Sarah Gabriel (26 page)

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

Eyes closed, he waved his fingers at her. “Tired.”

Sophie looked to the floor again. Seeing a quick
sparkle on the slate, she found her necklace, then knelt back while she fastened the clasp. But her fingers trembled and the clasp was very small. She huffed impatiently.

“Turn around,” Connor said, and reached out.

She obeyed, pivoting on her knees, bending her head down. She felt his fingers at the back of her neck, warm and featherlike as they closed the clasp. When that was done, his fingers cupped the back of her neck, rubbed there, soothed.

That simple caress felt like heaven. Sophie closed her eyes, let him touch her, easing the tension from her. Shivers cascaded through her. His fingers were warm and damp from the bath, and he smelled divine—clean and masculine. He slid his hand down to rub along the small bones of her neck and upper back, chasing away stiffness that she had not even known was there.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Nice?” he whispered.

“Aye,” she murmured. Realizing where this could go, these tracing touches, she felt a frisson of nervousness. Would she give in to him so willingly again?

Oh yes, she would, and it scared her to know it. Her defiant inner craving now asked more than exciting adventures—she wanted more of his touch, so much more. She wanted to feel his hands upon her and his body within her. She wanted to discover the tender, noble-spirited man that she sensed inside him. The man hidden behind those closed lids, within those silences.

“Sophie.” He took her forearm, his fingers warm and wet.

Caressed by that rough velvet voice, her name felt intimate, almost beloved. His simple touch compelled her to stop.

“Sophie,” he repeated, and looked up at her. “I…need you.”

Her heart leaped. “Aye?” she whispered.

Releasing her arm, he sat forward with a low groan. Then she saw the dark swirl in the water, saw the gash along his side, beneath his ribs. “Oh, Connor!”

“It’s nothing. But just now, it hurts like hell.” He glanced at her. “I meant to tend to it myself, but now that you are here…I could use your help. The bandages and salve are there.”

She knelt. “Let me see it.” She lifted his arm to look.

The gash was not deep, but ugly enough to make her wince. Uglier still in contrast to the hard perfection of his lean, muscled torso. The wound split his skin just beneath his ribs. Sophie rested her hand above the wound, his skin warm and slick with water.

The more she peered at it, the less frightening it became. Her silken sleeve trailed in the water. She did not care. Resting her hand on his shoulder, she loved the firm strength in his body, though her thoughts were focused elsewhere. “I knew…I felt you were hurt.”

“And you were right, Mrs. MacPherson.” He watched her.

“How did it happen?”

“Pistol,” he said.

A thousand replies occurred to her then—questions, comments, reprimands. Some wise inner voice told her to be still. She only looked at him.

“Splendid lass,” he murmured after a moment.

She moved closer, her hair falling over her shoulder. “Let me see again,” she ordered.

He moved his arm, resting it on the edge of the tub, while she leaned over to peer at the wound in the low light. Her robe, loosely draped, sagged into the water, soaked through to her chemise.

“That gash needs stitching. I do not know if I can do that.”

“Have you done much embroidery? No? Then I’d prefer you did not attempt any on me,” he drawled. “It is a clean slice. The bullet grazed past, rather than going into me.”

“So lucky.” She lowered her head. “God and the angels have saved you for something.”
For me.
The words came unbidden, unspoken.

“At least I wasn’t punished for bedding a nun,” he said. “Look here, my lass—the edges of the skin nearly meet. If this is tightly bandaged, and I behave myself for a day or two, it will knit on its own.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Can you behave yourself, Connor MacPherson?”

“N
ot sitting here like this with you,” he murmured. Reaching out, he combed his fingers through her hair, sweeping the damp strands away from her brow. She closed her eyes, sighed, and he shifted his hand to cradle her face. Then her eyes opened.

“No, we should not. You need tending. You’re bleeding. I’ll get the bandages. And you’ll need a fresh shirt—”

“Hush,” he said, and drew her closer while he slid toward her. A feeling overcame him that he could not resist, however foolish it might be. He wanted her in his arms, had to touch her. “Hush, and come here.”

He tilted his head, touched his nose to hers, slanted her chin so his lips met hers in a kiss that began gently, mouths easing together, and strengt
ened to a chain of kisses, each one hungrier than the last.

His mouth moved over hers, under hers, his fingers sank into the rich thickness of her hair, still damp. He kneaded his fingertips along her head and felt shivers run through him. She moaned, arched into him, nearly fell into the water.

He caught her under the arms and slid her over the side of the tub and into his lap. His muscles and the cut in his side protested, but the warmth of the water eased that. Water enveloped her as she came against him, sloshed over the sides of the tub. He cradled her across his body, her bottom nestled enticingly between his opened legs.

Sophie looped her arms around his neck and kissed him, and his hunger increased. He felt her mouth opening for him, and slipped his tongue inside. He had never known such urgent need, so strong that it tossed all reason aside, letting passion pour in to replace thought. He wanted this, here and now, though it made no sense, and he thought she wanted this, too—though that made little sense, either.

His hands slipped through the water, over wet silk, under soaked cotton, to find her skin and the incredible softness of her breast. She moaned again as his fingertips skimmed over the nipple, ruched for him. She felt exquisite, wet, delicate, wild. His lips moved on hers, his tongue gently probed. The water lapped around them, saturated her clothing, but she did not seem to notice, or care. To him, the tangle of fabric was only in the way, and he pushed at it.

A moment later he stripped the robe from her shoulders, pushed it over the side to slap to the floor. His hands skimmed down the wet chemise, dragged
it over her thighs, her abdomen, to free her breasts. He slipped the saturated cloth over her head and flung it away.

The sensation of her bare breasts molding against his torso, her nipples like tender pearls against his chest, took his breath away. He rounded his hand over the delicate softness of her breast, and the throbbing that began between his legs was demanding. She arched, moaned against him, and already he could hardly bear the exquisite pressure building within.

All the while, she touched him as he touched her, tracing her soft hands over his shoulders. Dropping her hand below the surface of the water, she slid her fingers along his uninjured side to find the curve of his hip, the flat valley beneath her own hip. He felt himself fill and harden to push against her, and when her fingers found him, he nearly jumped.

With her mouth sweet against his own, she shifted in his lap, and his heart nearly bounded from his chest. He uttered a low, raspy groan.

Cold water would not have stopped her faster. She straightened, pulled away.

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry—oh dear God, I am sorry.” She clambered out of the tub, water sloshing, her hip scraping over the edge. Naked, beautifully naked, she grabbed for the wet chemise, covering herself and kneeling beside him. “Please—forgive me.”

“For what?” He leaned against the tub, one arm resting casually, the other cupping his side. He pressed away the pain there, but could do little for the other throbbing discomfort that his earnest bride had roused in him. He was fully aroused and cresting the water.

Gasping, Sophie tossed the chemise into the tub. Connor laughed. “Enough, I know,” he said. He regarded her, smiled. “My God,” he murmured, reaching out to touch her face, skim his hand to her shoulder, the top of her breast. “You are so fine to me, lass, like whiskey and cream and honey all at once. I cannot resist. I cannot get enough. I am the one who should apologize.” He sat up, taking her hand, which rested on the tub rim. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand and traced his mouth over her palm. She shuddered, and he felt himself surge.

“I cannot get enough,” he murmured. He stood then, in a rush, pulling her to her feet at the same time. She was magnificently shaped, curving here and full there, both lean and luscious. Stepping over the edge of the tub and onto the floor beside her, keeping hold of her hand, he pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, flattened his body to hers. He felt himself slip between her inner thighs, his core brushing against that soft, nested, feminine place. He stirred deep and quick, and felt himself beginning to melt, catch molten inside.

“Your wound…” she breathed. “It will open….” She stepped back, pushed him away a little, tossed the chemise, so damnably cold and wet, against him where he supposed he needed some covering—and some relief.

She would make him wait, then. Well, one of them had some common sense, he thought, for he looked down and saw blood dripping down his side. He placed his palm over the wound, which he knew was not deep or serious, but was painful and bothersome—particularly now.

“Grab the linen, then, and we’ll see to this,” he said. But he pulled her tightly against him again, for his body was made to fit hers like no other he had ever sampled. She matched him in proportion, nestled perfectly. He throbbed like a drum.

Then she tilted her head just so, and he leaned down to touch his lips to hers, opening her mouth easily with the pressure of a single melting kiss. He did not know how much more of this he could bear.

“This is mad—what are we doing?” she whispered.

“If you do not know—”

“I know you need bandaging just now,” she said primly.

“I need more than bandaging, woman,” he growled, “now.”

She stepped away. He loved her nudity, and she did not seem to mind that he watched her. The kitchen was warm, the fire casting its glow over her skin. His gaze moved over her as hungrily as his mouth, his body, yearned to do. She was graceful and beautiful, and the power and allure of the moment astonished him.

But she snatched up a linen sheet and wrapped it around her. She moved here and there, gathering the wad of bandaging cloth, the potted ointment, the tankard of whiskey. Connor stood waiting, still aching hard for her.

“Lift your arms and keep still,” she said.

He did so, but let his gaze go decidedly wicked. She slid him a glance that was coy and lovely but did not abandon her task or toss away her towel, as he hoped she would.

She tore off a piece of the bandaging cloth to dab the wound. He winced. She handed him the tankard
without a word, and he swallowed, glad of the distracting burn of the drink. She took the tankard from him and swallowed deep herself. Then she dabbed the cloth into the whiskey.

“Hey!” he protested, but she pressed the poultice to his wound swiftly. Connor hissed in a breath, turned his head, fought the wild sting of it.

Sophie dabbed ointment over the gash. He smelled of almond oil, basil, lavender. Taking the longest piece of the cloth, she wrapped his midsection, circling him until the bandage was a thick, snug band about him. She tied and tucked the ends.

“There,” she said. Standing close to him, the linen sheet that wrapped around her draped him as well. She looked up at him. “And now you must behave yourself.”

“Later,” he said gruffly, and took her by the shoulders to kiss her, so that her head went back and her throat arched, her breasts rising against him. Scooping her to him, he dipped his head, traced kisses along her jaw, her throat, dipped farther. Easing the sheet away from her, he dropped it at their feet.

As he bent lower and took her nipple into his mouth, he felt her weakening, melting like butter, while he heightened like a flame. Pushing at him gently, firmly, she urged him toward the wooden bench beside the fire. She meant for him to sit and rest. He was not going to rest.

Leaning his back against the stone wall, which was warm from the fire, he drew her down with him. Coaxing her, he seated her on his lap, facing him, so that her beautiful, lean legs straddled him. He splayed his hands around her waist, traced his palms over her back, her creamy smooth skin, the delec
table curves of her hips. She sat just high enough that he could kiss and tease her breasts, touching his tongue upon first one nipple and then the other, so that she arched and gasped, and pressed herself against him.

God, she felt good, soft and smooth, damp and warm. She smelled good, too, lavender soap and woman, and he felt himself urging hard against her, felt that fire within that stoked him so that he could scarcely think. She shifted so he teased at the hidden cleft, and she gasped again. He was silent, but his breath caught, his body burned.

But she was not ready yet, he knew, for what he knew would happen, his certainty that of heart and soul, and he knew she felt the same need. The course was set, and neither had resisted. He was more than ready, but she was not quite, and he swelled further at the thought of making her so.

Slipping his fingers downward, he found her, warm and slippery and delicate, and he eased his fingers inside, swirled and teased and pressed until she arched and cried out, bucking against him. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her fingers dipped through his hair. He felt her knead his scalp, sending shivers all through him, crown to sole.

When she arched again, he captured a nipple in his mouth, tugged, swept his tongue, heard her sharply indrawn breath. She shuddered and moved against him, opening her legs, inviting him, pleading, slick and sweet as warmed honey.

And he eased himself between her legs then, placed his hands on her hips and glided upward. She pressed down over him, welcoming, enveloping, and he lost himself in her.

Lost himself utterly, felt passion sear through him like wildfire. He rocked with her, felt the force thundering, sweeping him along with it. He plunged, trembling and hot, deep into her, pulled back, moved deeper still.

She gasped, soft and willing, a glorious and breathy sound. Looping her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist, she arched and drove forward with him. Her breath came fast and sweet as her spirit shuddered through her.

As his crashing need poured through him, he felt passion explode, felt his own soul move into the depth of him, move with him in an ancient, magnificent rhythm. Stunned by the ecstasy he felt, he could have stayed with her, his love, forever.

And suddenly he was back where he began, on the bench with his shoulders to the stone wall and his beautiful wife in his arms, still gloved around him, warm and snug and pulsing. But he would never be the same again.

Leaning his head to hers, brow to brow, he sat with her, spent and silent. And he knew that he could not go back, could never go back, to the way he had been not so long ago. Nor did he want to return to that bitter, solitary existence.

He had moved on, and the pain had lessened, and she was the gentle, shining force that had nurtured and teased and loved him out of the shadows.

The quaver of the bow upon the string soothed him, released him. He felt the music rise up in him, flow through him. As he played, he blended with the music more than thought about it, created it more than played it. When the melody took him like this,
it was as if the music had its own soul, expressing its joyful existence through his hands and his bow upon the fiddle. When he played like that, he felt washed clean, forgiven. The past faded, the present brightened, the future became possible—its path spun out before him like the music.

Eyes closed, he saw her face, saw her smile, laugh, weep. He felt the sense that often came to him when he played slow, plaintive airs and laments. He felt loved, and loving.

The music swayed through him, the tones resonating in his hands, his chest, and he played without thinking of the notes, his mind free. The music’s poignant beauty was the sound of the wind, its rises and falls like the mountains and the glens.

He played, listening to the slow rise and sweet fall of the melody, the exquisite touch of grace notes, creating a poignancy that tugged at his heart. His thoughts turned to Sophie then, to the beautiful curves and planes of her body, the long smooth path of her thigh, the sweet arch of her back, the gentle swell of her breast, the hollow of her throat like a grace note upon the melody. He stroked with the bow as he would stroke her, and the lure of the music intensified, so that he was lost in it, and glad for that.

When the last note faded, Connor set the fiddle on its side, set the bow upon the upper edge, and turned.

She stood in the throat of the stairwell, her eyes wide. The wind feathered her hair, feathered his. She wore a chemise and the damask robe, rumpled from its soaking. She flattened her hand to her chest.

“So it’s you,” she said. “The ghost of Glendoon.”

He nodded. While she came toward him, he
waited beside the parapet, wind filling the sleeves of his shirt, rippling his plaid, lifting his dark hair along his shoulders.

“That was beautiful,” she said. “There is such heart in the melody when you play it.”

He shrugged. “I come up here now and then to keep intruders away. That’s all.”

“Mary said that the ghost who haunts this place keeps the soldiers away from here. But your music is so lovely—it would lure visitors who would be curious to hear more.”

“It sounds like a dreadful caterwauling from down the slopes, according to Neill and Andrew,” he said wryly. “The sound of the falls masks it, makes it sound like a haunting.”

“It is haunting. I could not keep away. It’s not frightening from within the castle—just inexpressively beautiful. Each time I’ve heard it, I was drawn to come up here, but I did not dare to climb the steps all the way. It was the thought of meeting a ghost, not the ghostly music itself, that sent me running back to the bed.”