Page 61 of A Rogue in Firelight
He lifted his glass, watched candlelight flicker through the honey-gold liquid, and sipped. “A handsome whisky. Made by Pitlinnie, if I am not mistaken.”
“I believe so. He is a local baronet, I think, and makes his own whisky.”
“Aye, he has a small Highland estate and a recent title, which I hear he earned in return for a monetary gift to the English government.”
“Oh! That seems—rather crass.”
“A bit. His grandfather was appointed a knight for a similar reason, but they never let their neighbors forget their raised status. To Sir Neill Pitlinnie,” he drawled, raising his glass. “May he prosper and enjoy his titles and such.”
“You do not seem fond of him.”
“Not especially.” He drank.
“What were you looking for in this library? Can I help find it?”
He liked to keep his secrets safe, as she apparently did too, but he felt at ease with her. “I am searching for a small archaic point of law. I thought the older volumes in here might have something.”
She waved toward the bookcases lining the walls. “There are some older books on Scots law in one corner. Lord Strathniven shelved them here, finding them outdated. But that might be what you need.”
“Thank you. But I do not want to disturb your writing session.”
“The inspiration has passed.” She smiled, lifted a shoulder.
“Inspiration—and tears?” He glanced at the pages beneath her hand. “Sorry, I should not ask. But it must be a good story to touch you so.”
“I like it, but Papa thinks—” She stopped, shook her head.
“Thinks it unsuitable?”
“Worse. Folly.” She shrugged, took a sip. “Oh, my. That does warm the throat.”
He saw a blush rise into her cheeks. “What is your story about, if I may ask?”
“It will seem silly to you.” But her eyes sparkled, and he had the feeling she wanted to talk about it.
“Not at all. Can I help?”
She looked down, the movement spiraling a golden curl out of her braided hair. “Kind of you. Perhaps someday.”
“I wonder,” he murmured, “if we will have a someday, you and I.”
“I know,” she said softly.
Something tugged in his chest. Leaning back, he folded his arms as the relaxing warmth of the whisky ran through him, loosening candor. “Tell me about your story.”
She sipped the whisky, coughed, and began to talk. At first quietly, then with spirit and enthusiasm as she described the story. He smiled, seeing her excitement.
“So Ruari must protect his heart against more hurt. And Isabella is caught in what her family needs and does not—oh, I am sorry,” she said.
He opened his eyes. “Sorry about what?”
“I thought you were bored. Getting sleepy.”
“I am listening intently to a charming narrator.” He smiled. “Go on. This Highlander is a strong fellow of high morals and proud birth, though he indulges in a bit of cattle thievery now and then. He cannot reveal his love for the daughter of a rival clan chief because of an ancient feud. And her family betrothed her to another.”
“He wanted what was best for her, and tries to accept it. Do you think it is silly?”
“I think it is a classic and perhaps tragic love story. And I like your hero.”
