Sarah Gabriel (20 page)

She laughed. Her shoulder bumped his arm as they made their way along the nearly obscured path. “I would like to see that.”

“You just might.” He guided her around a stone.

“This garden was lovingly tended, long ago, and well designed,” she said. “There’s a paradise to be reclaimed underneath all this chaos. It only needs some attention.”

His arm came over her shoulders, and he turned her toward him. “Sophie, this is not a wee hobby, or a few idle days’ work. It would take a lifetime’s dedication to maintain this garden in the way you imagine it could be.”

A lifetime, she thought. I would like that. But she only nodded. “I’ve always wanted a garden of my own to muck about in.”

He glanced up, where clouds swept over the sun. His arm stayed about her, both a comfort and a thrill. “If you start mucking about in the gardens just now, you’ll be up to your elbows in mud before long. We’ll see rain soon, I think.”

“It will be good for the plants,” she answered, looking up as well. The tilt of her head brought her closer to him. Connor lifted a hand to brush back her hair, cup her cheek.

“You think more about what is good for others, even plants, than your own welfare,” he said. “It is admirable.”

“It is not so bad to be trained by nuns,” she said lightly.

“I am getting very fond of nuns,” he whispered, lowering his head. His mouth settled softly upon hers, his fingers slipping along her cheek, into her hair.

The force that went through her then was like a gentle surrender, so that her knees buckled and her heart soared, and she had to hold onto his arms or fall.

He kissed her again, thoroughly, and she let him angle her head while she arched toward him in complement. All else vanished but the warm press of his mouth on hers, the hard strength of his body, the power of that strong, beautiful kiss. Only desire, and willingness, and exquisite tenderness remained.

When he drew back, she held to his forearms for support, her heart beating madly, her breath quick. She glanced up.

“Thank you,” Connor said.

She blinked. “Thank me—for what?” For falling in love with the Highland rogue who had snatched her away from all that was familiar? She could hardly think, only stared at him.

He glanced around. “For finding something of worth here in this ruin of a place.”

“There is something to rescue here,” she said breathlessly. “I want to do that. Let me do that.”

He let her go then, stepped back, turned to walk again, and she went along beside him.

“There is an old curse over this place,” he remarked. “They say nothing will flourish at Glendoon until the magic returns.”

“Magic?”

He shrugged. “I think it was your ancestors’ way of saying that Glendoon is full of rocks and ghosts, and its hill is too blasted steep to bother with.”

She looked around at the overgrown garden and beyond it to the old keep with its broken walls. “Glendoon needs love and hard work to restore it, but it needs to be a home again.” She glanced at him. “Then the magic would return.”

“It’s too remote to ever become a home.”

“Anyplace can be a happy home. The hearts within make it so, not the condition of its walls, or the steepness of its hill, or the health of its fields.”

He glanced at her thoughtfully as they neared the gate. Opening it, he waited for her to pass through.

“Sophie,” he said. “You are a wonder. Now you’d best go see to your wee garden. Your faithful servant has been rather zealous.” He gestured toward the keep, where Roderick toiled beside a huge mound of plant debris.

She walked past Connor and made her way across the yard. Roderick straightened to look at her, rake in hand, sweat dampening his black hair.

“There, mistress, I’ve cleared the path and torn out all the ivy,” he said, indicating the torn-up plants.

“
All
the ivy?” she asked in dismay, realizing she should have been more specific in her instructions. “And the strawberries?”

“Aye, and I’ll finish it by today or tomorrow, so you can plant your wee seeds if you like.”

“Oh, thank you, Roderick. Tomorrow I’ll want a trench laid at one end, too, and filled with about six inches of dung. Horse is better, but cow or sheep will do,” she said.

“Dung?” Roderick gaped. “Dung?
Ach,
mistress, I’m a guard, not a—”

“Do as she says, lad,” Connor said casually, approaching behind Sophie. “It’s part of your duty here. Lady Kinnoull knows what she wants and what she needs.”

“I do,” she said, looking at him. “I think I do.”

“We’ll have acres of tulips in these old gardens before long, if she has her way.” Connor gave her a quick smile before sauntering past them toward the kitchen door. “Oh, Roderick—there is plenty of sheep dung in the hills if you want to go fetch it.” Winking at Sophie, Connor walked away.

Roderick muttered under his breath, while Sophie pinched her lips together to hide her smile and picked up a rake herself, setting to work, too.

“Glen Carran,” Connor remarked, “will never be a peaceful valley again.” He lay prone on a heathery
hillside, peering down at the moorland where the river sliced past.

“Someday the return of Lord Kinnoull to his rightful station will bring happiness back to this place,” Neill said.

Connor huffed softly. “Better to return the chief of the MacCarrans to Duncrieff Castle and his people than to bother with a small laird. But too late for that.”

Nearby, Neill and Andrew lay supine, their plaid-wrapped forms hidden in deep heather tufts, still brown with winter, though pale green tips showed here and there among the drab.

Connor was glad to see that greening up in the hills, for it meant an end to a long, bleak winter and a bleaker year, studded with misfortunes like stones in a field. With the arrival of spring, life could begin again and he would have hope.

Concentrating his gaze on the moor below, he watched a large crew of soldiers apply themselves to various tasks—some at the foot of the very hill where Connor and the others lay watching. The men worked steadily to apply gravel to a nearly finished part of the road. A half mile or so ahead, another large crew used shovels and pickaxes to dig a fresh track and break up any stones that were in the ground. The sound of chisels and axes and shovels rang in the air, echoing against the hills.

“I am thinking,” Andrew said, “that these roads may be a good thing.”

“And why is that?” Connor trained his gaze on the soldiers.

“They’re fair roads,” Andrew said. “Sixteen feet across, some of them, twelve at least, straight and
smooth as an arrow. We can drive a lot of cattle and sheep along such roads.”

“Their hooves would suffer on the gravel topping,” Neill pointed out. “On the old drover’s tracks, it’s soft earth and packed grass, worn smooth with use. Better for cattle, that.”

“The driving takes longer. We could shoe the herds for the journey and get them to market faster. They’d be healthier, not so thin from the extra miles. You could sell them for a higher price.” Andrew glanced at him. “You could buy a gig.”

“A gig,” Connor repeated.

“For your lady,” Andrew explained. “So you could drive her through the glen on fine straight roads, and take her to Crieff and to Perth, to the merchants there, and she’d spend your fine cattle earnings as only a wife can do.” His eyes twinkled.

“Shall I buy her a parasol as well,” Connor drawled, “so she can tour the countryside as the stolen bride of Glendoon?”

“Not Glendoon,” Neill said. “Lady Kinnoull is a viscountess, and will need a gig in high style. A sleek pony, and a driver, too.” He grinned, getting into the spirit of the teasing. Connor rolled his eyes.

“I’ll drive,” Andrew said. “I’ll want livery, though.”

“Hush it,” Connor hissed. “Both of you, hold your nonsense.” He turned his gaze back to the hill. A stiff breeze blew through, fluttering the heather tufts, billowing shirts and plaids and whipping at their hair.

After a moment Neill shook his head. “I tell you, lads, I am tired of the cold and ready for spring. And I am heartily sick of brown everywhere. The heather in bloom is a softer bed after hunting red soldiers.”

“The heather does not bloom until July,” Connor
pointed out pragmatically. “The gorse blooms earlier, but you wouldn’t want to lay in that.”

“
Ach,
he’s tough enough for it,” Andrew drawled.

“I must be getting old,” Neill said. “I’m wanting warm weather and some green and color in these hills. And let’s hope there will be some growth in our fields this year,” he added. “If we have another year like the last one, we will have no food in our larders, nor hay in our byres, and our cattle will starve next winter. Without the Duncrieff’s generosity last year, I do not know where we would be now.”

“A sad loss, that,” Andrew muttered.

“His death has not been confirmed,” Connor said. “I will not mourn him until I know he is gone.”

“If he is not, you had best find him,” Neill said.

Connor nodded in silence.

“You’ve had bad luck ever since you rented that old ruin from Duncrieff,” Andrew said. “The curse on those walls is sucking the fortune away from all of us.”

“I don’t much believe in curses, or ghosts, or fairies or bogles. I believe in luck, the good and the bad of it, and I believe we make of life what we can,” Connor said.

“Maybe your bonny bride will bring you some luck,” Neill said. “They say MacCarrans have fairy blood. She has the look of that ilk.”

Connor frowned. “I’ve heard of the fairy legends of the MacCarrans, but I know little about them. Duncrieff himself never mentioned the subject. It’s likely nonsense–pretty tales.”

“My old granny says that Duncrieff’s sisters bear the fairy blood and its gifts,” Andrew said.

Connor looked surprised. “Both of them?”

“So I’ve heard. So Granny said.” Andrew shrugged. “If your bride could turn stones into gold, or give you back your lands, that would be useful.”

“Wake up, lad. There are few lambs in my flocks, and none of my cows have calved for two years. Glendoon’s fields have scarcely produced in that time, either. My lands are gone, and my rented castle is falling about my ears. A bit of fairy blood will not fix all that.”

“If it is a true fairy’s gift—” Andrew began.

“Hey, look there.” Neill pointed. “Those are MacCarrans.”

“Aye,” Connor said, looking down the hill at two men who climbed the slopes. “I sent Padraig with word that I would be in these hills until evening and that I would speak with them.”

As the Highlanders loped closer, Connor rose to his feet and lifted a hand, waiting, while the wind blew his hair, the sleeves of his shirt.

“We’ll have a word with you, Kinnoull,” Allan MacCarran said as they came near. He set his hand to the dirk half concealed in his belt.

“W
here is our cousin?” Donald MacCarran glowered at Connor.

“She is fine, and safe,” Connor said bluntly. “I have her. And you should know that I’ve married her.”

Donald, the shorter and darker of the two men, touched his dirk handle. “You dumped us into the water while you were at it!”

“Stop,” Allan said, putting a hand to Donald’s shoulder. Connor looked at him in surprise, and Allan nodded. He had the golden coloring of his cousins, though in a ruddy way. “Duncrieff himself said this might come about. But we did not expect it to happen quite that way,” he added.

“So he told you,” Connor murmured.

“Not long ago,” Allan said, “he said he would pre
fer Sophie to marry you rather than Campbell. He thought it a better match.”

“He did mean Sophie, and not her sister Kate?”

“Aye, of course. He did not want Sophie to marry Campbell, though the old chief arranged it years ago,” Donald said. “But now we disagree with the MacCarran’s choice, MacPherson. He thought you a friend, but you showed yourself a poor comrade.”

“Have I?” Connor narrowed his eyes.

“The night of the raid, weeks ago, when Duncrieff was taken,” Allan said. “Tell us the truth of that, MacPherson. We were there, Donald and myself, and your lads, too.” He nodded to Neill and Andrew. “We went ahead of you and Duncrieff, that night he was shot.” His gaze was bitter. “He said it was not serious, and we left him with you.”

“He fooled us all,” Connor said. “He had a slight wound to the arm, but he was pistol-shot in the back, which he concealed until he collapsed.”

“Did you leave him to die?” Donald demanded.

“I left him.” Connor hated himself for saying the words.

“Why?” Allan gripped the handle of his dirk.

“They say he was betrayed by a friend that night,” Donald said. “The red soldiers say they caught him because someone shouted out where he was and fled. We knew it was you.”

“If you think I’m guilty, why did you not come after me before this?”

“We did not want to believe it,” Donald said. “We went to Glendoon, and Mrs. Murray said you had gone to Perth.”

“Aye, to see Duncrieff. The guards said he was ill
and could have no visitors. I returned again and again, but never saw him.”

“We went there as well,” Allan said. “They would not admit us, either, his kinsmen. We’ve had no word since if he is alive or dead.”

The last time Connor went to Perth, the guards had told him that Duncrieff had been transferred and died en route. But he would not say that now until he knew it was true.

“Tell us why you left the lad,” Donald snarled.

“Wounded as he was, I could not save him,” Connor explained. “I had to gamble that the government would respect a clan chief, even a Jacobite rebel. General Wade has some decency in him,” he admitted. “Duncrieff would have died that night had he stayed with me. I followed to make sure that the soldiers took him to a physician, which they did.”

Allan and Donald watched him warily, then spoke in muted tones, their hands still on their weapons. Connor waited, tense and expressionless, knowing they had reason to despise him.

He would not tell them how he had done his best to stem the bleeding, while Rob demanded that Connor leave him and flee. Nor would he recount how bitterly they had argued, harsh words that burned in his memory.

“Leave me here,” Rob had said. “Go—but make me one promise. I want you to marry my sister. She will return to Duncrieff next week—I must have your promise on it before I die.”

“You will not die,” Connor had insisted. “You will not.”

“Conn, do this for me…marry her—she is
named on this page, and I’ve set my seal to it. You can save her, and Clan Carran, too, from threat—if I am not here to watch out for them.”

Seeing how pale and weak his friend grew, Connor had given his word quickly, not thinking of marriage, thinking only of his friend. He owed Duncrieff so much, and loved him and his clan. “I trust only you to do this, Conn,” he said. “But you must go—”

“Trust me to stay with a wounded comrade,” Connor had growled.

MacCarran of Duncrieff had shouted out then, bringing the soldiers toward them. Connor refused to leave, but Rob had shoved him into a screen of bushes with the last of his strength as the dragoons came near. He had sacrificed his own freedom to save Connor’s life.

Realizing that the red soldiers would take Duncrieff directly to a military physician, Connor had let them go.

“I did leave him there,” he said now. “It was the only way I could help him. And I gave him my word and kept it.”

“Duncrieff told me he trusted you,” Allan replied. “He said only you were good enough to marry our cousin Sophie, and he would see to it.”

Connor felt his throat tighten. He felt the presence of Neill and Andrew at his back, silent and strong, men who trusted him without question. He took Duncrieff’s paper from his sporran and handed it to Allan, who read it and passed it to Donald.

“You had no choice, I see,” Allan said.

Connor nodded. “I beg your pardon if you got a soaking the night we took the bridges down. It was
the fastest way to take her away before Campbell could interfere.”

“If our chief wanted this, we’ll accept it,” Allan said, handing back the note. “You’d best treat her well, Kinnoull.” His hand had not yet left the ballock handle of his dirk.

“I would never harm her,” Connor growled.

“Sophie is a treasure,” Donald said. “She has the gift.”

“The gift?” Connor frowned.

Allan nodded. “The Fairy’s Gift of the MacCarrans. And more than that, she is the finest treasure of our clan.”

Connor looked from one man to the other. A suspicion began to dawn in him. “Why did Duncrieff insist that I marry her?”

“Surely you know why,” Allan said.

“There was no time for him to explain.” Not even time enough to make clear which sister, he thought.

“She’s the heiress of Duncrieff,” Donald said. “The ‘Maiden of Duncrieff,’ as we call a female heiress—before she’s wed.”

Connor stared at him. “Heiress?”

“Duncrieff is not yet married, and has no child. Sophie is the older sister. She inherits if anything should happen to him.”

“Inherits the estate,” Connor clarified, hoping that was what they meant. But he feared there was more.

“The estate, aye, but that is divided with her sister. Sophie is head of Clan Carran should her brother die without an heir of his own,” Allan replied.

Chief. The hills, the sky, seemed to tilt on its axis. Connor summoned his wits. “Sophie inherits the
chiefship? Why not a male kinsmen—one of you two, perhaps.”

“Some clans name a cousin or kinsman when there is no close heir, particularly to protect the clan,” Donald said. “But MacCarran tradition says the heir must come from the chief’s closest kin, regardless of gender. No matter—Duncrieff has only been arrested. We’ll petition for his release, and all will be well.”

“Why would he choose me to marry Sophie?” Connor asked, still stunned and trying to puzzle it out. His bride was the chief of a Highland clan—and she did not even know it.

“Duncrieff trusts you implicitly,” Allan replied. “And your title as Lord Kinnoull could help our clan. Our chief currently has no title. He is a chief and a laird, but not a peer. In such times, with England ruling Scotland—for now—we need the advantage of those who are born and bred to power and position.”

“My title is of no use to anyone now.”

“You’ll be reinstated one day. Duncrieff was sure of it, and I am sure of it, too,” Allan said. “And you can help protect our clan from someone like Campbell, who has been hungry to take control of the clan. He would have more say in government as a Whig with influence over an entire Highland clan.”

“Or so he thinks,” Connor growled.

“Exactly. We suspect that is why he wanted to marry Sophie in the first place. Otherwise he would not bother with her.”

Connor let out a bitter laugh. “So Campbell knows about Sophie’s status?”

“He is the magistrate for this region. He knows.”

“Does she know about this herself?” Connor asked quietly.

Allan shook his head. “She never wanted to be the heiress, and suggested Kate instead—but Kate is involved in the rebellion, which could go badly for her and the clan if she were ever to become chief. Duncrieff meant to talk to Sophie about this when she returned home to Scotland, but he had no chance. He had decided to ask if you would marry her—but not so soon.”

Connor nodded. Much of it made sense to him now, but raised new challenges. “I had best tell her about this.”

“Tell her, or not.” Donald shrugged. “It does not matter. Duncrieff will be released, and all will be well for our clan.”

“Kinnoull, you must keep Sophie safe,” Allan said.

“You and your clan have my word on it.” Connor extended his hand first to Allan and then Donald.

“We’d best move on,” Allan said. “Whenever the military sees Highland men in conversation, they become suspicious.”

“Good day to you,” Donald said. “Cousin.”

Connor nodded grimly, and the MacCarrans turned to leave.

“Hey, one thing more,” Donald said, turning back. “You do know about Sophie’s gift.”

“The legend of the Fairy’s Gift? I’ve heard of it,” Connor said in surprise. “But I know little about your clan’s lore.”

“Ask her about it,” Donald said. “She was born with fairy blood, and the gift as well—so was Kate, come to that. Ask her.” He grinned, and waved as the two men left.

Frowning, bewildered, Connor turned toward Neill and Andrew, who had stood silently to one side throughout the meeting.

“No wonder Duncrieff did not tell you the truth of this,” Neill commented.

“Aye,” Connor muttered as he walked ahead.

Marrying the female head of a clan was far more to ask of a man than marrying a troublesome hellion, Connor thought. Had Duncrieff presented his request under civilized circumstances, he would have hesitated, probably refused altogether. All his adult life, he had longed only for a peaceful, simple life. Now he wanted only to reclaim his home and his future, and continue to seek that simple lifestyle.

But the marriage was made, and he would accept his role. If he could help Sophie and her clan, then so be it. He had given his word to Duncrieff.

And he suspected that he had already given his heart to the man’s sister.

Much later, returning to a sleeping household at Glendoon, Connor walked quietly past the door to his bedchamber, where his wife lay sleeping. He was not prepared yet to face her with this revelation. Should he tell her outright that she was chief? If so, he would have to tell her what he knew of her brother.

Neither of them were ready for that yet. The hour was late, and his need to be alone to think burned in him. He took the stairs up toward the ruined corner guard tower with its shelter and solitude.

Beneath a canopy of stars, he opened the fiddle case and removed the instrument. Tightening the
bow, tuning the strings, he set the fiddle to his shoulder, closed his eyes, and let the melody come to him.

A slow down bow, a quick bowing up, and the sound created itself without his conscious effort. He pressed callused fingertips against the fingerboard, slid up, danced down, while his fingers and the bow coaxed the melody from the strings.

For this brief time only the music filled his mind. He felt himself begin to relax, felt his tensions ease as the tune poured through him, flowing as naturally as breathing.

At first he played a steadily repeating tune, more rhythm than melody, and when its droning magic had calmed him, a new melody began to form, soft and slow, with a lilting quality. He had never played it before; it simply emerged.

The tune had a golden sweetness, he thought, like Sophie, a gentleness and a bright spirit. He saw golden hair like sunshine, eyes like blue-green crystal, a beautiful smile that warmed his heart. The cadence of the song reminded him of the fluid grace of her walk, the lilt of her voice.

He repeated the melody to fasten it into his memory, reminding himself to jot it down in musical notation later. Perhaps he would title it “Mrs. MacPherson,” or even “Lady Kinnoull,” according to her married title.

Perhaps, he thought then, he ought to call it “The Bonny Chief of the MacCarrans.”

He raised the bow and played a different tune, and when the song ended, he looked down the steep hill that led to the glen. The waterfall foamed white in the darkness and sounded like distant thunder.
That roar distorted the fiddle’s music, turned it ghostlike, adding to Glendoon’s mysteries. Whenever he could, Connor kept watch from this spot like an eagle in an aerie.

But when all was peaceful, when the sky bloomed pale at dawn or burned to embers at sunset, he stood alone, and heard music in the water, in the wind, in his own heart. Somehow Sophie had entered into his music, too, stirring him to express his feelings through his fiddle and bow.

Furrowing his brow, he tipped the instrument to his shoulder again and played the new, exquisite little air just for her.

The music slipped down cold corridors, through cracks in stone walls. Sophie stood by the bedchamber door, listening. As before, the tune was plaintive and slow, but this time it had a strong but delicate beauty to it. This time she was not frightened—she only wanted to hear more.

Opening the door carefully, she paused. The music was faint but definite, emanating from somewhere inside the stone ruins.

Achingly beautiful, the air expressed poignant emotion in its lovely notes, lifting, falling, soaring pure. Sophie placed a hand over her heart and felt tears starting in her eyes.

Then the music stopped as mysteriously as it had begun. After a moment she closed the door. Going back to the bed, shivering, she slid under the covers.

In a while, as she began to slide into sleep, the little melody played through her mind again, and she sensed once more the tenderness in its notes—as if love itself had turned to sound, she thought.