Page 33 of A Rogue in Firelight
“If I am missing something here, best say it out.”
“I must warn you that Mr. Corbie thinks you should be a—a hostage.”
“Does he,” he drawled. “Are you my custodian, then?”
“Not me. But there are expectations of you. Truly, he did not explain?”
“All I know is that I have been liberated. What expectations?”
“Liberated?” She tipped her head in surprise.
“A nicety of the law fell in my favor. I hope to extend it permanently.” He waved a hand. “What is expected of me, Miss Graham?”
A worry, something unsettled, flickered in her eyes. “I believe Mr. Corbie meant hostage in the old sense—a hostage for good behavior, as in earlier days.”
“I know what it means. Held in abeyance. My good behavior in exchange for the safety of my friends. What is expected in return?”
“Please understand that I am not part of any threat to you.”
“I would quake in my boots if you were. Out with it, Miss.”
“There is an arrangement. It should have been explained.”
“I am to keep my distance from you. Must I also display excellent manners at your country house? Pretend to be a better man than I am? I can manage it briefly. It will try me so,” he snapped.
She winced, cheeks going pink. “M-manners?”
“I assume I must be isolated here while the king is in the city.”
“I know you are upset, but you must agree to what is asked.” Above the sound of rain and wheels, her voice turned urgent. “And you must not try to escape.”
“Or your spiteful wee clerk will be after me?” He huffed a laugh.
“He is my father’s secretary.”
“And in love with you, if I am not mistaken.”
“I do not know what he thinks of me.” She looked away.
He did not believe that, but he was after a different truth. “Miss Graham, I sense something afoot here. It seems your Mr. Corbie has gallantly left it to the lady to explain. And he calls himself a gentleman,” he muttered.
“Gentleman! Oh.” She held the dog tightly against her.
“You will smother that pup. Tell me.”
“You are to be introduced to the king,” she blurted. “At one of the assemblies. As a gentleman. Perhaps—under another name. Because of your—predicament.”
Of all the possibilities, he had not expected that. “How absurd.”
“The king expects to meet the distiller of Glenbrae whisky. He likes your whisky very much.”
“Ah.” The pieces came together swiftly. “Alas, the distiller is a smuggler, even worse, a prisoner, but the Provost’s office cannot refuse the king. What to do? Aha!” He spoke swiftly, with an edge. “Hide the scoundrel away until the king departs—or shall we clean him up and trot him past the king? Is that it?”
“Uh—oh, look!” She pointed out the window. “Strathniven House.”
Now he noticed they were rolling between two stone gates to enter an earthen courtyard edged by pine trees. Sandstone walls were articulated by rows of gleaming windows overlooking lawns and gardens. To one side were stables and sheds; to the other, soaring blue and heathered hills.
This was the fine house and estate his great-grandfather had lost long ago.
