Sarah Gabriel (14 page)

Like last night, she thought. She had wanted more then, too. And in the morning, learning more about her, he had rejected her.

Remembering that, she turned her head away, and froze.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “Enough of this.” He pushed her out of his lap, half stood. She heard the thunk as his head hit one of the branches. “Come along—they’re gone.”

He took her hand to lead her out from under the tree. As she stood in the open, Sophie found that her knees were weak, her body trembling as she emerged into the open beside him.

This time she did not protest as she walked beside him, her hand clasped in his. Sobered by the thought of what might have happened had she encountered the cattle thieves or the regimental soldiers on her own, she said little to Connor as they went.

Just as he had on the night he snatched her and married her, he assisted her in crossing runnels and climbing the steepest slopes. And now and then as they walked along, she felt his fingers tighten on hers for no reason—and it felt good to her, so good.

“I am glad that you came along tonight, since the caterans were out,” she ventured.

“It’s one of the reasons that I wanted you at Glendoon,” he said gruffly. “Neill and I saw MacDonell and his bunch in the glen earlier and wondered what they were about. I was keeping watch for them—and the soldiers, too—as I made my way back to the ruin.”

“I found a chance to get away, and could not ignore it,” she said, defending herself. He shrugged his understanding. “But I am grateful. You might have saved my life, appearing when you did.”

He grunted acknowledgment and did not look at her. His mood seemed somber and thoughtful. Clearly he was displeased and in a hurry to get her back to Glendoon.

“I still mean to go to Duncrieff,” she said. “I thought you would not much care if I left Glendoon. After all,” she added, “I’m not the one you wanted.”

“But you’re the one I married,” he said, and the teasing tone in his rich, velvety voice was surprisingly affectionate, unless she mistook it in her fatigue. “We’ll go to Duncrieff as soon as we can manage, Sophie. You have my word on it.”

She felt strangely reassured, and realized suddenly that had any other man stolen her, she would have fought more desperately for freedom, claimed any chance to get away. But some deep part of her wanted to go back with Connor MacPherson.

As they walked along, she squeezed his hand with her own. A small gesture of peace and gratitude, she thought, as his fingers answered hers.

He broke the grip to point ahead. “Look there, Mrs. MacPherson. Here’s Roderick, come to find his wayward charge.”

The young Highlander raced toward them down the slope that fronted Glendoon. Lifting his hand to wave, Connor pulled Sophie along with him.

Like it or not, she was back in the keeping of the laird of Glendoon.

Once they were inside the castle, Connor took the lantern from the kitchen table and led Sophie up the stairs. She moved ahead of him, her fire-colored dress whispering on the stones. He climbed just behind her, holding the light.

“Be careful on the steps,” he cautioned. “If you walk around the castle in the dark, keep to only the chambers in use. A wrong step in the dark and you could fall to your death.”

When they reached the landing leading to his bedchamber, he opened the door, stepping back to allow her to enter.

“Good night, madam.”

“Where will you sleep?” She turned to look at him.

“I doubt I will,” he said, “after all this adventure.”

“But…” She hesitated.

“If you are worried about the ghosts, they will not bother you. If you hear rattling and moaning, just go back to sleep.”

“Connor—”

“Good night,” he said firmly.

“Where will you be, if I should need anything?” Her eyes were wide and expressive, conveying a different message than her words. He thought she pleaded with those beautiful eyes for him to stay with her. Or was that wishful thinking?

But he would not, until he knew his own mind with this lady. He had kissed her under the pine tree when he had meant to keep his distance from her. But whenever he saw her, he felt challenged to resist her natural allure—and he meant to find out more about their marriage agreement before he waded any deeper into Duncrieff’s possible trap.

He shrugged, though he wanted very much to come inside and share the bed with her. “I’ll be about the place.”

“If you sleep elsewhere, you will freeze. It’s chill at night here, and in the mornings.”

He tilted his head. “Do you care so much about my welfare?”

She brushed at her skirts, standing in the threshold. “I care about anyone’s welfare.”

“Saintly Sophia.” He watched her, feeling tender suddenly. “Sleeping on a cold floor will do me no harm. I see you learned your manners well in your wee convent.”

She lifted her chin high—he loved the line of her throat, long and delicate. “I learned decent behavior in the bosom of a caring family. I hope that same privilege was accorded to you.”

“I dimly remember lessons in etiquette and morality. And I remember kindness.” The urge to tell her about his family was very strong, but he smothered it. “Good night, madam.”

He stood close to her, and she did not back away. With one hand he reached out to brush her hair back from her face where a wave had slipped out of its knot. He swept his hand over the side of her cheek, cupping her face. Aching to touch her more fully, he would not let himself.

“This is your bedchamber, not mine,” she said. “If you do not wish to share it, then I do not wish to take it from you. I can sleep elsewhere. There are other bedchambers.”

“You could have a private room to yourself, I suppose,” he said. “The other bedchambers are unfurnished, and some are open to the elements. But we have straw pallets and extra blankets stored away. We could scare up a brazier for heat. I wouldn’t trust the fireplaces in those rooms—they’ll be full of birds’ nests and debris. But if you do not mind shar
ing an empty chamber with mice and squirrels, then please yourself.”

She sent him a sour glare. “An entire castle,” she said, “and just one bed, scarcely used.”

He watched her evenly. “I told you this was not my home.”

“Where is your home, Mr. MacPherson? You never said.”

“Under God’s lovely stars, madam. Anywhere I will it, and nowhere at all.”

“You could settle here at Castle Glendoon,” she said, glancing around. “It was once a lovely place, so I’ve heard, a grand place filled with happiness and celebration.”

“That was long ago,” he said. “There was some tragedy here, from what I remember of the old legend. All the MacCarrans in residence packed up and deserted Glendoon like rats leaving a ship. All they left behind was this smashed fortress in the care of a couple of ghosts. Tragic lovers, or so it is said.”

She shivered. “I remember something from family lore…and you mentioned a curse on this place.”

“Aye, I’ve heard so. She leaped to her death, they say, trying to warn him—and he could not save her.” He leaned forward. “Keep to your room at night, madam, and do not wander the ruins, should some harm come to you. Good night, lass,” he finished quietly. Unable to stop himself, he reached out, brushed his fingers down the softness of her cheek. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

“No harm will come to me,” she said. “Not here at Glendoon.”

He smiled to himself, a little, as he rounded the curve in the stair.

“O
h! Blast! Be damned, ye filthy, nithering cur!”

Sophie tentatively came down the corridor. She had not seen Connor that morning, and after dressing again in the amber gown—a sad ruin of a thing at this point, after last night’s escape attempt—she had decided to go to the kitchen in search of some breakfast when she heard the woman cursing. As she rounded the corner, she heard the slap of a broom.

The woman stood by the outer kitchen door, wielding a straw broom. “Be gone, ye great keekie!” With a sound of disgust, she turned back toward the kitchen. “Oh! Mistress!” She stopped.

She hurried toward Sophie, her cheeks pink, tendrils of dark hair escaping from a lace-edged cap.
The woman had a sturdy, voluptuous build and wore a blue-gray dress with a wrinkled apron. A lightweight plaid was tossed over her shoulders.

“Mrs. Murray?” Sophie asked, coming forward. “I’m—”

“Aye, mistress—I know. Connor’s wee bride! Took ye off in the night, how exciting!” Her sparkling blue eyes reminded Sophie of someone—Roderick, she realized.

“I…suppose it was exciting,” Sophie said hesitantly.

“
Och,
some Highland brides begin their married life that way. Not me, I met my Neill in a market square when I was selling rags and trinkets with my father. I’m Mary Murray.” She extended her hand, her grip warm and sure. “And I do apologize for the blathering on! Those damnable crows made me so angry!”

“Crows?” Sophie asked.

“Aye, taking the wee seeds out of the kitchen garden again. I planted a few seeds the other day—peas and slips of marigold and lavender, as I did at home. But they willna grow here, even if the crows would leave them be. Nothing grows in this accursed place. Nothing at all.” She set aside the broom and beckoned Sophie out of the dark corridor and into the bright kitchen.

Mary Murray was a handsome woman, Sophie noted, despite her flustered, rumpled appearance. Her oval face had a serene beauty, with translucent skin and clear blue eyes. Her hair, slightly visible beneath her cap, showed silver threads among the dark waves. Though she had a grown son, Mary’s lovely skin showed hardly a crease. Sophie could see that
Roderick had inherited his mother’s pink-cheeked, black-haired sort of beauty.

“I’m so sorry ye heard me ranting on,” Mrs. Murray said. “My folk were Travelers, and my grandmother swore like a fishwife when her Romany temper was up. I’m afraid she taught me, and so it slips out now and then.” She grinned.

“I do not mind,” Sophie said. After years in the convent, a woman who spoke as freely as she pleased was refreshing to hear.

“Roderick said you were exploring the castle. It’s a sad place now, but was once very fine. There’s a ghost or two here…well, ye’d know, it’s yer own family that owns Glendoon!” Mary opened the wall cupboard, took out some potatoes and carrots and brought them to the table, where she began to slice into them with a small knife. “I’ve food to prepare, but there’s porridge in the small kettle if you’re hungry,” she said.

Sophie thanked her and helped herself to the porridge, which was very good—steaming and thick, a bit salty, a bit sweet, with a trace of cream in it. After she ate, she joined Mary in her task, choosing a knife and setting to work to chop some carrots.

Mary Murray did not seem to find it odd that Sophie helped her in the kitchen. Nor did she seem to think it out of place for the laird to steal himself a bride. Sophie glanced at her.

“I heard ye’ve been away from Scotland for a bit,” Mary said. “My lad Roderick said ye’ve been in France. I remember when the MacCarran chief was exiled. A fine man, loyal to the Jacobites. As is yer brother, may Heaven protect him.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Murray.”

“Mary. Did ye like France?” she prodded.

“I did. We lived in France for a little while, and then Rome, and I spent the last six years in Bruges. I was educated in the English Convent there.”

“Broozh? Where is that?”

“Flanders. The Netherlands,” she added.

“Oh! That’s where the laces and wee flower bulbs come from!”

Sophie nodded. “Bruges is a lovely place, a little jewel of a medieval town, with canals and swans, so peaceful. There are women who sit in their doorways all day tatting lace. In the spring you could see whole fields of tulips and daffodils, just beautiful, miles of yellow and red and orange. At the English Convent, we had a garden in the front that was a mass of tulips and daffodils and hyacinths. The colors and the scents were wonderful.” She smiled.

“Oh, ye had gardens! I do enjoy my wee garden at home—our house is at Balnaven, about two leagues from here—though I grow mostly vegetables. I have some flowers, daffodils and marigolds to protect the vegetables—the deer and rabbits won’t come near those. I even have a few roses in my wee yard. Someday I would like to have some Dutch bulbs, which they sell at the markets in Crieff and Perth, but they are dear to buy.”

“I brought some bulbs from Bruges,” Sophie said. “Some of them are already started. I would be happy to give some to you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Mary beamed.

“My things are at Duncrieff,” Sophie said, frowning. “I…came here with nothing at all.”

“Stolen away, aye. Well, there was no choice in the matter, from what I’ve heard.”

“I do not agree.”

“
Och,
ye’ll understand in time. Though I’m sorry for the trouble the laird put ye through, and I’m sure he is, too.”

“He is not sorry,” Sophie said, chopping fiercely into the next potato she chose.

“He is,” Mary said. “Though he’s not likely to say it.” She glanced at Sophie. “Tell him ye want yer things here, now.”

“He means to fetch them…when he wants.”

“I heard ye tried to walk home last night. Roderick told me. That’s fine spirit, lass, but the hills are full o’ rogues.”

“So I learned. I hope Roderick did not have too much trouble with the laird.”

“Not really.” Mary chuckled. “Dinna let Connor MacPherson frighten ye with his grumphs and crabbit ways. He’s a good man, though he doesna like others to know it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has a good heart, and he watches out for his tenants. They show him their loyalty in turn, too.”

“Steals cattle for them, does he?” Sophie dropped the potato pieces into a bowl.

“Only if he must. He makes certain they have what they need. He seems a rogue for snatching ye, but he saved yer clan by marrying ye, so Neill and Roderick say. Yer own chief, God bless him, thought of yer welfare and sent the laird after ye.”

“Saved my clan?” Sophie looked at her in wonder.

“Aye, that cold fish, Sir Henry, canna take control o’ Clan Carran if he isna married to the chief’s sister. My Neill says so. Ye must be glad to have Connor MacPherson for a husband, I am thinking.” Mary smiled.

Sophie chopped the next potato so hard that the knife stuck in the wood of the table. She pried it loose and continued to cut vegetables in silence. Caught up in the immediate events of her abduction and marriage, she had not spared a direct thought about what Sir Henry might have wanted from their proposed marriage.

Oh God, she thought. Mary’s remarks could be right. Clan Carran was indeed safer with Sir Henry not included in the inner circle of the chief’s family members.

Mary chattered about the supper she intended to prepare with the potatoes, carrots, onions, and the oats and barley that were on hand, while Sophie murmured politely, scarcely listening.

Connor MacPherson might indeed have saved her in more ways than one. Later tonight, Sophie thought, he would return from whatever raid he had been running that day. For a moment she remembered the tenderness he had shown her last night, and the night before. Her body shivered pleasantly with the recollection.

Would he return, expecting to resume that, or would he act distant again? What would become of this impulsive marriage if the laird had changed his mind?

She was glad to be free of Sir Henry’s hold over her and her clan, that was for certain. But she did not know where she stood with Connor MacPherson—or what she wanted herself from this marriage. He had cooled, that seemed clear to her. But she felt herself just beginning to heat up to the depth of her passion. His touch, his kisses, had set her fairy blood to sparking, and he had awakened her foolish heart, so eager to love.

Snatching up an onion, she chopped it with a vengeance.

“’Twas not so difficult to bring this bridge down,” Neill grunted as Connor walked toward him. The older man lay on his back on the bank, torso tucked partly beneath the bridge, his hammer in hand as he pounded nails into a wooden plank to patch the bridge. “But it is a devil of a thing to right it again.”

“Aye, well,” Connor said, reaching down to give Neill an assist to his feet. “It’s time well spent, so that drovers and their herds can cross these bridges again. You’d best set the work aside for now. I saw the red soldiers as I came down the Benachallie Mor,” he said, pointing toward a large hill in the distance.

“I saw them, too—searching the hills, stopping to ask at every house. They may very well head up to Glendoon.”

“Not so far. They do not like that hill, nor the ghosts who haunt that castle.” Connor grinned fleetingly. “And they seem to be more interested in MacCarrans than MacPhersons just now.” He frowned. “I do not want the bride-stealing blamed on MacCarrans. I mean to speak with those lads, but if I must get word to Campbell, I’ll do that, too.”

“Now there’s a risk.” Neill brushed dirt from his plaid and bent to put his hammer and nails into a leather pound, which he then hoisted to his shoulder. “But you do not want to raise Campbell’s suspicions.”

“If I must, I will,” Connor said. “Come ahead. We’ve been out all of today and long into the night, and I will not sleep in the heather when I could sleep in a bed.”

“Eager to return to Glendoon and your bride, hey?”

Connor frowned. “I do want the chance to talk to her further about some of this.”

“Ah.” Neill was blessedly silent.

“And I want to spend some time taking care of my livestock,” Connor said. “Fiona is not pregnant yet this season. She may never take again.”

“Not so long as she grazes on Glendoon grass, perhaps,” Neill said. “Barren place.”

“So it seems, but I’ve little choice but to stay there.”

“Women are particular about their homes, and your Sophie may not want a haunted place to raise her bairns.”

“Bairns? The lass would prefer an annulment.”

“After all that trouble to snatch her?
Tcha,
” Neill said in disgust. “We’ll finish these bridges in the next few days,” he went on. “Though Hamish MacDonell says he’ll drive his herd to the Crieff market next week, and he’ll take this track. I wish no harm to his cattle, but I would not mind if Hamish himself got a bath.” Neill grinned, quick and mischievous.

Connor smiled, aware of the longstanding rivalry between Neill and Hamish, who was a true rapscallion, save for a kinsman or two among the MacPhersons in his own line.

“Whose cows will he sell at the Crieff market this time?” Connor asked. He glanced about as they went, continually looking for soldiers, Highlanders, any sort of danger. After years of living as a renegade, it was second nature to him.

“
Ach!
” Neill shook his head. “None of his own, I’ll wager. Hamish and his lads cut three reds from Al
lan MacCarran’s fold last night, and two black kyloes from Campbell’s herd last week.”

“I saw Hamish with those reds myself.”

“And I told Hamish that if he takes Sir Henry’s cows, he steals from Connor MacPherson himself. Hamish says you have no legal claim to Kinnoull herds now, and if cows wander in open pastures at night, he can borrow them as he pleases.”

“He’s only doing what we do ourselves, borrowing good cattle by dark of night.” Connor hastened, half running toward the cover of the low hills. Neill, a shorter man but sinewy and strong, easily kept up.

“I reminded Hamish you do have a legal claim to cattle on Kinnoull lands.” Neill was not one to drop a subject quickly, Connor knew. He glanced at his friend.

“My father’s fate changed that. And my second petition for reinstatement is lost in the bowels of the London courts. When I was in Edinburgh a month past, my advocate had no answer at all.”

“Useless long-robes. A Scottish advocate will have little influence in a London court. Lawyers,” Neill snarled. “Smoke Campbell out and take Kinnoull back yourself.”

“This is not the Middle Ages,” Connor replied calmly. “Lawyers and documents, suing for rights, submitting petitions to London, waiting for a reply—that is my only course now.”

“If the English king can still draw and quarter Scottish rebels, then his Highland subjects can still use smoke and axes to gain back our homes, and our rights.”

“For now, stealing and harassing will have to do,” Connor replied dryly.

“Campbell has no right to sit at Kinnoull.” Neill spat.

“He has the deed.”

“All the same, someday you will hold Kinnoull as your kin did before you.”

Connor’s throat tightened. When he and his father were arrested together, his father had whispered to him that he would have Kinnoull, no matter what happened. His father had been proven wrong, Connor thought. He had the title and some furniture, but nothing else.

His family had held Kinnoull for two centuries, but Connor had lost hope that he would ever gain it back. He was the last of his kin, the son and only child of his dispossessed father. His mother had died two years ago, and he felt estranged from most of his kin now. Most of his household had left Kinnoull House. And Cluny MacPherson, chief of the clan, had not been quick to offer help when he and his father sat in prison, or in the days surrounding his father’s execution. Ultimately, it had been Robert MacCarran of Duncrieff who obtained his release.

Connor felt he owed Duncrieff more than he could repay. He did not know for sure that Duncrieff was dead, but he had no proof otherwise. And the legacy of the MacPhersons of Kinnoull would die with him. His descendants, he thought—if he ever had any—would only be the lairds of Glendoon, though blood heirs to a viscount’s title that was no longer attached to its land.