap to scratch the little head and received a licking of the fingers in return. “Fierce laddie.”
She laughed again. “Do you have a dog?”
“Two deerhounds, staying with kin while I have been away.” He went silent, having eased up caution too soon. The girl broke his focus.
She giggled as the dog licked her chin. Ronan enjoyed the silvery sound and her impish, fairylike smile. Affection and contentment warmed him out of nowhere.
“Regardless of the reason,” he ventured, “it is good to be out in the world again.”
“I am glad. So you agreed to what was asked of you?”
“I was told the king has a fondness for my whisky. I saw your Mr. Corbie.”
“And he explained the rest?”
“The king would like a supply of Glenbrae whisky, and it seems I am expected to provide it. That may take some doing.”
“You have a few weeks to arrange it.”
“Mr. Corbie hinted at some difficulty for my friends if I do not comply. With what,” he murmured, “should I comply?”
“Oh.” She worried her teeth against her lower lip. “I thought you knew.”
“I am to obtain whisky. And it seems I am being removed from Edinburgh to avoid embarrassment for Scotland.”
“That is part of it.” She paused. “Do you not know?”
“Know what?” He waited.
“Mr. MacGregor, I must warn you.”
He leaned back. “If you feel this space is too close, I apologize. But you are safe from me. Your Corbie warned me to keep my distance from you.”
“He is not my Corbie. And he should not have told you that. He misspoke.”
