Page 92 of A Rogue in Firelight
“I do. But I fear some secret you hold could undo all our plans.”
“What plans do we have?” He glanced at her.
“The king’s visit.”
“Oh, that. I thought you meant our betrothal,” he drawled. “Lass, just know that I do what I believe is best. Even if it goes against the law.”
“What I know is that I need the truth.”
“Soon, Miss Graham,” he murmured, “you and I will lay out all our truths between us, hey? You have secrets too.”
“None of mine would endanger you.”
“Nor will mine. Ellison,” he added, “I am still a prisoner, in a way. And that needs caution.” Chucking to the horse, he leaned to the side to look down. “The wheel is holding, just barely. We need to go carefully.”
“Carefully in all things?”
“As you say.”
They moved ahead, the gig swaying awkwardly. Ellison rode, silent, grasping the wooden bench rather than Ronan’s arm. Breathing in the cool night air, she thought about freedom, and realized neither of them felt free.
She was a prisoner too, of her life, her heart, trapped by her father’s expectations, by guilt. One day she might tell him more of that. And one day he would tell her more of himself. She trusted him in that, and much else.
Did he want what she wanted, to feel free, to have love and a home, a family?
Just then he glanced down at her, nudged his shoulder against hers. Just that. And something melted within her, wrapped around her, through her like an intangible embrace, a quiet joy in his steady presence. Love, she thought. Yet the feeling was different than she had known before—this was generous, nurturing, exciting, intimate. And vast somehow.
After a moment, she slipped her hand inside the bend of his elbow and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Almost home,” he whispered.
Chapter Eighteen
“Will that beall, sir, and Miss Ellison?” The housekeeper set a bowl of strawberries and a plate of oatcakes, steam rising from the stack, on the dining table between Ronan and Ellison.
“Thank you, Mrs. Barrow, this is more than enough,” Ellison said, looking at the generous breakfast spread. “You were thoughtful to prepare a late breakfast.”
“And kind to leave supper trays for us last night,” Ronan said.
“We did return rather late, but it could not be helped,” Ellison said.
“Aye, Miss Beaton was worried for your safety last night, but we all assured her you would be fine, even if we were not sure,” the woman emphasized. “But we thought you might be hungry when you finally arrived. It was a relief to hear MacNie say this morning it was just a wheel needing repair, and no harm done.”
“None at all. These cakes are delicious, Mrs. Barrow. You are a treasure,” Ronan said. The housekeeper beamed as she left the room.
“Nicely done, sir,” Ellison murmured. “You have quite charmed her. Sorcha, good morning!” she continued, looking up as the girl entered the dining room then. “I wondered why you had not come down to breakfast yet, but we are all a bit weary after yesterday, I think. Would you like some tea?”
Clutching an embroidered handkerchief to her nose, Sorcha took a chair at the far end of the table and sneezed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
“Oh dear, are you poorly?” Ellison poured tea into a cup and handed it to her.
“A bit. I may have caught a summer cold when we were out yesterday.”
“Perhaps you should go back to bed and let me bring a tray up. And I could read to you if you like.”
“That would be so nice, thank you. I only came down to tell you the news.”
“Oh?” Her stomach gave an anxious flip.
