Page 45 of A Rogue in Firelight
“At Strathniven for now. I will find you,” he added. “Better yet, I will come to the distillery. We need to count how many kegs can be sent out.”
“To be taken over the hills by night, with a fine profit for all?” Geordie smiled.
“None of that now, lads.” He lifted a hand in farewell.
Chapter Ten
Of all therooms in Strathniven House, Ellison loved its large library almost as much as the one in the old tower. Standing in its expansive formal space, waiting for Ronan MacGregor, she inhaled the scents of wood and leather, old paper, the earthy scent of linseed oil polish used on the wood furnishings. The table’s walnut surface was a smooth, dark gloss under her fingertips.
She loved the soaring bookshelves crammed with volumes; loved the reading nooks set with comfortable chairs, and the balcony level accessed by a wrought iron spiral stair. She strolled through the library choosing books suited to etiquette lessons and set them on a small table between two sage green upholstered chairs beneath a tall window draped in gold damask. She felt ready to begin.
She glanced at the portrait of Viscount Strathniven over the fireplace; he looked stern but kind, overlooking his beloved library. She suspected Lady Strathniven spent little time in the room simply because she felt sad to see his likeness.
Had there been a portrait of Colin Leslie, Ellison thought, she might have avoided it too. The wound, the regret, the conflict still hurt. She had been young, foolish, believing she was in love. Yet she had brought only grief to her family in the end.
Hearing a knock, she turned as Ronan MacGregor entered the room. He looked fine in the black suit that had once belonged to Colin, though he filled out every stitch of it with muscle and brawn. Amused, she saw he wore his old boots again, buffed but frayed.
“Sir,” she said, and set a hand to her midsection, feeling a flutter that no other man had caused in her. Not even Colin, despite her love for his intellect, his art, his elegance. Yet this man, a stranger, stirred excitement with an undercurrent of safety. Near him, she felt steady. Invigorated.
“The rain has stopped.” He approached.
“Aye. Did you and Donal have a pleasant ride?”
“We did. Highland air is refreshing in any weather.”
“It is. I thought to walk out later with Balor. As long as there is no thunder!”
He smiled. “Where is the wee rascal?” He looked around.
“Napping elsewhere. He is banished from the library. He has a taste for carpet fringe. Shall we begin? I thought we might look through some books on etiquette.” She indicated the table and chairs, the stack of books.
He made a wry face. “My assigned reading? What a fine library.” He turned to survey the expansive room. “Two libraries in one household? It is a scholar’s paradise.” He glanced at her. “Is Lady Strathniven so fond of books?”
“She appreciates the collection but is not overly fond of studying. This was Lord Strathniven’s project.”
He nodded, moving to examine a tall section of shelves. “Poetry, mythology, botanical studies, sciences, medicine. And novels,” he murmured. He paused here and there to pluck a book, sift through its pages, slide it back into place.
Ellison moved beside him, her gray skirt shushing along the wooden floor. In the rainy light, his eyes were intent as he looked through books, caressed gilded leather, flipped pages, his touch tender and sensual. Suddenly she felt a sweet chill, as if he had touched her with the same affection. A love of books radiated from him like a current, a yearning. She caught her breath, recognizing the feeling.
“You truly appreciate books.” Her heart swelled with an impulse to share her favorites, see his pleasure. For a moment she glimpsed the true man, peered into his secrets. He wanted others to think him a simple man, laird, crofter, smuggler. He might be those, but he was far more. Educated. Complex. Thoughtful.
He touched another book. “Percy’sReliques of Ancient Poetry.My mother had a copy. I read it as a boy.”
“I loved it as a child too. I still go back to it.”
He moved on, looking at matching sets of black and red spines. “Law books,” he murmured. “Erskine’sInstitute of the Laws of Scotland.All four volumes. Burnett’sCriminal Law... excellent.”
“You are familiar with those?”
“A rogue must understand the risks,” he drawled. “How many books are here?”
“A count was done for the estate when Lord Strathniven died. Four thousand, two hundred ninety-eight volumes. I remember because Lady Strathniven bought two books to make it an even number.” Ellison smiled. “I have added others since.”
“You and I have something in common.”
Her heart quickened. “I love to read, love to write, too—” She stifled an effusive urge to say more. “Well. Browse and read as you like in both libraries.”
“Thank you. Perhaps someday you will tell me what you like to read—and write,” he added. “The viscountess mentioned you write poetry?”
