Page 6 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Soon. I want to listen to the music,” the viscountess replied.
As the music flowed, Ellison sensed dignity and intelligence in the three quiet men. Each had wildness and a sort of powerful grace. She felt strongly that none of them belonged here in prison, though she knew little about their circumstances.
The black-bearded man set down his book, flexed his big hands, and glanced up. Seeing Ellison, he smiled shyly. His size gave him a beast-like appearance, but his hands, eyes, and expression were gentle. She smiled, feeling a twist of compassion.
The sleeping man—or perhaps he was merely bored, she thought—stirred then, broad shoulders pressed against rock. He murmured in Gaelic to the larger man.
Aingeal,answered the black-haired beast. The two murmured again.
Hearing and understanding some of their words, Ellison gasped softly.Angel.
Gaelic had been the language of her nurse and the Highland servants, so her ear and tongue had attuned early to that lilting language. Later, she studied with a tutor in Edinburgh. For all his grousing, Papa encouraged education for his daughters and was pleased when Ellison relied on her knowledge of Gaelic when she joined an Edinburgh ladies’ society that occasionally traveled to the Highlands to help poor Gaelic-speaking families.
Iain, why are you smiling?the bored one asked.
An angel has come to visit,his friend answered.Open your eyes, lad.
Aingeal.They meant her. Ellison felt her cheeks burn.
“Ruffians,” Corbie muttered. “This is no place for ladies. We have seen enough.”
The bored Highlander flashed open his eyes with a glare like a blue arrow.
“Oh, my,” Lady Strathniven breathed, flapping her fan.
That piercing gaze found Ellison. She met and held it, a moth to that blue flame.
The man had the rare beauty only some possess, his face an elegant blend of angle and curve, strength and tenderness. Long-lidded eyes under dark brows, squared jaw, and firm rounded lips framed by a dark beard; hair dark as a roast chestnut waved to his shoulders. His gaze was like a lightning strike.
A chill ran through her, crown to foot. Here was the hero of the adventure she was secretly writing; here was the Highland rogue she imagined: noble, strong, beautiful.
“Fascinating,” Lady Strathniven murmured.
“Oh aye,” Ellison whispered.
“Rude,” Corbie muttered.
The Highlander closed his eyes and leaned back. His big friend yawned. The fiddler set down the instrument.
“The one fiddles a decent Irish tune, I suppose,” Corbie admitted.
“Those were Scottish tunes,” Ellison pointed out.
“No matter. These rascals will go to trial soon and the city will be quit of them. Tried, sentenced, hanged. Shall we go, ladies?”
“Hanged? Mr. Corbie, you seem determined to condemn them,” Ellison said.
“They are reprehensible rogues, not the noble Highlanders of Mr. Scott’s writings, Miss Ellison. You must set aside such lofty ideals. It does you no good.”
“Ideals are essential. They ennoble us,” she said. He made a scoffing sound.
Suddenly aware of that burning blue gaze again, she glanced toward the cell. The man looked away. The fiddler spoke in Gaelic and the others answered.
“Likely trying to plot their escape, though it is impossible,” Corbie grumbled.
“They are saying,” Ellison replied, “that they feel like animals in a zoo.”
The bored Highlander swerved his gaze to look straight at her.
