Sarah Gabriel (17 page)

As she sank again into his arms, she hid her face against him, and he kissed her, then rolled away from her with a low murmur, a pat on the shoulder. A gentle reminder to sleep.

The fairy crystal rolled, sparkled in the low light
on its chain. And she remembered that the small, bright stone would bring love to its wearer, but the wearer, it was said, must have the courage to face the sacrifices that would come.

Love makes its own magic.
The words came to her again. And she wondered if it had begun to weave its inexorable force in her life, whether or not she wanted it.

Connor stared at the drafty, vaulted ceiling and thought about cattle.

Cattle, sheep, fiddles—anything to take his mind off the tantalizing girl beside him. His wife—she was perilously close to that role now. He had tried to hold back, but the searing hunger that she aroused in him was demanding, irresistible. He had forgotten resolve, or the dilemma.

The insistent feeling within him had grown too powerful to name. He told himself he was not ready for this. Not yet.

He gazed at the bed canopy and thought about anything he could to take his mind off of her. Lying next to his bride, his skin still sheened with the light sweat of the pleasure she had so unexpectedly, impulsively, brought to him, he sighed out. No, he told himself, do not think of that, do not let this continue, for he already waded far too deep.

He tried to consider instead what he wanted from life, beyond immediate urges. A fine herd to take to market, sheep grazing fat on his hills, a warm hearth in a cozy home—all those were important to him. He wanted to be a good laird for his tenants, wanted to see them secure.

And he craved someone to love who would love
him in return, someone to hold on cold nights, someone to watch the stars with him, listen to his music, laugh with him. He had grown too solitary in these last years, cutting himself off from all but a few friends, and breaking the hearts of the women who he knew had imagined themselves in love with the young heir to Kinnoull. He had even imagined himself in love with one or two of them, long ago, when his life had been peaceful and his future safe.

He was weary of living in a ruin, hiding, having no home of his own. He was weary of being alone, even among his friends. He had never intended to become a hero of the rebellion, yet somehow that had happened. He wanted to be a gentleman farmer, the viscount and laird he had been raised to be. All that had been taken from him.

But now, almost more than any of it, he wanted the girl who lay in his bed, and he would not let himself think about that. Not until questions were answered and the future was clear.

Standing, he adjusted his plaid and looked down at Sophie where she lay in the shadowed, curtained bed. He listened to the whisper of her breathing.

Then he leaned down, kissed her brow, traced his lips along her cheek. Just one stolen kiss. She sighed, nuzzled into the pillow.

Deciding to leave before he did more than he could accept in good conscience, he thought an hour or two of reading might soothe him. He left the bedchamber quietly, taking the stairs down to the small library where he kept both his papers and his father’s, too, and where he tucked away all of his dreams.

All of his dreams, that is, until he had stolen Sophie MacCarran.

W
ith her heeled shoes sticking in fresh mud, Sophie turned in the castle yard. The morning rain had cleared and sun filtered through clouds, so that the pale stones of the old keep shone like mother-of-pearl.

Glendoon had once been a stout fortress, easily defensible. Few but the hardiest enemies would climb those treacherous slopes, Sophie thought, then or now. The castle was also defended by rumors of hauntings. She had heard the ghostly music herself, though it intrigued her more than frightened her.

She was glad to be outside in fresh air under the sun’s warmth now that the showers had passed. For the past hour she had pulled weeds in the kitchen garden, though that was scarcely enough time to make a difference in the wilderness of that plot. It
would take work, she knew, but she was sure that it would be possible to bring the little herb and vegetable garden to life.

If she stayed here long enough. She glanced around. Logic told her to take any chance and flee from this place. She belonged at Duncrieff. Yet part of her wanted desperately to stay with Connor MacPherson, for a little while at least, stay with him and savor more nights like the last nights. She glanced down with a little smile, sensing her own blush.

The Highlander had become as compelling as a lodestone to her. Unable to resist his charismatic touch, she no longer wanted to run from him—she only wanted to be with him. She knew that it made no sense, but her heart was not following a logical course.

But she was not so foolish as to think he was succumbing to any charm she might have. He seemed to find her attractive at night—she was a healthy young woman in his bedchamber, his wedded wife, and he was a very healthy male—but she would not disillusion herself. He wanted Katie Hell, not Saint Sophia. As soon as Kate came back, he might be more than eager to dissolve their hasty marriage.

She sighed, glancing up at the castle keep as she walked through the muddy yard.

Her MacCarran ancestors had deserted Castle Glendoon centuries ago, she recalled from family stories. The castle had been the site of a tragedy, a feud with another clan that had ended fatally for a MacCarran laird and his lady love. Their ghosts, with others, were said to inhabit the castle ruins as well as the old chapel. Later the MacCarrans had de
serted Glendoon to build Duncrieff Castle deeper in the glen.

Looking over the curtain wall, she could see the tops of the hills and mountains on the opposite side of the glen, where Duncrieff Castle was located. Homesickness overwhelmed her in that moment, so strong that she felt dizzy with it.

Turning, she saw the front gate, and glanced about for Roderick Murray. Earlier, she had glimpsed him working at the back wall, digging or repairing there, and had not disturbed him. Only the dogs were guarding her now, following her every step as she wandered the courtyard, so that she sometimes tripped over them or skirted around them. They were more attentive sentinels than young Roderick, she thought.

The untended gate beckoned, despite what had happened the other night when she had slipped out. Walking toward it with the dogs trotting alongside, she listened for Roderick’s hammer.

The bolt looked heavy but was not difficult to lift and set aside. Grabbing the iron latch next, she pushed it open, wincing at the creaking sound it made. She pulled open the smaller door cut inside the larger one and peeked out.

No, she told herself. No.

If she went out again, it would only cause problems for Connor. She realized now that Sir Henry would be after him in earnest if he discovered that she had been held at Glendoon. As Connor had explained, it was better for her to stay here—for now. Just for now.

But as she peered outside, still longing for a taste of freedom, she saw flowers scattered throughout
the grass—a haze of golden buttercups and the delicate hue of bluebells. Pale snow crocus and dark violets clustered near the rocks.

If she dug up some of the flowers, she thought suddenly, she could plant them in the kitchen plot, where they might flourish and make a lovely carpet beside the door.

Surely she could just step out and get some flowers. Glancing over her shoulder, she set a foot outside the gate.

Shoving past her skirts, first one little terrier, then the other, leaped past her to burst through the gap. Ears and tails up, they raced away from the gate. Sophie gasped, while behind her Tam and Colla began barking furiously. A moment later the spaniel dashed past her and through the doorway like an arrow leaving its bow. Colla set up a loud, monotonous barking.

“No!” Sophie cried. “Tam! Come back! Una! Scota! Oh no, please come back!” Without waiting for Roderick, who would surely come running when he heard the noise, Sophie hurried after the dogs as they tore across the sunlit grass and down the hillside.

Picking up her skirts, she ran, then stopped suddenly, her heels slipping a little on the wet grass.

A man approached the castle, a kilted Highlander who came up the crest of the hill, having already crossed the gorge. The afternoon sunlight glinted on his brown hair, poured gold over his shoulders, turned his dark blue and green plaid brighter.

Connor MacPherson. Sophie stood frozen in the sunlight, her skirts billowing in a quick breeze. The dogs ran toward him, leaping up, barking ecstatically as he bent to greet them.

He had seen her. How could he not, she thought, for she stood in plain sight exactly where she should not be standing—just outside the castle gates.

He came toward her with the eager dogs at his heels. Sophie folded her hands to wait with dignity, knowing there was little else to do. Once more Connor stopped, murmuring to the dogs, patting their heads before resuming his approach.

“Leaving us again, Mrs. MacPherson?” he called.

“The dogs ran through the gate,” she said, realizing immediately how foolish that sounded.

“Lifted the bolt and flipped the latch, did they? Tam, you rapscallion,” he added, scratching the spaniel’s head.

“I opened it,” Sophie said tersely.

“I see.” His eyes, she saw then, were a stormy green color.

“I wanted to pick some flowers. Truly,” she added.

“Ah,” he said. Clearly, he did not believe her. “Where is Roderick?”

“He is busy with something at the back of the bailey. The dogs were with me.”

He quirked a brow. “This lot, guarding anyone?” He bent down as one of the terriers reared on her hind legs. “Aye, Una, you fierce wee doggie,” he murmured. “You great beastie.”

“I opened the gate, and the dogs went through. I thought they meant to run away, so I went after them.”

“This bunch would come right back when they were ready. They must have seen me or sensed me coming, and came to meet me. Did you never have dogs?”

“We had several at Duncrieff when I was growing
up, but we did not have them when we stayed in France and at the Muti Palace in Rome with the rest of the court. The Mother Prioress at the English Convent had a lap dog, though. A nasty wee thing,” she added. She looked down. The wolfhound had followed her and now nudged his gray head under her hand. She patted him.

“Ah, so Colla the Fierce likes you.”

“He’s not so fierce. They are all quite friendly.”

“So much so, I fear they’d let red soldiers inside the gate…now that the dogs have the knack of the latch.”

Seeing the twinkle in his eyes, their green gone from stormy to calm, Sophie laughed softly. He tilted his head, watching her. In the sunlight, his hair was dark brown, enriched with strands of gold. Sophie longed, for an instant, to sink her hands into that soft, gleaming thickness, as she had done last night.

“Now I’m back, Mrs. MacPherson, so you’d best change your plans and come with me.” He took her arm and turned her to walk beside him. The dogs came, too, trotting in crazy circles as Sophie and Connor moved along.

“How is it that you have these dogs here?” she asked. “I would not think that a band of outlaws would keep so many.”

“I brought them in with the furniture and plate.”

“They were your dogs?”

“Still are,” he clarified. “Where are the Murray lads?” he asked, looking toward the gate.

Did he mean both Roderick and Neill? “I saw only Roderick Murray today.”

“His brother should be there, too. Perhaps you have not yet met him.” The press of his hand and his
quick stride gave her no choice but to keep up. Rather than resenting it, she felt only that same spiraling thrill that came whenever he touched her.

She shook her arm free of his grasp and walked ahead. Connor followed with the dogs running happy loops around him.

As they went through the gate, Roderick came toward them.

“You are supposed to watch the gate,” Connor said.

“I am sorry, Kinnoull,” Roderick said. “I was watching most of the morning. Mistress Sophie was poking about in the garden, and I thought she would be fine there.”

“Garden?” Connor asked.

“I have been thinking about clearing out the kitchen garden and replanting,” she said.

“Nothing will grow there, so it is a waste of time. You should have been watching the gate,” he told Roderick impatiently.

“I was, but Fiona escaped over the back wall, where the rubble is lowest.” The young man pointed toward the back of the bailey yard. “We chased her down the slope and dragged her home again. Padraig and I have been repairing the break in the wall.”

Thinking of the rubbled, broken wall she herself had climbed, Sophie gulped.

“Clever lass, to get out again,” Connor said.

“Fiona?” Sophie stared at Connor. “Did you have another prisoner in this place?”

“Fiona is a cow. She escapes whenever she finds the chance. Like my wife,” he added wryly.

“I cannot blame her for that,” Sophie replied,
glancing past him as another young man came toward them from the rear courtyard, leading a shaggy reddish cow on a rope. “I did not think that cows could climb.”

Roderick hooted. “They cannot. But now and then they make their way into odd places.”

“Aye. Fiona is a nimble wee thing with an adventurous soul. Like you,” Connor murmured.

Feeling herself blush, Sophie laughed softly when she saw the sparkle in Connor’s moss-green eyes.

“She’s learned to step over parts of the back wall where the stones have collapsed,” Roderick explained to Sophie. “We’ve repaired it several times, even used stones and mortar, but the goat strikes it down as soon as it goes up.”

“Goat?” Sophie asked.

Connor looked at her. “You could have saved yourself the trouble of opening the front gate, and just gone over the back wall with Fiona.” He chuckled as Roderick laughed out loud.

Sophie sent him a withering look.

“Roderick, where is your mother?” Connor asked.

“She is tending things at home. She’ll be here soon.”

The second young man came closer, and Fiona butted her great shaggy reddish head into the cluster of people to shove at Connor’s arm. Sophie stepped back in surprise, unable to see Roderick’s brother over the cow’s massive back.

“Hey, my lassie, easy now.” Connor fondled the cow’s muzzle. He murmured to her, and the cow licked his arm with a great lolling tongue. Astonished, Sophie gaped.

“
Ach,
the lass loves her laird,” Roderick crooned. “She’ll be jealous now he’s wed.”

Connor ran his hand over the cow’s bony shoulders and the great protruding curves of the rib cage, “She’s still thin from the winter, but let’s hope she fattens better this year. Fiona, meet Mrs. MacPherson,” Connor told the cow. “Next time you flee, lassie, I think she’ll flee with you,” he whispered to the cow, rubbing her furry head. “Say hello, lass.”

“Hello,” Sophie said, then realized that Connor addressed the cow. Huge, gentle brown eyes looked at her from under the thick fringe that covered much of Fiona’s enormous head. The cow snuffled, blowing warm air outward through wide, brownish-pink nostrils. Sophie leaned away.

“Go on, pet her,” Roderick said. “She loves it.”

Tentatively, Sophie reached out and patted the tufted spot between Fiona’s ears. Her fingers grazed past Connor’s as he caressed her head, too. Sophie murmured softly to the cow, feeling awkward, but soon warming to the calm, enormous animal.

Roderick’s brother, still holding Fiona’s rope, laughed. “There, see, not so bad,” he said.

Sophie glanced at him over the cow’s broad back and her eyes widened—Padraig had bright blue eyes, black hair, pink-stained cheeks, and a dazzling smile. “You’re—Roderick’s twin!”

“
Ach,
he’s mine,” he answered. “I was born first. Padraig Murray, mistress.”

“I’m Sophie MacCarran,” she said, then glanced at Connor.

While the twins chatted with Connor about the repairs to the back curtain wall, Sophie listened, her hand resting on Fiona’s big head. She felt part of the relaxed camaraderie between the men, and when they told her the amusing tale of Fiona’s first escape
attempt, she laughed with them—for that moment felt like the laird’s true wife rather than his stolen bride.

Watching as Connor smiled and laughed easily, she had a glimpse of the true man, rather than the outlaw or the renegade. Curious to find she was even more attracted to him in this simple role as farmer and friend, she tipped her head, watching him.

“Fiona is a shaggy Highland cow, sturdy and hardy, bred for centuries in Scotland,” Padraig told Sophie.

She looked at Connor. “My father had cows like this one. He had a fair-sized herd on his estate when I was younger.” Giving her twinned smiles, the Murray brothers turned and crossed the bailey.

“Duncrieff’s herds are good stock, the best of their breed. At one time your father had a brindle bull, as I recall, a fine animal,” Connor said. “Fiona is his granddaughter.”

She lifted her brows. “You’ve seen my father’s herds?”

“Aye.” He rubbed Fiona’s muzzle.

“I used to sit on the hill outside Duncrieff and watch the herds as they wandered the slopes and moors,” she said. “They even waded into our lochan on hot days. Ours were a range of colors—red like Fiona, and golden, black, brindled brown, silver gray. I never went near them, though. My father did not think it seemly for his daughters. He wanted us to be educated women, not dairy maids, so that we would make the best marriages.”