Page 37 of A Rogue in Firelight
Toweling off, he trimmed his beard with the grooming tools, then combed his too-long hair. His plaidie and other garments were filthy; he would ask Donal if someone could clean and repair them. Dressing in the things provided, he found they fit, just, the shirt and waistcoat snug, the trousers too short. The boots, hardly worn, were tight.
Climbing the stairs to the guest chamber, he winced with each step. Such footwear would discourage a man from escaping, he thought; his old brogues, hard-worn but comfortable, would need repair soon. Even so, his worn brogues were unsuited to a royal audience. He huffed at that thought.
At any rate, whether at court or at home, he would prefer to wear good Highland gear, with its handsome distinction and comfort. Another request for Donal, then; the lad would know just where to find Ronan’s things.
Supper waited on a covered tray in his room, left in his absence by a servant. Sitting by the window, Ronan tucked into barley soup and crowdie cheese on an oatcake, washed down with ale from a jug. There was a squat pottery jug of whisky, too. Perhaps Donal had been here to leave it. Pulling the wax plug free, he sniffed and sampled.
Pitlinnie. He knew the taste. Intrigued to find Pitlinnie whisky at Strathniven, he wondered if Mrs. Barrow had purchased it for the household from Sir Neill Pitlinnie. Perhaps the fellow gifted a supply to the household to buy silence and loyalty where goods were often smuggled. Ronan suspected the latter.
A folded paper was tucked under the china plate; the creamy stock was creased repeatedly in the manner of a secret note. Opening the tiny quartos fold by fold, he saw a missive written in a feminine hand.
Mr. MacGregor,
Lady Strathniven requests your company at breakfast tomorrow morning at nine o’clock in the dining room of the main house.
This evening, please visit the tower library at half eight. A message awaits you there.
E. S. G.
Ellison Graham’s writing hand was lovely, but a blot or two spoke of haste.
Hoping the message would add clarity to this odd situation, he sat back, sipping the Pitlinnie. The mantel clock chimed softly; he had a little time to spare. Grateful to be free, he thought of Linhope and MacInnes on Calton Hill by now. Their fate depended on what he did here.
He gazed at the evening sky, its clouds lessening, and felt weariness pull at him. He closed his eyes, dozed—and startled awake to see the time was nearly half eight.
Shrugging into the black coat—tight across the shoulders, sleeves too short, but it must do—he left the room, wincing as the boots pinched.
The door tothe small library was ajar, showing lamplight and bookshelves. Miss Graham stood by the mullioned window, haloed in the glow of the twilight sky.
No message, then, but a conversation. Knocking softly, he entered, taking in the room—old ceiling beams, planked floors, hefty furniture—and bookshelves crammed with volumes, vases, globes, and more. Sturdy wooden chairs flanked the table and an oil lamp shed golden light on books and papers.
Ellison Graham turned. In the small room, she stood but a dozen paces away. “Mr. MacGregor—Glenbrae. Please come in.” She spoke in English.
“Miss Graham, good evening.” He too set the Gaelic aside.
“Please sit.” She indicated two armchairs by the window, upholstered in red brocade. He could look only at her for a moment—rosy light shone over the soft golden curls framing her face. She wore a dark blue gown, a prim thing with a high collar and long full sleeves that made her seem small and fragile. Nervous too, she twisted her fingers in a graceful yet anxious way.
Ronan eyed a red chair warily, which looked too slight to support a large male. Instead, he drew one of the wooden chairs close, angling it toward her.
“I thought to meet privately here,” she said. “Though it is not the most proper.”
“So long as you are comfortable, Miss Graham.”
“Aye. The sky is lovely now. The rain is lifting.” She flexed her clasped fingers. The light made her eyes translucent silver.
“Beautiful, aye.” The sky, his freedom. The girl.
“You and your friends have been quite popular in the city. The Whisky Rogues have won the public’s imagination.”
“We have Sir Walter Scott to thank for the name.”
“His opinion holds weight. My father said he called you the Whisky Rogues at a dinner party and mentioned that Highlanders move whisky efficiently and illegally, using the profits to help crofters in dire conditions. He compared you to Robin Hood and his merry men. A journalist overheard and it reached the newspaper.”
“It is a romantic notion and not quite truthful.”
“Sometimes Highlanders smuggle whisky simply to protect their families. Good intentions can cause good men to break laws. I find nobility in that.”
“An interesting thought from the daughter of a government official.”
