Page 5 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Everyone is mad for a peek at these fellows,” Lady Strathniven said. “The most interesting thing in this city for a long while.”
“Until the king’s visit. We expect him in August now,” Corbie said.
“That does not give your office much time to prepare,” Lady Strathniven said.
“We have been planning for months on the chance, but we will be even busier.”
“I thought Sir Walter Scott was leading the organizing committee,” Ellison said.
“Yes, and he has plenty of ideas—revues, receptions, balls, dinners, and so on—but our office must make the arrangements. Some of his requests are outlandish.”
“Adam, you promised that Ellison and I will have invitations to the royal events.”
“I will do my best to arrange it, Aunt. Women are not invited to all the events.”
Frowning at that, Ellison suddenly heard a plaintive melody. “Fiddle music!”
“That’s one o’ them playing,” the guard said. “No harm in it.”
At the end of a corridor stem, two sentries sat at a small table near a cave-like cell with a wide iron grate set into the rock opening. In the cave, Ellison saw three Highland men. Thin sunlight streamed through an aperture high in the rock wall, illuminating their forms and faces.
Transfixed by the music, compelled by curiosity, she walked forward. The cell’s interior was simple—a straw-covered floor, bench, table, three narrow cots. The fiddle player, tall and fair-haired, stood. Two men sat on the bench. Ellison drifted closer.
The fiddler was a master, the tune a favorite she had heard at dances. His gilded hair swept over his brow, his fingers were deft and nimble. He had a fine face, she thought. Gentle. Kind. One of the seated men held a book in his hands; he was big and brawny with a swarthy dark beard and unruly black curls. The man beside him appeared asleep, chin dropped, arms crossed, long legs extended. A scruff of beard and long dark hair framed a face with handsomely shaped features, dark brows, thick eyelashes.
All three wore belted plaids of various patterns, crumpled shirts, shabby waistcoats, stockings, and worn leather shoes. Though unkempt head to foot, they looked strong and healthy, and younger than Ellison had expected, each perhaps thirty or so.
Highlanders of a rough sort, just as the newspapers claimed. The accounts claimed they spoke only Gaelic, lacked manners and education, and had a dull intelligence. Yet the fiddler played with skill, the black-haired brute was absorbed in reading, and the third fellow, though resting, possessed a banked power. He tilted an eyebrow when her shoes scuffed the floor near the cell, as if instantly alert.
“Highland scoundrels,” Corbie said. Startled, Ellison turned.
“I find them intriguing,” she answered. He huffed.
“Oh my,” Lady Strathniven said, flapping her fan. “They are rather stunning.”
Watching them from under her bonnet rim, Ellison felt a wrench of compassion. She had lived in the Highlands as a child. Life had been happy there, and she had affection and respect for the Highland people, appreciating the nobility in their character, their language and traditions, and their plight as well.
Perhaps these men had been brought low by English laws that were not always fair to Scots. She sighed, knowing something of the smuggling trade from conversations in her father’s house. Highlanders who produced whisky and other goods felt forced to find ways to slip past English authorities and avoid heavy taxation just to help their families survive. She felt great sympathy for them.
Did these men have families, wives, children? The poignant fiddle music touched her heart, brought tears to her eyes. The sight of the prisoners stirred and surprised her.
“Rascals,” Corbie said. She nearly jumped. “Do not fear, Miss Ellison. I am here to protect you.” He touched her elbow.
“I am not afraid. It just seems wrong to intrude on their privacy.”
“Criminals must give up the right to such privileges.”
“Oh, my,” Lady Strathniven breathed. “Hardly savages! Why, with a barber, decent clothing, and better circumstances, all three would pass for Highland gentlemen. Can you not see them as noble clan chieftains with velvet jackets and feathered bonnets?”
“No,” Corbie said.
“Oh, aye! They look rather heroic,” Ellison agreed. “They might have stepped out of one of Sir Walter Scott’s epic poems.”
“I am glad we came to see them.” Lady Strathniven took Ellison’s arm and smiled.
The viscountess had been Ellison’s mother’s dearest friend, and so took on a maternal role toward Ellison and her sisters after their mother died nearly ten years earlier. A few years ago, when Lady Strathniven had lost her husband, she became even closer to the Grahams. Ellison loved her dearly, enjoying the lady’s salty and generous nature, refreshing and kind.
“We must go,” Corbie said just as the fiddler began a slow, sad melody.
