Page 35 of A Rogue in Firelight
“We are here for polite conversation?” he asked in Gaelic, with a tight smile.
“And other matters. Later, sir,” she said in Gaelic, unwilling to expose his ease with English. “My lady, our guest will want to rest after his long journey.”
“Mrs. Barrow prepared a room in the tower for him. My nephew wanted me to put him in the servant quarters. But I do not take instruction well.”
Ellison laughed. “You do not, to be sure.” She translated for MacGregor—your room is in the old tower. It is very private. You will be comfortable there—while avoiding his steady gaze. Looking down, she noticed his mud-plastered boots were worn and scuffed, the soles gaping in spots. His feet were long and large. His plaid and other garments were soaked and grimy. And the man had an earthy aroma that was not very gentlemanly.
She remembered Corbie’s list—bath, shave, clothing. She had to agree.
Now she wondered if the clothing she had asked Donal Brodie to find for their guest would suit him. Informing Donal that they expected a gentleman who was tall and fit and in need of clothing, she had told him to look at some things she’d stored in a chest in one of Strathniven’s attics. Because she and Colin had spent so much time at Strathniven, they both had clothing left here.
But she had misjudged. MacGregor was taller, heavier, more muscular than her late husband. Colin Leslie, tall and lean with a poet’s soul and an artist’s elegance, had preferred closely tailored suits and fashionable boots. Brawny MacGregor, quiet and powerful, could fill a space with his very presence; his build was only part of that.
“Will Glenbrae join us for supper? I asked Cook to prepare a simple meal.”
Turning, Ellison asked in Gaelic if he would care to have supper with them.
“An honor, but I must decline,” he replied in that language. His voice, even softly modulated, had a resonance that sank through her like whisky. “Please tell the lady that I am fatigued and would not be good company.”
“Just as well. You must be tired too, my dear,” Lady Strathniven said. “Let Mrs. Barrow see Glenbrae to his room. Your dress is quite ruined. A pity you did not bring a maid to see to your needs. My Jeanie is here, but keeps busy seeing to me. Young Mary can be assigned to help you.”
“Thank you. If she can clean my dress, I can make any repairs.” Glancing around for the housekeeper, Ellison was reluctant to leave the Highlander with the viscountess in her current talkative mood. He would hear too much before she could explain the plan. She needed an opportunity to talk to him in private.
“I vow, Adam thinks this fine Highland rascal cannot learn to act properly no matter what we do, but I disagree—”
“Mrs. Barrow!” Ellison called in relief, hearing the woman’s footsteps.
*
After leading Ronanthrough the house to a short corridor and the entrance to the old structure, Mrs. Barrow preceded him up spiral stone steps and flung open a door. “This is your room, Mr. MacGregor,” she said as loudly as the viscountess had done.
“Thank you.” Ducking slightly under the old lintel, he followed her inside. “A fine room.” He kept the English simple. She smiled.
The chamber was small but well-appointed, cozy, and somewhat antique, with whitewashed walls, a beamed ceiling, and worn patterned carpets on the planked floor. A large canopy bed with a red brocade coverlet filled much of the space; a small table and wooden chair sat beneath a mullioned window framing a misty view of hills. The room had an air of solitude, high in the old tower. He liked that.
Long ago, a MacGregor ancestor had designed and constructed this very tower. Bemused, he nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Very nice.”
“You-speak-English?” she enunciated.
“Some. Thank you.”
“Lady Strathniven thought you would be comfortable here.” The housekeeper pursed her mouth.
“Aye.”
“Huh, and Mr. MacNie out in the rain at his age, catching his death to fetch you,” she muttered half to herself, “and you bringing mud inside and much in need of a barber and a bath. What are we to do with you. Why are you here at all, at all. Curious, I say.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barrow.” He set a hand on the door.
“Glenbrae is a local name. Are you kin to the MacGregors of Glenbrae and Invermorie? And the late Darrach, God rest him?”
“Kin? Some.”
“I didna know the young viscount, but I knew his father. And you have the look of the Glenbrae MacGregors.” She squinted. “A handsome folk.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. The room is good.”
“Och, not a word did he get,” she muttered. “MacGregor, if you wish a bath, we have a bathing apparatus here. Lord Strathniven had it brought up from London. You-may-use-the-bathing-apparatus,” she said loudly.
