Page 77 of A Rogue in Firelight
“They are Rabbie Muir’s grandsons. Good lads.”
“Your business with them seemed important.”
“Sir Hector wants a good deal of whisky delivered for the king’s visit. It is not easy to arrange transport. I must have help.”
“Does it involve a smuggling route?” A gust of wind blew past and she put a hand to her bonnet.
“If free trade proves the fastest way to do this, so be it. The king will have his whisky, and your father his moment of glory.”
“Papa is not doing this for royal attention. And I only asked because I fear harm might come to you.”
“Do not worry about me, lass,” he murmured.
She lifted her chin. “But I do.”
He gazed down at her, calm and strong, and said nothing.
“I just do not want trouble for you—or any of us,” she continued.
“It will be fine. Look, those two are down in the water already and will have all the fish. Are you sure you want to stay here?”
She nodded. “Go ahead. I will be fine.”
He hesitated, then murmured assent and went down to the water. Ellison settled with the sketchbook, looking up as Sorcha called out laughing and Donal splashed into the water, kilted and bare-legged, to grab after a fish, nearly falling into the water. Ronan’s laughter boomed out, and Ellison watched, then returned to her drawings.
But hearing their laughter, seeing the sunlight sparkle on the water, she watched, her sketch less interesting than the three laughing and playing a stone’s throw from where she sat.
Taking up her pencil again, she sketched the burn, flowing between banks softened by grasses and wildflowers, and added three figures in the water. Smudging the graphite with a finger, she captured the textures and was pleased. But again her attention was drawn to the others.
“Hush it, or you two will scare all fish away,” Ronan called.
Snapping the sketchbook closed, Ellison stood and went down to the water’s edge. Donal waved and Sorcha turned. “Ellison! Come into the water!”
Standing apart, shin-deep in the burn, Ronan gestured to her. She wanted to be near him—but hesitated, feeling that she should keep her distance.
More and more, she was aware of her attraction to him, and how much she liked his company and wanted to know more about him. More and more, she knew she was falling in love, and that, above all else, made her hold back. What she wanted simply could not be. What she felt was a fantasy; she must not fall foolishly in love again.
She shook her head. He shrugged, stepping through the clear water, the current spilling around his bare, muscular legs. She watched, yearned, glanced away.
At the pebbly shore, Ronan took up a fishing pole and waded deeper. When the taut curve of the fishing rod showed something on the string, he pulled back sharply and a fish flew upward, then wriggled free, splashing into the water. Tossing the pole aside, he bent forward, hunched still as a statue.
Curious, Ellison moved forward. He stood focused, water swirling around his sturdy calves, and bent slowly, cupping his hands over the water. A ripple of golden-brown flashed beneath the surface, and Ronan dipped his hands quickly, then straightened with a floundering fish in his grasp. He tossed it toward the bank, and it landed just at Ellison’s feet.
Leaping away, she stumbled, ankle rolling so that she stepped inadvertently into the water, sinking to one knee with a surge and a splash. Quickly Ronan reached her, fingers strong on her arm to keep her upright. “Here, lass, come up! Good?”
“Good, thank you.” Standing full in the water now, her gown’s hem swirling around her legs, she lifted the soggy hem of her dress a bit and raised one foot, her boot drenched and dripping. “Oh, dear.”
“Sit down over here.” He guided her to the grassy bank.
“I must take off my boots,” she said, sitting, gown sopping around her.
“And stockings. Let them dry in the sun.”
Unlacing her boots, she paused, unwilling to remove her high stockings while he stood there.
“If you will go barefoot like a Highland lass, you can learn the way of true Highland fishing.”
“I just saw you demonstrate that.” She laughed.
