Page 85 of A Rogue in Firelight
She glanced at him. “Smugglers?”
“Must you sound so pleased? An actual encounter would not be pleasant.”
“I encountered you,” she pointed out. “So far that has been fairly pleasant.”
“Fairly?” He laughed softly. “Madam, I do my best. Go on,” he said, gesturing toward the birches. “See if your things are there.”
She ran, lithesome and quick, the breeze lifting her hair, skirts. Ronan waited. The evening air was cool and refreshing—but pleasant conditions out here, he knew, could bring trouble. Ellison had vanished among the trees. He looked toward the hills, where stars were beginning to glint in a violet sky.
“Here they are!” she called, emerging from the shadows with a cloth bag over her shoulder. “Just where I left them. It is such a lovely evening,” she said, gazing at the sky and hills. “What was it you and Donal called this stream?”
“The Lealtie Burn.”
“Loyalty? There must be a story behind that name.”
“There is a story at every turn in the Highlands. A vow was made here long ago near this very spot, they say, between a MacGregor man and a MacArthur lass.”
“How nice to have local legends about your ancestors. A vow of love?”
“A MacGregor came new to the glen—our clan was tossed out of the west and our name proscribed long ago, only reclaimed more than a century later. This MacGregor, exiled from the west, had very little. He offered to the local MacArthur laird to tend sheep and cattle in exchange for a plot of land near the loch.”
“The loch down the way? We passed it this morning.”
“The very one. Soon he fell in love with the chief’s daughter, and she with him. They made a promise of marriage just here.”
“Where we stand? That is so romantic. Did they live happily ever after?”
“They did not. Her father’s men killed him, and she threw herself from the old tower beside the loch. Love stories often end sadly.” He said it more brusquely than he meant.
“Some do. Not every love story ends in loss.”
“So they say. We should go.” He touched her elbow.
“Ronan MacGregor, you are not as sour a lad as you like to think. I see through you.”
He huffed. “Do you now?”
“I do.” She drew a long breath, lifting her face to the twilight. “Have you ever noticed when the light fades at night and the air grows cool, the world smells fresh and sweet?” Drawing another breath, she closed her eyes. “What is that scent?”
He sniffed the air. “Bog myrtle. It grows in the marshy ground between the burn and the loch. The leaves give off a clean and pungent scent.”
“Ah, yes. Our housekeeper packs it with the winter things to keep them fresh.”
“Ellison.” Taking her arm, he drew her along. “We must go. Now.”
“What is it?”
“Bog myrtle gives off that strong scent when the leaves are crushed underfoot,” he murmured, bending toward her to be heard. “Someone is nearby.”
She looked over her shoulder as they hurried. “Here? Now?”
“We will not wait to find out. Come ahead.” He tugged her toward the gig, lifted her to the bench, and leaped up to take the reins.
The gig rolledalong at a good pace, Ronan intent on the road, while Ellison looked around. The night was peaceful—she could not imagine danger in these hills, though her companion seemed tense. Seeing a length of water ahead beyond a rocky slope, she spotted a stone tower on its opposite shore. “Stop! Is that it?”
“What?”
“The loch, and the tower you spoke of at the Lealtie Burn?”
