Sarah Gabriel (10 page)

His heart slammed. He was a cad to proceed, but he had been a cad to take her away and marry her without her consent. And she knew, as well as he did, that this must be done if the marriage was to stand.

She said nothing, nor did he. She waited, allowed, and his head spun with the anticipation, with the freedom she gave him. His fingers trembled a little as he unhooked the last fastening on the skirt and pushed the dress over her petticoats.

Her sensuously curved hips moved until the gown and petticoats dropped away to pool at her feet. She stood only in stays and chemise, her face turned away from him, her silence eloquent.

Connor already knew that her stays did not lace at the front, as some did. The lacings were damp, and the tied bows at the back, three of them, would not come loose.

She brought her hands behind her to help ease the lacings free, and wriggled out of the stays, still without a word—and without hesitation. He helped her draw the corset away, set it aside. Her chemise was a plain linen garment touched with a little froth of lace along the low neckline.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, and turned her to face him. She tilted her face to his, and her eyes drifted half shut, her hands resting on his forearms.

He bent to brush his lips over her cheek, then he touched his mouth to the satiny skin along her neck, over her shoulder. She sighed, seemed to melt against him.

Feeling desire strike through him, he covered her lips with his own, tasting whiskey on her lips. He sensed her trembling throughout like a bowstring. Tentative at first, her mouth softened beneath his, her
sigh releasing tension, both hers and his own. When she looped her arms around his neck and arched a little against him, he felt a spark sizzle through him. He felt it catch in her, too, for she gasped softly. Then she opened her lips for him, inclined her head, came deeper into his embrace. Her breasts pushed against his chest and he felt the warmth of her through linen and wool.

Connor broke the kiss for a moment and looked down at her silently. As she returned his gaze, the question was asked, and answered. Aye, she would allow this.

Whiskey and desire blurred thought and logic, erased any need to question why she had accepted this. He needed her now with every fiber in his body, and thought she felt that craving, too. That in itself was enough reason now, and the sanctity of marriage smoothed the way.

He was done with explanations, with questions. He was fulfilling his solemn promises. Connor swept her up into his arms and carried her to the big bed. Her surrender was clear in her silence and in the way she rounded her arm over his shoulders and nestled her face against his neck.

H
er heart quickened, the darkness whirled when she closed her eyes, and the lingering fire of the whiskey melted resistance. She loved the feel of his hands upon her, loved how he had disrobed her and carried her to his bed. Glad to be free of the damp, heavy gown, she felt warm and sensual now, her body pulsing with excitement. Whether this was folly or fate, she wanted it to happen.

As she sank into pillows that were aromatic with lavender, she glanced at him, saw the dark warrior angel again, his face perfect, his touch tender as he stroked her arms. Even his hands were beautiful, strong and knowing. Her own hands trembled on his forearms, the muscles warm iron beneath her fingers.

She sighed, closed her eyes, felt the bed rock beneath
her as he lowered himself beside her. He nuzzled her cheek, his lips found hers, and she sighed, sinking into the mattress, into the kiss, into the moment.

Her head spun and she felt dizzy. She knew she was a little drunk, just enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered fuzzily, thinking of the unladylike amount of whiskey she had swallowed.

“Hush,” he said. “Hush. Don’t be. We are married, you and I.” His fingers traced eloquently along her arm. “But if you want this to stop, Katherine Sophia…you must tell me—”

“Hush you…do not call me Katherine—” He kissed her before she could add that she preferred Sophie.

Married, she thought in a fog—married to a strong and fascinating man. She felt caught in a dream. The beginning had been a dark nightmare, but now it was thrilling. As he kissed her, she felt herself dissolving, and let herself sink deeper into the spell.

His hand traced the line of her jaw, slipped downward, his palm warming her upper breast. Her heart pounded. He paused his fingers, encountering her little necklace.

True love, she remembered. As a bearer of the fairy crystal, she was bound by the legend and her fairy ancestry to seek true love, only true love. Sacrifices would be made for love, said the old legend. She had made that mistake before—and the sacrifice had been her dreams.

Now, in this moment, she hovered on the verge of fate and desire. Whatever stirred within her, fairy blood or physical passion, dissolved rational thought.
His kisses, his touch, were magic, and she felt willingly swept away.

Love makes its own magic.
The words came suddenly to her. Love could not exist here—how could it happen, so soon, under such conditions—but she wanted to take a risk. She wanted to surrender to intense passions that had been held in far too long. If this was wrong—what choice did she have? He had stolen her away, but she had repeated the wedding vows of her own volition.

Then he moved his hand downward, grazing her breast, tracing past it so that her heart leaped within her and she could scarcely think. She was giddy with whiskey and desire.

His mouth traced along her throat, and she felt the deliciously warm sweep of his tongue upon her lips. She swept her own over his, slid her hands up his arms to his back, where he was muscled and strong beneath the rasp of wool and linen.

He touched the curve of her hip then, her skin swathed only in thin, soft cotton. His hand felt warm, and her breasts tingled as he cupped her breast. She drew in her breath, moaned, wanting him to touch her there, and wherever he pleased. He kissed her more wildly now, fast and hard and hungrily, and he rolled her to her back. There was deep purpose in his kisses now, determination underscoring his hands wherever they touched her.

He compelled her with a touch, a kiss, and she stretched back in his embrace, opening for more of his kisses. With his mouth, he traced a sensual ribbon of kisses down her throat to her upper breast, pulling aside the cotton there. One hand spanned
her waist, slipped upward. Her skin tingled, her nipples ruched. He feathered kisses over her breast, touching her nipple, and she felt herself pearl for him. Moaning, she felt overwhelmed by the wonderful sensation.

Warm and sure, his fingers caged her breast gently, so that her breath caught. He shifted and his mouth found the other nipple. She leaned back her head, dizzy, so dizzy, her head whirling, body pulsing.

She closed her eyes and felt the delicate chain pull again around her neck. The fairy crystal held her to a promise of her own. True love must be sought. If it was found, there would come a moment of choice, when a sacrifice of the heart must be made.

She had avoided it all these years—afraid she would lose love if she ever found it. Now she had jumped into a maelstrom, and did not know what would become of the choices she had made tonight.

Head whirling, Sophie could think no longer, felt as if she grew more drunk on kisses and caresses, adding to the liquor warming her veins. Her body urged her to continue, and she could not think any longer, wanted only to feel.

His fingers slipped along her abdomen, traced down over her thighs, began to push her thin cotton shift aside. She placed her hand over his as his fingers slipped down. “Connor…” she whispered, his name coming so naturally to her lips that she gasped at the sound in her mouth, at the strength and intimacy it evoked. “Connor…”

“Aye,” he answered, kissing her mouth. His hand warmed her in a place no one had ever touched, and she felt her body pulsing, her head spinning madly. “Aye…tell me,” he whispered.

His fingers eased over her, paused, waiting and tender, and she caught her breath at the divine pulsing she felt.

She rolled in his arms, tucked herself close against him, so tightly that she felt his body stiffen against hers—that male hardness she had learned about from another male, years ago, the same young lad who had taught her something about kissing, the year she had lived with her parents in France, the same year her father died and she went to the convent and her life changed utterly.

But not nearly as much as it was about to change.

Now, as she parted her thighs a little, so naturally, to accept his shape and contour as she lay in his arms, she felt that rigid part of him against her, like velvet over warm steel. She felt him pulsing with the same blood-borne rhythm that pounded in her own body.

“Connor,” she whispered.

“Aye…” His mouth traced over her cheek, his hands tender and warm where he traced her back, her hips. “What?” he breathed against her ear, sending another small thrill through her body.

She sighed, tipped her head back, felt his mouth upon her cheek. She hardly dared to talk, did not want sound to intrude upon the eloquent silent language of touch and caress that prevailed inside the great curtained bed. But though her body throbbed and demanded more, her head whirled like a top, so that the bed seemed to sway when she moved.

“My head is spinning,” she finally whispered.

“Aye, mine too.” His fingers stroked through her hair, sending a tingle through her.

“Everything is moving…oh, but you feel so
steady,” she breathed. She wanted him tightly against her, wanted to feel him inside of her so much that it threatened to overtake her. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered.

“I will not. I promise.” He wrapped her tight in his embrace, nuzzled her cheek and throat.

“Mmm…and do you keep all your promises?”

“That I do,” he murmured. “Now hush.”

She sighed against him, felt his hands soothe over her while her head spun with dizziness. After a moment she lifted her hands to his jaw, lifted her face to seek his lips again. She wanted more, wanted it with such power now that she could not stop.

His kiss was infinitely tender, and somehow, with that kiss and the next, while his hands wove a sensual pattern over her breasts, he wove deeply into her dream….

She floated upon a dark river, its surface strewn with flowers. He was there, too, holding her, caressing her. The glorious scent of rose petals and lavender was everywhere as she whispered his name, heard her name upon his lips.

Only it was not quite her name that he whispered, and she could not find the voice or the wit to tell him so.

W
aking, Connor was startled for a moment, his heart leaping when he saw her still there beside him. So he had not dreamed it. Her back was turned and she slept peacefully on her side, golden hair spilling over the pillow. Reaching out, he stroked her from shoulder to hip above the blanket. She was a quiet, still sleeper. He played with her hair, twirling its silk around his fingers thoughtfully.

Last night had been filled with a rousing passion that astonished him with its intimate power—he was sure of that. Frowning, he realized that he was not so sure of the rest of the evening’s details.

He rolled away and sat up. The coverlet slid down over his lean stomach as he propped his arms on his knees. Sighing, he shoved his fingers through his hair.

The whiskey had done its work too well, he thought. His head ached dully. Fresh air would clear that adequately, he knew, but would not help the rest. The details of his wedding tryst in this bed was as misty as the glen from which he had snatched his bride.

Had he fulfilled the final part of his promise?

He recalled the gorgeous terrain of her body, and he knew he had touched and pleasured her—and he had the feeling that she had boldly explored his body as well. But he was not entirely certain.

Groaning low, he shut his eyes, feeling even more a cad than if he had forced the girl in the bed. Had they brought their passion to a conclusion? They must have. When she awoke, he would find out from her, without disclosing his own uncertainty.

Exhaling, he tipped his head to his arms. Then he shoved back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, naked in the dark.

His bride would know—women knew these things. And the telltale signs of a deflowered virgin would be obvious enough. If events had not followed to their natural conclusion, he told himself, it would definitely be a pleasure to broach the subject with her again.

Standing, he snatched up his discarded shirt and plaid—he had still been clad when he brought her to that bed, so that was a clue, at least. He dressed, grabbed his shoes, and left the room quietly, heading up the dark stairs to the roof. Not only did he need some fresh air, isolated beneath the starry sky he could think clearly.

The air was chilly and still misted when Connor climbed the stair to the roof level. Here, the highest
remaining section of the central tower jutted upward, surrounded by a partial parapet, once walked by sentries. He went to a favorite spot—a broken corner wall that exposed a small guardroom. Its missing outer wall provided shelter and a convenient lookout position.

From that angle, in day-or moonlight, the glen and the hills were visible for miles. Rumpled hills, long runnels of water spilling to the valley floor; grassy moorland and drover’s tracks, the narrow blue loch at the far end of the glen, the white dots of wandering sheep—all could be seen from here. He could even glimpse Duncrieff Castle, a block of golden stone set on a green hill.

A river wound its way through the northeast part of the glen between two hills. Sometimes, when the skies were very clear, he could see through that pass to the lands of Kinnoull. The glen itself, Glen Carran, belonged to Duncrieff. His rightful lands of Kinnoull, a gift to Connor’s ancestors from their MacPherson chief, lay on the other side of the glen.

Now the glen was filled with mist like vapor in a cup. When it burned away during the day, he would be able to see the road.

General Wade’s crews of soldiers had cut a straight military passageway through Glen Carran. It followed a drover’s track over the moor past Duncrieff Castle. Over months, the crew gradually advanced the road southward, paralleling the river through the pass.

Connor and his Highland companions had done everything they could to delay the advance of the construction. As long as he lived in these Highland hills, the English would not have an easy time of their road building efforts.

But he had not come up here to study the lay of the road. He wanted to clear the fog and befuddlement of the previous night from his mind and his heart.

He drew a flat wooden case toward him, snapped the brass latches and opened the lid. Lifting his polished fiddle from its blue velvet wrapping, he took up the horsehair bow, and after tightening the bow and tuning his instrument, stood up. Setting the fiddle to his shoulder, he tipped his chin down, raised the bow, and began to play.

The first quavering note flowed outward, followed by another and another. Notes rang out as his fingers and the bow met the strings to pattern the melody, and the fiddle released it into the air. The instrument was true-pitched and gracefully made, crafted by a renowned luthier in Edinburgh. The fiddle had been a gift from Connor’s parents years ago when he was a boy, when there were funds for fine things, and a supportive family to encourage his talent.

The lament he played now was a stirring weep of a tune. The sounds resonated in the fiddle, and within Connor, too—healing tones, soothing and expressive. His left hand danced over the fingerboard in familiar patterns and his bow hand moved loosely, without conscious effort. He knew this melody so well that it had become natural to him. As the song was born into time and space again, he stopped thinking altogether and let the music work its cleansing magic upon him.

The plaintive whisper of a ghost awoke her from her dreams.

Sophie opened her eyes, found herself curled warm in the big bed. Listening for the strange ghostly
sound—what exactly had she heard?—she realized that it had vanished. It must have been part of a lost dream.

After a moment she rolled over carefully and moaned a little. Her head ached terribly and she winced as she moved. Another moment passed before she realized she was alone. Connor MacPherson was gone.

She did not even know if he had slept the night beside her. Between whiskey, the newness of loving, and sheer exhaustion, she had slept deeply.

Oh God, she thought. She did not quite know what had happened last night, beyond a delicious blur of kisses and caresses, of his lips and hands upon her in ways that made her blush now, and she remembered her hands upon his strong, hard—

She gasped, sat up quickly, wincing as her head slammed and her stomach lurched. Groaning, she covered her face in her hands, her hair slipping down in tangles.

What had they done last night, what had she allowed him to do? She could scarcely remember—but whatever had happened, she knew it felt wonderful at the time. That much she was sure of, though the particulars were fuzzy.

Moving a little, she discovered that her back and legs were stiff from hours of walking and climbing the previous evening. And she felt slightly, definitely, tender in secret places as well. She was not a virgin—but her first experience had been so long ago, and so disappointing, that she had forgotten what it felt like.

But oh, she wanted to know what it had been like with Connor MacPherson—sensing that the en
counter must have been extraordinary, she felt almost cheated—a disappointment of a very different nature this time.

Burying her head in her arms, she groaned to herself. The warm strength of his arms wrapped around her, the depth of his kisses, his soothing, rousing touch—all that came back to her. But the rest had vanished like a dream.

But the sensations in her body hinted at what had happened. And she was nude when she pushed back the covers. She had not dreamed it at all. A sense of guilt, the training of the nuns, tapped at her, but she resisted. She had always inherently felt that there was no shame in what could happen between a man and a woman.

Rising from the bed, shivering, she pulled on her discarded chemise and took up her cloak from the tapestried chair where she had left it. At the window, she opened the drapes, noting that the pewter-colored sky was moving toward dawn.

The sound came again, soft and eerie. Sophie went to the door and opened it to listen, then stepped into the corridor. The music was faint and haunting, as if made by a violin or fiddle. Sophie moved toward the stairwell, entranced by the heartbreaking melody that seemed to pour from somewhere inside the castle.

She had the chilling thought that one of the castle ghosts was luring her onward.

Common sense told her to return to the bedchamber. The castle was dangerously ruined in places, and she did not know her way in the dark. And she had no desire to confront a ghost or a spirit. But the
mysterious music was irresistible as it floated outward from its source.

Climbing the steps slowly, she made her way upward, aided by the dim light that leaked through the arrow slits in the outer wall. On the next level she saw three doorways, none of which had an intact door. The music had ceased again. Sophie stood still in the shadows, waiting, her heart pounding.

Cautiously, she peeked into the rooms on that level, finding only empty stone chambers with partially broken walls, open to cold drafts of wind. A steep stairway led to the roof, a common feature in tower houses and castles. But she could not summon the nerve to follow those steps upward. The castle was in poor condition, and she knew it would be foolish to go up.

She turned around and went back to the bedroom. Shivering, she hurried to the hearth and added some peat bricks from a stack, then took up the poker to build more warmth in the fire.

By the time the embers snapped with sparks, Sophie heard the door latch click. Startled, she looked up to see Connor MacPherson entering the room and leaped to her feet, heart slamming.

“Latha math dhut fhèin,”
he murmured.

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. MacPherson,” Sophie answered.

He carried a tray with a cup and a pretty china pot, setting it down on the little inlaid table. “I brought the hot tea that you wanted last night,” he said. “A bit late, but I thought it best to keep that promise.” He smiled a little.

“Thank you, that’s lovely,” she said gratefully, and
went to the table to pour a cup of the steaming amber liquid. When she offered some to him, he shook his head.

“Did I hear you walking through the castle a little while ago?” he asked.

“I heard a sound, so I went out, wondering what it might be.” She sipped the tea, a good China blend. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it.

“Be careful where you wander at Glendoon—some of the floors and steps are unstable. What did you hear?”

“Music. Strange, beautiful music.”

“Perhaps it was our ghost.”

She shuddered. “Did you hear it? Where were you just now?”

“Patrolling the castle, as I often do. And I went down to the kitchen for the tea. I did not see any ghosts, though.” He moved back to close the door, and she watched him warily, then rubbed her brow.

“Headache?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “The tea should help. And it will warm me. It’s bitter cold this morning.”

“Early spring,” he said. “The castle is falling apart, with some walls missing entirely, so the place is nearly impossible to warm. Staying in bed is sometimes the only method for keeping warm. Get under the covers,” he suggested. “Enjoy your tea there. No need to be up and about anyway.”

“And you?” Heart quickening, she wondered if he thought to come into the bed with her. Last night was one matter—but now she did not quite know what she wanted to happen.

“I do not sleep much, by habit. Besides, I have matters to see to this morning.”

“Matters of thieving and bride-stealing?”

He huffed. “You’re the only bride I’ll ever steal, madam.”

“Well, I hope so,” she said somberly, though she knew he teased her.

“I must go out, but Mary Murray and her son will be here with you. I’ll remind you that you are not to leave the castle grounds. Mrs. Murray will see to your comfort. If you want anything, just ask her.”

She tipped her head. “For the key to the gate? Or a horse?”

He came closer, his size imposing, his gaze keen. “More tea, or something to eat. Fresh clothing. A bath.”

Sighing, she relented. “Any of those would be lovely, thank you.”

“No need to thank me for every small thing. I’ve done nothing to earn your gratitude.”

“You’ve shown me courtesy, even if you are a—a brigand.” She shivered again, and her teacup rattled in its saucer.

He frowned. “You’re cold, lass.” Waving her toward the bed, he picked up the tray. “I’ll set this over there. Go on, back to bed with you, Kate.”

A strange chill went down her spine. “I am not Kate.”

He halted, tray in his hands, and stared at her.