Page 38 of A Rogue in Firelight
“I respect Highlanders. I have seen the difficulties they face.”
“Ah.” Best to not pursue the subject of what Highlanders lacked under English governing; he might say too much. He glanced around. “What a fine library. The tower is very old, but well cared for.”
“I like the medieval part of this house. If you prefer something more modern, I will let Mrs. Barrow know.”
“Probably best to separate the rogue from the household,” he drawled. “Thank you for the hospitality and the excellent clothing.” He brushed at the coat sleeves.
“We have clothing in storage here, so I asked Donal to find something for a tall man.” She tipped her head. “If I may, sir, I wonder if the fit is comfortable.”
“These may have been tailored for a slighter gentleman,” he admitted.
“He was tall, but not as—robust. We can have your things cleaned.”
Curious, he did not ask whose suit this had been. “A Highland plaid may not be proper here.” He shifted, praying the coat seams would hold.
“Tartan is considered proper in Scotland again. And Lady Strathniven loves the Highlands, I assure you. As do I.”
He nodded. “So, Miss Graham. There is a message for me?”
“You are owed an explanation.”
“I am listening.” He watched her. Graceful, lightsome, yet something troubled her. Beneath her calm, fine-tuned beauty he sensed tensile energy and a strong spirit. Her fingers folded, then opened like a lotus.
“We—need your help, Mr. MacGregor.”
“I will provide the whisky. Just give me time. You mentioned the king earlier, but I see no need to meet him.”
“His Majesty requested to meet the distiller. Papa’s office is obliged to honor it.”
Questions crowded his mind, but he would be cautious. “What a fuss this visit will be for Scotland. The last English king to visit here, other than those who came here to make war, was Charles the Second, I think.”
“Your education was good in the glen school. My father will be pleased to know it.”
Good Lord, Ronan thought; this Highland savage act had gone too far. “I can read, write, and count on my fingers. I attended the glen school and a public academy in Perth.” He was sore tempted to add that he had studied law in Edinburgh, apprenticed in a law office in Perth, and practiced there still. “Tell Sir Hector the Highlander can quote the Greeks and Romans, spool on about history, philosophy, and maths, and even discuss points of law.”
Indignation flamed in him. He wanted an end to the ruse, but his friends needed protection. He waited, nostrils flared.
“I see.” Color rose in her cheeks. “But the king wants to meet you. He likes your whisky very much.”
“Then I assume this will be a fast introduction. I would bow, say something proper, and then be whisked away to meet my punitive fate.”
“Not so dire as that, I hope.”
He huffed. “And your role in this?”
“Tutoring you in protocol and manners.”
“I am not a savage, madam.” He took quick offense—tired, perplexed, insulted. He breathed out, willing his temper to subside.
She lifted her chin. “I know that. It is a complicated situation.”
“I dread to ask.”
“The king believes the distiller is a gentleman of rank. A peer.”
“Ah.” Pieces clicked into place, beads on an abacus. “Presenting a filthy prisoner is unthinkable, so he must be cleaned up and properly trained. A frog-and-princess tale, is it?” He tipped a brow.
Her cheeks burned deep pink. “I am to tutor you and translate, but clearly you do not need much.”
