Sarah Gabriel (13 page)

“By the devil…Campbell holds Kinnoull House now. You will not want red soldiers on your lands or in your house. But what can we do about it?”

“Something,” Connor muttered. “I do not know
what. But something, by God.” He rolled, rose to his feet. Neill stood with him, and they set off over the heathery hill.

“We could blow the thing up,” Neill suggested.

“Aye,” Connor said slowly. “If we had the black powder for such a thing, and the plan to carry it out.” He frowned. “But it would take the sort of gunpowder used for cannon, rather than small shot. Larger grains. More explosive force.”

“I would not be worrying about that, Kinnoull. Just steal the black powder that Wade and his crews use to blow their merry way through the hills of Scotland,” Neill drawled. “They have it on their wee carts down there. Padraig saw it. Kegs of it.”

“Aye so. Let’s take a look, then. Hide that pistol, lad,” he said, seeing the gleam from Neill’s firearm.

Murray pulled at the upper folds of his plaid. “You know they’re searching for the lass and will be suspicious of every Highlander they see out here.”

“Then we won’t be seen,” Connor replied, and strode ahead.

Later that evening, when Connor MacPherson did not return for supper, Sophie ate more of Mary’s soup with Roderick Murray. All the while she wondered how she could manage to leave the castle. While she cleaned up the dishes afterward, Roderick yawned widely and went outside to see to the livestock kept in the back byre. Noticing the twilight growing darker, Sophie was sure that she genuinely had a chance. Roderick was busy with chores, and Connor still had not come home.

Not home, Sophie corrected herself. Just to Castle Glendoon.

She stood at the kitchen entrance to the tower, watching Roderick walk through the shadows toward the back buildings. The terriers followed him, while the spaniel and the wolfhound curled up on the warm kitchen hearth.

When he was well out of sight and she heard the lowing of a cow and the flat bleat of a goat, Sophie left the tower. Taking the narrow path through the kitchen garden, a jumble of old, weary plants, she headed around the tower toward the front gate.

Opening it now might attract attention, she thought, remembering how it had creaked when Connor first brought her to Glendoon. Casting her gaze about, she saw a collapsed section of the curtain wall, midway between the front gate and the first outbuilding. The stone foundation of a small building—the old medieval bakehouse, she realized, for ovens honeycombed its interior—hid that section of the curtain wall.

Sophie hurried there, looking cautiously behind her as she went. Roderick had still not appeared, and she was sure he had not seen her. Since the terriers had gone with him and the other two dogs slept by the fire, the timing seemed perfect.

Gathering up the folds of her gown, its bright satin flashing like fire in the twilight, she carefully made her way up the wedge of broken stones where the wall had collapsed long ago. A patch of wooden slats filled the gap at the top, but it looked loose enough for her to shift it aside and slip through.

Shielded by the bulk of the bakehouse, she
reached the top of the stone pile. Crouching ten feet off the ground, she peered down the other side and saw the hills that fronted Glendoon. The drop was not considerable here, for the collapsed stones formed rough ramps on both sides of the wall.

No wonder someone had closed the gap with a wooden barrier, she thought. Fortunately, she was able to pry it loose on one side, where iron nails were loosely embedded in the stone. She broke two fingernails shoving at the planks and picked up a large splinter that she had to pull out, but it was little enough to pay for freedom.

Within minutes she scrambled to the ground, brushing stone dust from her hands and her gown, the satin newly torn. Glancing behind her, she heard no outcry, saw no sign of being followed.

Picking up her skirts, she ran across the meadow that led to the burn. She knew where to cross the water, and from there she could find her way through the hills to old Saint Fillan’s chapel, a distance of a few miles. Once she found that spot, her childhood memories would supply the proper way home.

Unlike the previous night, she was rested and alert, made good time as she headed down the steep hill, keeping close to the trees in case she should be seen.

At the crest of a hill she paused. The whole of the glen spread below the hill in a breathtaking panorama of dark hills and sweeping moorlands, here and there sparkling with water and dotted with wandering sheep. Above the line of hills the dark twilight sky was streaked with saturated pink and
gold, like the painterly strokes of an artist’s brush.

Scotland, and beloved Glen Carran—how she had missed this place all those years away. But she had no time to linger. As she crested another hill, she saw the old chapel in the distance. Slowing her step, she thought about the last time she had been up here.

And she thought about the Highlander who had brought her, who had challenged her and kissed her and married her inside those ruined walls. He was not only her captor, he was her husband now—and that gave him the indisputable right to bring her back.

But MacPherson did not want his stolen bride now that he had discovered her true identity, she thought. Possibly he would not even care that she had slipped away from Glendoon—except for his stubborn insistence that he keep his inexplicable promise to her brother.

Turning, she gazed into the glen and recognized the contours of the hills above Duncrieff. The distance was only a few miles down the hills and across the glen, and she knew the way now.

Raising her skirt hems, she hurried onward. A mile or so farther she felt a sense of exhilaration—she had succeeded in escaping. But she felt a twinge of remorse for Roderick, who might reap trouble because of her actions.

Connor MacPherson would be angry and frustrated, which would only serve him right, she thought. Yet she realized how much she would miss him—far more than she wanted to admit. His rich voice, his strong hands, his satin green eyes, his stirring kisses were unforgettable. She scarcely knew
anything about him—yet she suspected that she had lost a little of her heart to him already.

And that, she realized, was another reason why she ran.

With one hand she covered the little pendant that bounced and sparkled at her throat as she walked. That token demanded that she settle for nothing less than extraordinary love, rare and true. If not, she would never fulfill her small but essential role in the Duncrieff legend.

Whenever a MacCarran with the true fairy gift fell in love, the rest of the clan drew benefit from it. Fortunes improved for others, love and healing came their way, too. Every Duncrieff MacCarran had a trace of fairy blood, but only a few had the gift, that touch of natural magic that Sophie had avoided facing.

Just as she avoided Connor MacPherson now, she thought. On a half sob, she fought the sudden, strong urge to turn back and find him. A wild need rose in her to give that passion a chance, and discover if what seared within her heart was real—the sort of love that could be touched by magic.

But he did not want her, and she had made a stupid mistake years ago misjudging love. She would rather go her entire life without love than repeat that—although it might be too late.

Stumbling a little, she continued to run, picking up her skirts and hastening down a rough slope, hardly looking where she went. Tears started in her eyes, though her gut told her to turn back for the ruined castle and the laird of Glendoon.

Blinded by tears and by doubts as well, paying no attention to her surroundings, Sophie skimmed the
shoulder of a rock-studded hill where dark pines thrust upward.

And too late, ran directly toward the man who stepped out of the shadow of the trees.

T
he flash fire of a satin gown and a stream of golden hair caught Connor’s attention as he made his way down the slope. At first he thought he imagined her—she had been in his thoughts all day—but he had definitely glimpsed a woman running across the hillside.

Stepping out of the trees for a better look, he saw a graceful form, billowing amber skirts…

Connor swore. His heart nearly jumped up his throat when he saw his bride crossing the shoulder of the hill a little below where he stood. Lengthening his stride, he approached, while she halted to stare up at him.

“Sophie,” he growled low.

She hesitated, then picked up her skirts and came toward him rather than running away. Bless her for
the boldness she did not even know she possessed, he thought. She looked gloriously defiant. The blend of stubborn strength and grace he saw in her was irresistible.

“Where’s Roderick Murray?” he asked, determined to hide his thoughts. “Picking flowers?”

She blinked. “Flowers?”

“I’m assuming the only reason you’re out here is that you convinced your escort to go with you to search for flowers, or some such nonsense. Otherwise,” he said in clipped tones, “you could not be so utterly mad as to leave Glendoon tonight.”

“I don’t need an escort, or a guard. I’ve had enough of being locked away, so I decided to go home.”

He took her arm, though she flinched away. “Believe me, it’s safer for you at Glendoon, in my safekeeping.”

“In your keeping? You left me alone for the day. And I’d rather have my freedom,” she retorted.

He pulled her along. “Are you longing for more adventure? If you wander these hills at night alone, I guarantee you’ll find more than you could possibly want.”

“I’ve had my fill of adventure, thank you.” She yanked away. Connor let go of her arm but rested his hand firmly on her shoulder, turning her to lead her along beside him.

“Duncrieff is that way,” she insisted, pointing behind her.

“Glendoon is this way,” he said easily.

“There is no reason for me to stay at Glendoon now.” She spoke breathlessly as he set a hurried pace. “You married the wrong sister. You don’t want me for a bride.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. Watch those stones in the ground,” he warned.

She avoided them. “I need to go home. My sister is away, and only I can help my brother now—I cannot stay at Glendoon twiddling my thumbs while you decide what you want. Let me go.”

“There is nothing to be done for your brother now,” he said. Too late, he realized what he implied. “Let me look into it. If there is new information about him, I’ll find it out.” He was determined to discover whether Duncrieff was alive or dead.

“But I cannot stay at Glendoon—I do not want to,” she said, jerking her arm away from him. He gripped her shoulder again. “You do not understand.”

“But you must understand that it is not safe for you to wander the hills, or even stay at Duncrieff without a guard. Your brother was adamant that you stay with me, and I gave him my word on it.”

“There is no threat to me. But if you feel so strongly about it, then guard me at Duncrieff Castle, and let me go home.”

“I cannot go to Duncrieff openly just now,” he growled.

“My sister is the one who needs a watchdog,” she said.

“I am aware. But your brother suspected Sir Henry of planning to undermine Clan Carran with this marriage—which means that he felt the need to put you in safekeeping, and I will do that as I see fit.” He was growing impatient with this, and knew it showed in his tone and his grip on her shoulder.

She sent him a little glare but did not answer.

“I’ll fetch your trunk from Duncrieff,” he said. “So you need not go there yourself.”

“What about my tulips—Oh!” She nearly stumbled. Connor caught her with a hand to her waist. Glancing around, he searched the hills, the trees, always wary.

“There are more than soldiers searching for you out here,” he said. “There are renegades in these hills as well. We’d better hurry back to Glendoon.”

“You have no right to keep me there, or anywhere.”

“Marriage vows, marriage lines, and a wee note from your brother,” he explained. “And besides, I would not like to see you encounter caterans or brigands on your own. Hurry.”

“Oh, but it was fine for me to encounter you last night.”

“I am the exception. And do not forget that the glen is crawling with soldiers searching for you, madam.”

“Good—perhaps I can get a ride to Duncrieff.”

“Not the sort of ride you’d want,” he said crudely. “There is no guarantee that they would treat you well if they found you. Most soldiers have manners and morals—but some do not.”

“And I suppose you know a great deal about soldiers.”

“I was in their ranks for two years.”

“You?” She gave a hollow laugh.

“Captain MacPherson of the Am Freiceadan Dubh,” he said, inclining his head.

“The what?”

“Black Watch. A fairly new regiment formed of local Highlanders to police the Highlands. General Wade, who is busy building the new road you may have noticed cutting through your wee glen, formed the first company two years ago. It has grown quite a bit since then.”

“It is hard to imagine you among those ranks—a rebel and a bride stealer.”

“I know, but it is true. I promised my father I would join a regiment, and so I did.”

“You always keep your word, don’t you,” she commented.

“No matter how much trouble it may bring me.” He glanced pointedly toward her.

“Perhaps you should stop making promises, then.”

“Perhaps. Hush, now.” He scanned the area as he pulled her along, heading for a stand of trees that would offer them better shelter than the open side of the hill.

“Why do they call it the Black Watch?” she asked.

“For the plaids they wear, hues of blue and green so deep they look black. I still wear mine on occasion, it’s a fine plaidie, though I do without the red coat these days.”

“You joined to please your father?”

“And to help out my fellow Gaels. It seemed to me that if the government was bent on policing the Highlands, I could do my part to help those who deserved to escape unfair punishment.”

“Ah, a rebel in the ranks?”

“Something like that,” he murmured.

She paused. “Well, think of me as one of those who deserves to escape.”

He huffed a laugh. “I am no longer in the regiment. But if you are determined—” He stopped, took his hand from her. “Go on, then. Go, if you wish. If you manage to avoid Highland thieves and soldiers without morals, you might be lucky enough to find Sir Henry Campbell himself.”

“Campbell?” She swiveled her glance around.

“Aye, he’s out here searching for you, too. I saw him today, and I watched soldiers combing these hills. I’m sure Sir Henry would be delighted to offer you assistance.”

“No doubt.” She sounded uncertain.

“Perhaps he could help you obtain an annulment from your thief of a husband. Although you will have to appeal to Rome for that,” he added. “It would take some weeks, but then you would be free to marry Sir Henry.”

“You know I do not want to do that,” she snapped.

“A dilemma, my lass—him, or me.” He cocked a brow.

She drew a breath. “If I went to him, he would see that you were arrested for abduction.”

“I’m sure he would relish that,” he agreed affably. He watched her, his heart beating hard. It was a gamble to give a kestrel a chance to spread her wings. If she truly wanted to fly, perhaps he and her brother, too, had been wrong to hold her back.

He hoped not. If she took off, he would have to follow her all night just to ensure her safety. He waited, arms folded, heart pounding.

She did not reply, brow furrowed as she studied him warily.

Connor turned and began to walk. A moment later she fell into step with him, her skirts rustling softly. He slid her a glance, masking his vast relief.

“If you were going to try to escape, Sophie, you should have at least tried during the day. It’s too dangerous out here just now for a lass alone,” he explained quietly.

“I was too busy wandering around the castle, with
my guard and a pack of dogs at my heels,” she snapped.

“Well, I’m glad you found something to do. Hush,” he said then. “Hush!”

He stretched out his arm to stop her, silence her. His senses were alive, the hairs on his neck prickling with alarm. The rustle of old heather, the tranquil burble of a nearby burn, the snap of his shirtsleeves in the wind, the liquid trill of a curlew were normal sounds. But he had heard something more. Strands of his hair blew over his brow as he turned his head, watchful.

Within moments he heard them again—shouts muffled by distance and breezes. He heard cattle lowing, too. There were men and livestock on this same hill.

“This way.” Taking Sophie’s arm, Connor pulled her with him, turning with her toward the pine trees that fringed the hillside. “Hurry!” He began to run, and she hastened alongside him.

Ducking under the wide, low-hanging branches of a pine tree, Sophie fell to her knees when MacPherson pulled her downward. He grabbed her then, drawing her hard against him under the shelter of the tree. He knelt, and she half fell, half sat over his thighs. His arms wrapped quickly, tightly, around her.

“What is it?” she asked, and he lifted his hand to clap his palm over her mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered in her ear. “Someone is out there.”

She felt the tension in his body, taut as a drawn bowstring. She sensed the heavy thud of his heart against her back, felt it pulse in his hand over her
mouth. Her own heart slammed, too, as she crouched with him, breathing through her nose.

Eyes wide, she peered through the thick branches of the tree that hid them. The Highlander kept perfectly still, and his restraining hold on her kept her frozen as well.

She heard the sound of men calling out, woven with the deep bellows of cattle and the heavy thudding of hooves on the hillside. Watching through the screen of pine branches, her breath nearly stopped in her throat, Sophie saw three Highland men and several cows in the same area where she and Connor had just been walking. Rising moonlight struck along the animals’ horns and highlighted their huge heads and broad backs. The solid, shaggy, reddish creatures moved slowly across the incline, driven by the men who called and hooted.

“Caterans,” Connor muttered soft in her ear. “
Cearnach,
we call them—cattle thieves. Those are Hamish MacDonell and his men, I think. A naughty bunch of lads. I think we’ll wait here, you and I.” His breath blew soft over her cheek, his voice resonating through her body.

Sophie squirmed a little in his arms, but he held her tightly, kept his hand over her mouth. Trapped in his arms, she waited silently with him, her breathing in tandem with his. The only other sound beneath the ancient pine tree was the sigh of wind through the branches.

She caught the pungent scent of sappy branches and old pine needles. Connor shifted slightly, adjusting his arms around her. His arms crossed her bodice, one at her waist, the other over her upper chest, so that one hand rested on her bare skin. She
could feel the heel of his hand pressing against her upper breast. With each breath, her skin met his, gathering warmth and a subtle awareness.

She stayed perfectly still, only her eyes moving as she peered ahead, watching the group of men and animals wander over the hill. MacDonell’s men called out, laughed, seemed to feel no urgency. The cattle lowed, snorted, turned in wayward directions. One ran so close to the cluster of pines that Sophie could hear the heavy breaths of the great shaggy beast. A man ran across its path, swearing as he tried to drive it where he wanted.

Hooves thundering, the animal headed directly for their tree. Gasping, Sophie stiffened.

“Easy,” Connor murmured. “Shh.”

At the last instant the cow veered in response to its drover, and Sophie blew out the breath she held.

Moments later the men and their clandestine herd disappeared over the side of the hill. Sophie sat up, but Connor MacPherson held her back.

“Not just yet,” he murmured, holding her against him. “They could come back. Relax, lass.”

His hands were warm and strong, one over her mouth, the other resting over her breastbone. His breath tickled her cheek, his voice vibrated through her. She closed her eyes, leaned back. She did not feel trapped any longer—she felt safe. She felt good, though she knew she should not.

He was a cattle thief himself, and worse. He knew those men, and probably stole cattle of a night himself.

“That’s it, love,” he whispered. “Easy. Keep still.”

She tilted her head, and his breath flowed over her face, his warm, deep voice filling her. She sighed un
der his hand, loving the comfort and safety she felt in his arms—though she did not want to love it at all. Earlier that evening she had made up her mind, however conflicted she felt, to get away from him. And now she sat with him, wanting only to be in his arms.

“Aye then,” he whispered, as if he understood somehow. “Aye, lass—be still.” His lips touched her ear, traced the lobe, lingered.

A sensation rippled through her, delighting, exciting. She caught her breath, arched her head against his shoulder.

His lips touched her ear again, the warmth of his breath penetrating, and a feeling shot through her like lightning, flashing deep into her body. She turned in his arms like a lodestone, seeking more, her undefined hunger quick and surprising.

His hand slid away from her mouth, and when she began to speak—to ask what he meant to do, or perhaps to beg for it—he covered her lips with his own, taking the sound from her.

Allowing him to kiss her, she stilled her lips beneath his, tasting, waiting, not sure she should allow this again. Yet excitement built within her like a storm.

She was not afraid. What pulsed through her was passion without a touch of fear, she realized. Kissing him back, she tested the feeling, her lips softening under his, flexing.

His hand moved lightly over her upper breast, his fingers cupping the rounded flesh, and each tracing touch sent shivers down into her body. She gasped again, under the cover of his mouth, and felt his other hand cup her head. Twisting in his embrace, she brought her arms up to loop around his neck, her body demanding more, pulsing for more.