Page 59 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Ellison, I nearly forgot,” Lady Strathniven said. “I had a letter from your father this morning when MacNie brought the mail.”
“Papa? What did he say?” Ellison did not dare glance at MacGregor, who paused at the door, valise in hand.
“He has decided to send Adam here after all.”
“Cousin Adam! How delightful,” Sorcha said.
“When?” Ellison asked in a flat tone.
“In a week or so. They will send word. I may be back by then.”
“Ah.” Heart hammering, wanting desperately to look at Ronan, she kept her gaze trained away. She felt his silence keenly.
“Adam is looking forward to seeing Lord Darrach,” Lady Strathniven went on.
“Is he,” MacGregor clipped. “Good day, ladies. I have an errand. My lady, I wish you a wonderful visit.” He inclined his head. “Miss Beaton, good to meet you. Miss Graham, good day.”
Ellison met his frowning gaze. “Darrach.”
“Well, I am off, my dears!” The viscountess leaned in to kiss Ellison and then Sorcha on the cheek. “Do not get into mischief while I am gone,” she teased.
“Of course not,” Ellison answered stiffly.
“All will be well, my lady,” MacGregor said, and held the door open.
Chapter Twelve
Ruari MacAlpin had adored redheaded Isabella since they had been small. Tender years had led to innocent kisses, then shared whispers of love and devotion, and finally marriage. The guarantee lay in the friendship of their fathers, who had guarded each other’s backs on the battlefield. But when Grant’s death revealed his debts, his grieving widow wed a high judge who could pay that for her. He then arranged to betroth Grant’s daughter to Strathearn, a powerful royal advisor, who would give her a life of privilege in London. But the wedding would take place soon.
“Tell the lass your feelings before she flies south forever,” a friend urged Ruari. “Losing her will be your undoing.”
“That beauty—and this beast?” Ruari, tall and strong as an oak, bearded and plaided, his hands used to heavy work, laughed bitterly. “I canna give her what she deserves. The beautiful bird will fly and the beast will go to ground.”
So he saw her go in silence, just a hand lifted in farewell in the kirkyard. He turned away without seeing the tears in the bride’s eyes.
Five years, five seasons of barley and oats, of midnight cattle forays and drives to market along ancient tracks; five years of having no lass to warm his heart or his hearth. None could compare to the one he had let go.
Five years, and then the winsome Lady Strathearn returned to the Highlands, a young widow draped in black. She brought a small son and a fortune to protect for him. The glen folk said the lady had fled to protect her child’s life. Strathearn’s foes in the south were bent on destroying his family and his legacy. The lady, said they, sought to hire a sword-arm, a man keen for mischief and danger, a seneschal who would hold Strathearn Castle strong.
That night Ruarie of Garslie sharpened blade and dirk on the whetstone, cleaned and oiled sheath and targe, unlocked the chest that held his father’s armor, and made himself ready.
Ellison paused, reading softly aloud, jotting changes here and there. The hour was late, and the little tower library was silent and cozy. Candles flickered, rain shushed against the window glass as she wrote. Earlier she had crafted a title page on a creamy sheet of paper to cover her growing manuscript:The Highlander’s Lament by E. S. Leslie,she had written, and made a little ink sketch of a castle on a hill.
She was thrilled with her story. The hero, Ruari MacAlpin, a proud descendant of Scotland’s ancient kings, lived under English rule in the time of the Covenanter’s dispute, when no Scotsman dared claim royal blood or a Papist education. A man of tremendous heart and loyalty, he nurtured an unrequited love for Isabella, who did not know how deeply he loved her. Though he never spoke of it, he would have given up his life for her. Nor did Ruari know that Isabella hid her love for him.
Ellison sighed, for the story made her hopeful as well as sad. She had to think of a way to bring noble Ruari and foolish Isabella together, and make each one better for it. She scribbled some thoughts in the margin, chewed on the end of the pen, and wrote on.
Tapping her fingers on the tabletop, she wondered how to place the hero in yet another pickle. He must face a foe with swords drawn and defend the lady, her son, and her castle from attack.
A little clock on the mantel chimed softly. The hour was late and the household asleep. Coming to the old library mouse-quiet, she’d thought MacGregor to be still in the main library, where she had glimpsed him earlier. Once Sorcha had retired to bed, Ellison had gone to the larger library hoping to write, only to see MacGregor seated with books, intent on his reading. She had retreated and headed to the tower library, not wanting to distract him.
Yet the Highlander was a distraction under any circumstances. Just a glance or a quiet remark could set her deliciously off-kilter. But tonight the writing itch was upon her, and so she managed nearly two hours of writing in the silence and privacy of the medieval tower.
Standing, stretching, she glanced out the window at the dark, drizzly, summer night. Then she opened a glass decanter to pour a little bit of ratafia into a small glass. Mrs. Barrow’s recipe of sherry mixed with berries, oranges, cinnamon, and water was refreshing, and the housekeeper made sure to keep some of the drink, a favorite of Lady Strathniven’s, in the old library for Ellison, who used the room most often.
Sipping the homemade cordial, hoping it might help her sleep later, she had another idea, and covered a page with writing, pen scratching in the quiet.
She froze when she heard the scrape of boots on the stone steps. MacGregor must be going up to his room for the night, for the footsteps passed the library. Above, a door latched shut.
