Page 60 of A Rogue in Firelight
Breathing out, she dipped the quill and wrote on, but could not focus on her story. In the noiseless room, her thoughts kept sliding to Ronan MacGregor. The mere scrape of his foot on the step had made her heart beat faster.
Just infatuation, she told herself, and she must ignore it. He did not seem to return her interest, and a romance was unthinkable for the daughter of the deputy provost and a man who could return to prison. MacGregor was gentlemanly, polite, and kind toward her and she could expect nothing more.
Part of her wished he would abandon propriety and show reciprocal feeling for her—a long while had passed since a man had cared about her. Her widow’s existence sealed her off from affection and love, and so she might feel isolated the rest of her life.
Outside, the sky was the purple of a late summer night. She ought to go to bed. Tomorrow would bring them closer to the day Ronan MacGregor must carry out this risky scheme in Edinburgh. Then he would depart, never knowing how she felt. She could not tell him—it would not do.
But she could write about it. A sense of unrequited love infused her story. Taking up the pen, she began to write, soon surprising herself as an impassioned scene emerged with each scratch of the quill. Isabella secretly loved Ruari, but had married a man who would help her family. Now she was widowed and had to seek help from the Highlander she had once rejected. The scene poured through the pen.
Pausing to think, she slid her fingers through her loosened braid. As she wrote of the love between her characters, tears welled and spilled, blotting the ink.
She looked up to see her face reflected in the window glass. Then she saw a face just above hers, as if her Highland hero stood there, tall, handsome, mysterious. She gasped, for she realized Ronan was in the doorway, reflected in the window too.
“Miss Graham,” Ronansaid, sensing her surprise. “I did not mean to startle you. It is late, and I apologize.” As she beckoned, he entered the room. “I could not sleep and came downstairs, for I had seen a light earlier. I wanted to be sure no candles or lamps were burning. I did not realize you were here.”
“Sometimes I come in here to write or read. It is so private.”
“Or was, until I arrived. Letters?” He glanced at the pages on the table, noticing watery blots of ink. She covered the topmost page with her hand.
“A story. A book someday,” she blurted.
“Ah.” Sensing fragility, Ronan paused. Strong though the girl might be, life had made her hesitant and fearful; perhaps her dreams seemed risky. The thought of anyone diminishing the shining spirit within her made him feel indignant and protective. He frowned, wishing she would trust him, but she watched him warily.
“A book? Excellent.”
“You might think it a frivolous waste of time.” She tucked the pages together and folded her hands over them as if to shield them. “But I enjoy it.”
“If reading a book is a worthy occupation for men and women, how could writing a book be unworthy?”
“Writing poetry is considered more suitable for a lady than a novel.”
“I enjoy novels more than poetry. But then some think me a ne’er-do-well.”
“I do not think so.”
“Thank you. There is much to admire in those who take on the task of writing and accomplish it.” He smiled. “I will not interrupt your work.” He stepped back.
“I am done for now. Sit if you like.”
He took a chair by the table. “So you work on something in solitude. I will keep that secret for you, I promise.”
“I appreciate it.” She spread her fingers to cover the pages.
“I only came in here to check the candles, and to look for a book that might help my own secret work.”
“I saw you reading in the library earlier. Law books, I think?”
“Aye. I am hoping to find a solution to a certain dilemma. I confess I also came in hopes of finding a decanter of whisky. A wee sip is good for a sleepless night.” He rose and went to a shelf where two glass decanters and drinking glasses sat neatly arranged. One decanter was full of amber liquid. A smaller decanter held a darker liquid. “Sherry?”
“A ratafia with berries and spices. Mrs. Barrow makes it. Help yourself, sir.”
“Ratafia is more of a ladies’ drink. I shall try a dram of this one.” He poured a little amber whisky into a small glass. “Would you care for some?”
“I had the liqueur earlier. Though—aye, a little taste of whisky will do. I feel a bit restless tonight too.”
“Highland ladies enjoy a dram whenever they like.” He poured a wee bit into a second glass. “It seems that Lady Strathniven agrees.”
Ellison laughed. “She does. Thank you.” She took the glass, sipped, grimaced.
