Page 78 of A Rogue in Firelight
“Try it for yourself. For your story, aye? Take off the stockings and such and I will look away.” He turned.
Hearing peals of laughter downstream, Ellison glanced to see Donal, knee-deep in the stream, grab at a fish, miss it, and fall into the water with a shout. Laughing, Sorcha surged forward to help and stumbled knee-deep too. Ronan laughed to see them.
Suddenly Ellison felt hesitation fade. She pulled off her shoes, drew off her wet stockings, and set them on the grass to dry. Her father was not here to criticize her, nor would anyone here make her feel less for what she did. Standing, she walked past Ronan and stepped barefoot into the water, shivering at the chill. Lifting her drenched hem, she moved through the burbling flow. The water was cool and soft, the rocks smooth and mossy underfoot.
“Good lass,” Ronan said behind her.
“It feels wonderful,” she admitted. He chuckled, touched her arm briefly, a friendly, affectionate brush of his fingers.
Then Sorcha stumbled and Donal helped her up, both laughing freely. Ronan shaded his eyes and laughed to see them. That warm sound won her over entirely.
“Very well, Ronan MacGregor. Show me how to catch a Highland fish.”
Once again, Ronanglanced toward the hills beyond the trees along the bank. Though he had made light of the threat of smugglers, he remained vigilant. He knew too well what could happen out here.
“Now I understand why Highland men wear the plaid and go barelegged into the water to fish,” Ellison said.
“Aye so,” he agreed. “Careful now, the rocks are slippery.” He extended a hand behind her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.
“When I stand to wait for the fish, my dress gets in the way, and the fish go by without me even seeing them.” She bunched her skirts in one hand, fabric trailing and floating around her.
“Highland women hitch their skirts high.” He mimicked a wrapping gesture.
“Like this?” Leaning down, she pulled the back of her skirt forward between her legs, then drew it up and over the front to tuck the damp fabric into her ribbon belt. Her lacy-edged pantaloons, he saw, exposed her neatly shaped calves, ankles, and slim feet. Her small toes were darling somehow, flexing under the clear water. He smiled.
“Aye, just like that,” he said, as his mind conjured images best not pursued.
Her straw bonnet tipped forward, damp golden curls tumbling over her shoulder. She straightened, straw brim partly hiding her face. “How is this?”
He lifted the brim with a finger. “Without the bonnet you will see more fish.”
She undid those ribbons, and Ronan took the hat to fling it toward the bank. Ellison bent forward and waved her hands about above the water.
“Those fish had best look out for me now,” she muttered.
He laughed with delight. “You are enjoying this.”
She giggled, then went still, her gaze trained on the rippling water. “So this is how they fished in ancient Scotland?”
“Then and now, though other ways are more common.”
“I like the old ways. And I like Highland fashion.” She pulled at the wet, tucked skirt. “It is like the loose trousers that ladies in harems wear. I have seen illustrations.”
“You would be an enticing sultana, swathed in silks and jewels.”
“There’s freedom in it. I would like that.”
He would like it, too. Here and now, barefoot and drenched, curls loose, sun already pinkening her nose, she was utterly beautiful to him. Whimsical and joyful, too, when she allowed herself to be. He felt his spirit lift, and felt the urge to kiss her, love her, share easy days like this with her. He understood the way she enjoyed this taste for freedom. He yearned for it too, the sort of freedom that could lead to genuine happiness.
“Here comes one,” she said softly.
“Hush,” he whispered.
As she surged through the water, bending, missing, laughing, persistent, Ronan walked behind her. He held a hand out protectively, though she did not see. He would not let her stumble or fall. He wanted to be there for her, until the day he could not be.
Later, he glancedup when something caught his attention on the nearest hill. Did something move up there? Ronan narrowed his eyes, watching. Perhaps it was just wind blowing through the pine trees climbing the slope, and rocking the purple froth of heather. Earlier he had seen sheep grazing all along that hill. But whatever moved up there now was not a large, slow sheep. He frowned.
Time to return to Strathniven, he thought. They had been out most of the day, had fished, picnicked in the shade, fished again. The sun had reached its zenith and was sinking. Right, then. “Ellison.”
