Page 79 of A Rogue in Firelight
She was splashing through the water, hands out to grapple with a fish bigger than any they had taken so far. A trout, by its rainbow flash. Ronan sloshed toward her.
“Elly, that rascal will pull you in—let me help—”
“Ach!Gone! I nearly had him!” She slapped the water and straightened.
“Is this the lass who would not fish today?” He laughed, but his glance strayed toward the hill even then.
“I like fishing better than I thought. Do you see something up there?”
“Naught. Have you had your fill of the fishing? We should leave.”
“Must we?”
“You have become adept and give the fish no quarter. You outfished even Donal.”
“We have had a wonderful day!” Holding her soggy skirts, she came toward him, neat little knees pushing through the flow.
“So we have. Donal! Here!” He waved, and his nephew waved back as he helped Sorcha up the bank to gather the fish they had caught and tossed to the bank. Ronan and Ellison did the same, putting fish in the baskets. Then, like Sorcha, Ellison let down her wet, tucked skirts and sat to put on her stockings and shoes.
“I am fair wet, but it is warm in the sun,” she said.
“You will soon feel the chill. Here.” Ronan picked up her plaid shawl from the grass and wrapped it about her shoulders. Thanking him, she pulled on her stockings.
“MacGregor, look away,” she admonished.
“I have seen your limbs all day under the water,” he said, but turned around. Plucking up her bonnet, he handed it to her when she stood, and she tied its ribbons. The straw’s weave cast a golden glow over her lightly sunburned nose and cheeks.
“Your nose is pink. A lovely color,” he said, thinking she looked joyful and beautiful. “You needed some sun.”
She smiled, securing the bow under her chin. “I wish we could stay.”
“Another time.” He was reluctant to leave too, savoring this time with her. July had already slipped into August. Soon their days together would end.
Donal carried a basket in each hand as he trudged toward the grove where the ponies waited placidly. Once there, Ronan and Donal harnessed the animals to the cart while Sorcha and Ellison settled the baskets inside and climbed up to the seats.
Ellison paused, shaded her eyes, looked up the hill. “Something moved up there. Did you hear that sound?”
Frowning, Ronan studied the slope where he had seen something moving earlier. “Perhaps a small animal. We should go.”
She hurried past him. “I will just see.”
“Stay here,” Ronan told Donal and Sorcha, and turned to follow Ellison up the long slope, parting a sea of heather blooms as they went. She ran ahead, damp skirts flapping, bonnet sliding back, hair loose golden ropes. With his longer stride, he caught up near the top, where she had paused.
Then she cried out and ran, dropping to her knees in a tangle of brush and heather. Following, he heard a bleating sound.
“What’s this?” He sank to a knee beside her.
“Look! A lamb—a wee one, caught here.” She pushed at a cluster of undergrowth to reveal a small white lamb, trembling, curled, little face poking out.
“Wandered away from your mam, did you?” he murmured as the little creature bleated and struggled to stand. “And fell into heather and gorse, wee rascal. It will take some time to free it,” he told Ellison. “The shepherd will be looking for it once he counts his flock, or notices that one of the ewes is upset.”
“We cannot leave him here. A wolf could find him.”
“Wolves have been gone from Scotland for a hundred years or more, they say.” He reached past her to pull carefully at the gorse, its branches ripe with wicked thorns and small yellow flowers.
She pulled, too, freeing thin branches snarled in the lamb’s coat, wincing as a thorn pricked her. “There, my dear, we will—oww!—have you out soon. Oww! How old is the lamb, Ronan?”
“Perhaps two months,” he said, judging the solid little body, its new coat, the shape of its head, the large eyes and small snout. “Be still now,” he told the lamb. “This lady wants you free, and we do what she wants, hey. Ah, he is a she,” he said, freeing a small leg.
