Sarah Gabriel (2 page)

But he had snatched her like a thief. “Do not touch me!” she snapped.

He let go abruptly. Sophie tilted and slid sideways, unable to grab hold to save herself from falling. Her captor righted her then, and when his strength closed around her this time, she felt sheepishly glad of his support.

“Where are we going?” she asked as the horse bounded forward. “Why did you steal me away? Are you sure no one was hurt? What of the men? And my maid? I know you broke those bridges on purpose! How did you do it? What do you want with me?”

“So many questions,” he said, and answered none.

She drew breath again, a prelude to a scream that never emerged, for a length of plaid descended over her head, swathing her in blackness.

She felt the hard strength of his arm encircle her again, pinning her. Wool rasped her cheeks, and she inhaled the mingled odors of smoke, pine, and man. Struggling under the blanket, she felt as if she might smother. The brigand’s chest pressed her back, his legs trapping hers.

“Be still now,” he murmured. “All will be well.”

She rode in stiff silence, hot tears pricking her eyes. Breaths heaving, she felt anger and indignation stir hot, and sought courage to quell them, to think, to do what she could to save herself.

Fuming under the plaid, she remembered her Highland cousins at Duncrieff talking about a local renegade whom they called the Highland Ghost. He stole cattle, they said, attacked parties of English soldiers, even sabotaged the new stone roads that the English troops were building through the Highlands. He had never been seen in daylight but was
said to be a fierce man, violent and clever by turns, striking when and where he pleased. A beast of a man, one of the Duncrieff maids had told her. A savage, said the housekeeper. A rebel and a brigand, said her cousins.

He was said to lurk in this very glen. Sophie shuddered. She should have listened to Sir Henry and stayed at Kinnoull. Her own cousins seemed to suspect that the Ghost was involved in her brother’s arrest. She should have asked more about that.

Was this Highland thief the Ghost himself? Perhaps he had somehow broken those bridges to bring down her Highland cousins and the dragoons. Why would he snatch one woman?

Oh God. She did not want to think about that.

She found the voice to scream, though it was muffled under the plaid. His hand closed over her mouth again.

“Hush, you,” he said quietly at her ear.

Her head spun. She felt strange, as if she hurtled through thunderclouds, as if she rode in the arms of a demon with no sure ground beneath her and hell awaiting her.

S
tealing a bride was a miserable business, Connor decided.

And wrapping this one like a Christmas pudding was not sufficient. He should have gagged her mouth as well as her flailing limbs, for he needed both hands to handle a horse galloping with two riders. The girl shrieked like a kestrel, and as he pressed his hand over her mouth again, her breath warmed his palm through the wool. Mercifully, she quieted.

“Hush,” he soothed. He settled his arm across her chest, his fingers on her jaw, while his other hand gripped the reins.

He had no taste for bullying women, and his patience was easily tested. His promise to Duncrieff obligated him to carry out this regrettable snatching. Take her, her brother had said, see it done, explain later.

When the time came tonight to consummate the marriage, Connor wondered how he could possibly take her, see it done, and explain later. He was not a brute to force a woman to that. He savored and enjoyed the act of love, especially when his partner enjoyed it, too. And Kate MacCarran would be one to savor the pleasure of that with him, he judged, from what he had heard of Duncrieff’s bold sister.

A frisson of lust slipped through him at the thought of touching her perfect womanly shape, evident through layers of clothing. But how the devil he was to convince her to bed her new husband so that he could carry out the rest of this marriage business was beyond him.

He had planned carefully, or so he thought. But now that the snatching was done and Duncrieff’s sister Kate writhed inside the plaid, the chapel where the priest waited seemed a very long distance away. This accursed adventure had just begun.

The MacCarran had been adamant that his sister be fully and legally married. Connor knew that his right and ability to protect his bride must be unquestionable should legal disputes arise later. His sister was promised in marriage to Sir Henry Campbell, Duncrieff had explained just before he was arrested. But Rob had been weak from the wound he had taken and gave few details. Connor understood that she must not be allowed to marry Campbell.

More than willing to seek some vengeance against the magistrate himself, Connor had given his word to snatch Kate MacCarran and make her his own.

He sighed, hard and long. She bit him then, nipping through cloth. Wincing, he tightened his fin
gers over her jaw just enough to convey his disapproval. Under the plaid, she thrust her elbow in his stomach.

Even her own brother admitted that Kate MacCarran was known for her hellion ways. Katie Hell, some called her, and Connor knew that she had acted as a Jacobite spy. The MacCarran had mentioned another sister in a convent somewhere. Undoubtedly she was the opposite of Kate the hellcat.

The wee nun would have been easier to steal than this wild monkey, Connor thought sourly.

He knew nothing about MacCarran’s pious sister, but it was a fair bet that she would never endanger herself, or others, with reckless actions and Jacobite involvement. No wonder the MacCarran had exacted his promise to marry Katie Hell. Only a rebel husband, a rogue himself, could keep a capable watch over her in her brother’s absence.

He sighed again.

As they left the moor and climbed the first upward swell of the hillside, Connor knew that he and the girl could not share the horse for long riding uphill, particularly through darkness and fog. On foot, they would be safer and have more advantage—though he had a sudden image of carrying a thrashing, protesting girl into the chapel.

Glancing around, he saw little enough, but listened past the sound of hooves for any sound of pursuit. He urged the horse up the slope cautiously, balancing the girl in front of him.

Hearing shouts down on the moor, he judged that the men would be out of the water by now and in hot pursuit once they realized the girl was gone. The ar
rival of her riderless horse would add to the confusion and perhaps buy a bit more time.

Pulling on the reins, he slid downward, then lifted the girl down with him and set her on her feet. She stumbled, entangled in the plaid, and Connor steadied her.

She pummeled at him, crying out, a whirlwind of fists and sharp-toed shoes and flapping blanket. Then she thrust her knee upward. He angled away in time but felt the glancing, dull blow.

Swearing under his breath, he yanked on her plaid, wrapping her as snugly as he could. Then he slapped the rump of her horse, which turned to trot down the slope. Since he could still hear the faint echoes of shouting down on the moor, Connor knew the animal would find its way back to the escort.

His would-be bride was twisting, the plaid peeling like an apple curl. Pulling the plaid over her head, Connor lifted and shouldered her. Though she bucked, he held her firm with one arm, glad that her squealing protests were well muffled.

“Be still,” he warned her, then headed up the hillside with his squirming, kicking bundle.

“Put me down! I thought you meant to save us back there!”

“I
am
saving you. Stop squirming and let me do that.”

“You’re a madman!” she gasped through the swath of wool.

“So they say,” he agreed affably, and took the hill with long strides.

She was not much of a weight, and he was accustomed to carrying game home from the hunt—but this catch was wrestling like a kelpie. Somehow he
managed the climb and the carry, slowing his steps as the hill grew steeper. He would not admit weakness, or defeat, by setting her down.

“Stop,” she said. “Please, stop! Let me go! Why did you steal me away from my escort?”

“I am your escort now,” he said.

“You don’t intend to see me home. I do not know what you want, but if you plan to—to disgrace me, I will never submit to it!
Never!
” She blurted the last on a sob.

He set her down, fast and sure, tore the plaid from her head, grasped her chin in his hand. “I am not that sort of beast,” he said angrily.

“Beast…” She stared at him, eyes wide, breath heaving. “You’re the one they call the Highland Ghost!”

“What do you know of that fellow?” Connor lowered his hands to grasp her shoulders, keeping her close so she could not hobble away or kick him.

“I hear he is a cattle thief and a murderer, that he strikes where he wills and does as he pleases. Is it you?”

He cocked a brow. “Do I look like a ghost?”

“You’re not a bear of a man, as they say he is,” she said, scrutinizing him through mist and darkness. “My maid heard that he is dark and very large, said to be a giant—and you are tall and have dark hair. With your whiskers and long hair, and your Highland gear, you do look the savage…but you seem rather pleasing in countenance beneath it all.”

He inclined his head in wry acknowledgment.

“But pretty looks can mask a lunatic nature,” she added.

“Shall I beware of you, then, mistress?” he murmured.

Pulling her brows together, she glared up at him.

“I hope there is something kind said of this Ghost,” he muttered. Frankly, he did not want to discuss this—and certainly did not intend to give her more detail than she had already heard from castle gossip. Taking her arm, he turned, and she took short steps to keep up, the plaid still in a loose tangle around her.

“To be fair, one of my cousins did tell me that the Ghost can be generous to unfortunates, according to his whim, and has helped tenants and farmers who have been dispossessed by the English. When cattle are stolen from poor widows and such, he replaces them. And they say he regrets each life he takes.”

“Ah. How reassuring.” Allan and Donald MacCarran had always been good comrades, and Connor was glad to hear that they spoke well of his antics as the so-called Highland Ghost—though he felt a qualm, again, for the rumored death of their chief, which apparently had not been shared with the family. He was not about to tell any of them until he had confirmed that himself.

As for the Ghost, he was less involved in stealing cattle and protecting widows than in undermining General Wade’s efforts to construct military roads through the Highlands. Duncrieff himself had joined some of those raids—resulting in disaster, and the hurried promise he had extracted from Connor.

“I suppose there is good in everyone.” Duncrieff’s sister looked at him with an earnest, clear gaze, though her shoulders tensed under his hands and he sensed a fine trembling in her.

He frowned. “What else do you know of this Highland Ghost?”

“I was told that he betrayed the chief of the MacCarrans,” she said bluntly. Anger flashed in her bright, lovely eyes.

Brave girl, Connor thought, to confront him when it might be a risk to do so. But Kate MacCarran’s boldness was well known.

“Perhaps,” he growled. “Perhaps not.”

“Will you deny it?”

“If I were this Ghost, I would.”

“I would know that from you, now or later.”

“We have more immediate concerns,” he said, taking her arm to guide her along, though she stumbled to keep up. He would have to carry her again, or find another way to subdue her so they could make quicker progress over the hills.

She stopped, and he stopped with her. “If you are the Highland Ghost, then I have serious grievances with you.”

Holding her arm, he could still feel her shaking. She was courageous, but genuinely frightened. That realization disturbed him. He hated what he had done—what he still must do.

“I know your grievance,” he said grimly.

She drew herself to her full height, just to his shoulder. Her face was a pale oval, her eyes wide and silvery. He wondered what their color would be in sunlight. “For now, I will ask for mercy, sir. I believe you have an honorable conscience, despite all. Let me go, and prove it.”

Gazing down, Connor saw more than fragile courage in her demeanor. He saw a compassion that he did not deserve. His breath stopped in his throat.

She watched him earnestly, caught in his grip. “Release me unharmed and I will tell my kinsmen that you treated me well. That you…saved me down on the moor. That is not such a lie. And I…promise that I will forgive you.”

Connor huffed in plain astonishment. She bargained kindness for freedom. He had not expected anything of the sort. He had planned to subdue a struggling woman and haul her off to be married—but he did not know how to answer this. Katherine MacCarran was not known for virtue, but apparently the notorious Katie Hell had her saintly side, too.

Either that or she was very clever.

The damnable thing was that she was right. He was a decent man who followed an inner code of honor, though he broke laws to do that.

But he had neither time nor inclination to explain or apologize. The marriage must be made quickly. If force accomplished that, so be it.

“We are in a hurry here, Miss MacCarran.”

“You know my name!”

“I did not abduct you on a whim.”

“Then all this was planned?”

“Quick-witted as well as bonny,” he murmured.

“But I do not know you!” She paused. “Are you that Ghost?”

He shrugged. “We must go, Miss MacCarran.”

“Did you betray my brother, or have a hand in his arrest? They say you did. Please—I must know.”

“We have no time for this,” he said fiercely.

She frowned up at him, tilted her head. “At least answer me this,” she murmured. “Why did you take me away from my escort? Were you waiting for us as we crossed the moor?”

“I was,” he nearly whispered, bending lower. His breath swept her cheek; and her breath, coming in small, frosted clouds, touched his lips. “I think I would have waited for you forever.”

Why the devil had he said that? He sounded like a besotted fool, or a damned poet. She had a strange effect on him, a lure that he could not quite resist. Not only did her lovely voice, even raised and tense, affect him—her beautiful eyes and lush form had their influence on him as well. He scowled at her.

Her gaze searched his. “And now you must let me go,” she whispered.

He could not. Would not. His nose brushed the delicate tip of her own. As he held her arms, he felt her slump a little, sensed her surrender for a moment, soften expectantly, as if the same power that rushed through him affected her. Suddenly he wanted to kiss her, to take her into his arms and bury himself, lose his senses in her, fill her as the demand filled him.

Bending toward her, heart thudding, he very nearly did kiss her, forgetting for that moment the urgency of his promise to her brother. All he could think about was touching her—though he did not know how she had affected him so quickly, so intensely. He was not generally an impulsive man. But now, as his mouth hovered near hers, he struggled to resist temptation.

Her head tilted, her eyes drifted shut. Her loveliness only increased his desire. He leaned closer, drawn toward her.

She stiffened and pulled back. “Do not give my kinsmen even more cause for revenge. They will find me, and you.”

He touched a finger to her alluring lower lip, as if that would drain off the passion rising in him. “Your kin will not find us. But we cannot linger here. Come ahead.”

Once again he pulled the plaid over her head, lifted and shouldered her. Her protests were muffled as he strode ahead.

Soon Connor saw movement in the fog. He stepped behind a cluster of gorse and rock and crouched down, setting the girl on her knees to face him. Taking her in his arms, he pulled her into his arms, holding tight to keep her still and quiet.

“Hush,” he whispered. “There are lawless rogues out in these hills.” He knew the irony of that, but she stilled nonetheless, without comment.

Likely only Neill and Andrew crashed about in the heather out there, Connor thought. But the escort party might have extracted themselves and their horses from the water by now, and collected enough wits to search the hills—providing they could find their way in the fog.

The girl rested her head on his shoulder—probably for lack of a better spot, he guessed. She felt so warm, so damn good against him, that he felt his body stir. Closing his eyes, he let himself savor the feel of a woman in his arms. It had been so long…not so long since he had eased his desires with a woman, but since he had just held one.