Page 86 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Aye so. Loch Brae, we call this one.” He slowed the gig’s pace along the track that paralleled the loch.
“Are we still in Glen Brae, then?”
“The loch is named for the glen, aye.”
“And you are its laird. Is the loch yours as well?”
“Not any longer. It sits along the border of Glen Brae and Strathniven. Long ago it belonged to my glen and my kin.”
“But why is it part of Strathniven now?”
“Things changed over generations.”
She had so many questions for him, but felt he would only answer a few. “That wee island in the center—I have not seen it before, though I have been this way.”
“It comes and goes, that isle. A fairy spell, so they say.”
“What! Is that the one you mentioned? Tell me!”
A half smile, hands on the reins. A bump along the track sent her leaning against him, a welcome, solid warmth. “There is an old legend about that wee isle.”
“You know I want to hear it. Can we stop?”
He sighed. “Briefly—I want to get you back soon.” When he drew the gig to the side of the track, she fairly jumped out, running down to the lochside.
“A legend about a loch and a fairy isle so near, and you made me wait to hear it?” She smiled up at him as he joined her.
“If I told you all the legends around these glens, it would take a long time.”
“Then we must find the time. I have been coming to Strathniven most of my life and did not know of this until you mentioned it. And on Strathniven lands!”
“Perhaps Lord and Lady Strathniven never heard the legends about their property either.”
“MacNie and Mrs. Barrow would know, but I never thought to ask. Tell me!”
“Aye then.” Seeing a twinkle in his eyes, she was glad. He had been somber ever since leaving Invermorie. She wanted to know his troubles, wanted to ease his mind, but was not sure it was her place. And she worried that his thoughts were not on smugglers, but on his feelings for Mairi Brodie. Part of her did not want to know that.
“Can we go over to the island? A wee rowing boat is tucked just there, see? Then we could visit the tower on the other shore.”
“Another day, perhaps. That old ruin is in poor condition. It dates to the time of Saint Columba, they say. Come to the shore now.” He reached for her hand, folding his fingers over hers as they crossed rocks and bracken toward the water’s edge.
Ellison never wanted to let go of his hand, loving the sense of belonging, of rightness between them. But he let go, and Ellison clenched her hand, missing his.
He pointed toward the small, flat, green isle in the middle of the narrow loch. “A local legend claims that the island vanishes at times.”
“Do you mean in fog or darkness? But it would still be there.”
“For a romantic idealist, you are a pragmatic lass. They say you will see it one moment, and the next, it is completely gone.”
“Do you believe it?” She gazed at the thin little isle, a green crescent with a hillock or two and a spread of wildflowers tossed along its length like colored stars.
“Likely it is an illusion. But the older name is Eilean à Cheo.”Ee-len-a-kyo,he said in rapid Gaelic.
“Isle of Mist? The fog comes over the water often here, I suppose.”
“Whether fog or fairy mist, the island disappears, they say, because of a spell cast long ago.” At her eager glance, he smiled. “My mother was a MacArthur, and her kin told this tale when I was a lad. A long time ago, a MacArthur met and married a fairy.”
“I love it already!” She wrapped her arms around herself, thrilled.
