Page 89 of A Rogue in Firelight
Pitlinnie said something to his men, and Ronan saw the gleam of weapons, dirk handles, pistol butts, half-hidden beneath draped plaids and jackets. He slowed, cautious for Ellison’s sake, his heart pounding in anger, but moved resolutely forward.
“Hey, Glenbrae.” Pitlinnie kept a firm hold of the girl. “Stop there, aye.”
“Let the lass go,” Ronan growled.
“What brings you out here this evening?” Pitlinnie held the girl’s forearm in a strong grip; she winced when she tried to twist away. Knowing that any threatening movement would bring weapons out in force, Ronan stood still, watching, calculating distances, still too far to reach Ellison and put her behind him.
“Broken wheel,” Ronan explained with a shrug. Pitlinnie looked past him.
“I see. I heard you were freed. But why are you here instead of in Edinburgh awaiting trial, I ask? Whisky Rogues, caught at last, I thought.” Pitlinnie snorted.
“I am free on good reason. Let go of the lass.”
“This wee bonny bit is safe with me. Hey, what is your name, Miss? You canna trust that rascal to help you with yon cart.” Pitlinnie leaned toward her. “I will see you safely home. Where do you live? I have not seen you hereabouts. I would remember.”
“Pitlinnie,” Ronan growled. One of the men stepped forward, fingers clenching the bone handle of a dirk. Ronan had a dirk, too, tucked up his sleeve, ready to hand.
“Let go of me,” Ellison said, pulling on her trapped arm.
“You want to go with him, that rascal? Are you sure?”
“Aye. He is my fiancé,” she said, yanking in his grip again.
Startled, Ronan met her glance, raised a brow. “Aye,” he agreed. “Betrothed.”
“Huh, Glenbrae to be married? Go on!” With a harsh laugh, Pitlinnie released Ellison, who rushed toward Ronan. He swept her behind him. “Who would believe that, after—”
“What do you want,” Ronan growled.
“We are passing this way, and do not need your leave for that. These are Strathniven lands, not Glenbrae territory.”
“Then you need my leave,” Ellison said, “on behalf of my close friend, Lady Strathniven.”
Ronan frowned. Less said the better, but at least Ellison was in his keeping now. Her impulsive announcement of a betrothal might help. Even Pitlinnie had his limits.
“Strathniven! Glenbrae, is it true what they say? You are a peer now? Lord Darrach! Begging your pardon, sir,” Pitlinnie said with a mocking little bow.
“Darrach? But would he know—” Ellison began.
“Hush.” Ronan offered his elbow and she tucked her hand there, pressing close to his side as he slipped his hand over hers. Playing her protective fiancé might help.
“Whatever you heard is just rumor,” Ronan said. “There is no truth to it.”
“Are you sure? I heard the property might go to you, but for your arrest. Whisky Rogues,” he said again, and spit into the grass. “We know the truth of that, do we not? I hoped we might be rid of you when you were taken. Does she know about it?” he barked.
“Of course,” Ronan murmured. He felt Ellison’s gaze on him. No help for it now, he thought. He would have to tell her soon. “I only came here to see to the distillery.”
“All fine and according to law, eh?” Pitlinnie looked smug. “So the new Viscount Darrach follows the rules while his lads move goods by devious means.”
“You are one to talk about devious,” Ronan said, tipping his head toward the men, the horses, the panniers holding goods.
“Oh, are you Sir Neill Pitlinnie?” Ellison asked. “Lady Strathniven has spoken of you. She enjoys your whisky. My father Sir Hector is quite fond of it too.”
The man’s eyes flickered toward her. “Graham... the deputy lord provost’s lass? Lady Strathniven’s nephew—that is Corbie, aye? Precious company you keep now, Glenbrae. Or Darrach. Odd that I heard nothing of your engagement.”
“Why would you?”
“From your sister-in-law. I saw her only days ago. But she never mentioned you. Did you know we are courting, Mairi Brodie and me?”
