Sarah Gabriel (27 page)

He smiled. “So you found a little courage at last. But you always had it.” He reached out to slip his hand along her cheek. She tilted her face into his palm for a moment. Turning away, he picked up the fiddle to put it away.

“Oh, please not yet,” she said. “I want to hear more. Do you play reels and jigs, too, as well as airs? Do you play for ceilidhs?”

“I can and I have, but not for a long while. It’s a solitary thing for me, this fiddling, I suppose.” He set the violin in place, tipped his chin and lifted the bow. Then he paused, tapped his foot a bit as he
waited for the tune to come to him. He chose a jig for her, one with a constant, joyful, simple rhythm. Sophie began to clap, swaying, smiling. He walked about a bit, stepping over the broken stones in the collapsed room, turning to look out through the collapsed wall at the pewter sky above the mountains just before dawn. When the song was done, he lowered his instrument and looked at her.

She was smiling, her arms wrapped around herself, the damask robe billowing in the breeze. “Where did you learn to play? In Paris, when you went to school there? Or did you have a music master at home?”

He shook his head. “I learned by ear, mostly, and from an older cousin, who learned from his father—the notorious James MacPherson, who was my great-uncle. Have you heard of him? No? Well, he was a fiddler with Gypsy blood in him, and famous for his misdeeds as a thief and a rogue. Have you ever heard ‘MacPherson’s Lament’?”

He played a little of it for her, the lilt and sadness in it that always touched him. He lowered the bow again. “Jamie MacPherson was caught for his rascal ways and sentenced to hang. Before his execution day he wrote that tune, and fiddled it for the crowd who came to watch him die. He moved them all to tears. Then he offered to give his fiddle to anyone brave enough to take it from him, and no one would. He broke it in half moments before the noose was set round his neck. The irony of it is, there was a pardon on its way for him. But he had an enemy in the sheriff, who saw the rider approaching and set the town clock ahead a few minutes, so that MacPherson was dead before his pardon arrived.”

She gasped. “So you come from a long line of rascals.”

“On one side of the family,” he said. “The rest of them were rather dull.” He winked at her, and she laughed. “My father had that sort of boldness in him, though he was a titled laird. I suppose I have some of it as well.”

“I would say so!”

He began to play again, this time the melody he had written for her, only for her. She moved in a gentle dance, closing her eyes. He smiled to himself as he played, and the music made him feel loving and fulfilled, as music played from the heart could do.

Usually when he played, it was a solitary thing, but now Sophie was here to listen, to feel the music as he did. She brought brightness into his life, with her smiles and her temper, her penchant for honesty and her touch for growing things. His rented ruin felt more like a home now, as if Sophie had opened windows into his soul.

She was a balm for loneliness, bringing comfort and fire into his bed, and she had taken hold in his heart. He had not meant for it to happen, but it had, and there was no further resisting. All he had to do now was keep her.

He played, eyes closed, the music weaving into the fabric of his being. When he set the instrument down, he felt the chill wind of morning.

“Look.” Sophie pointed toward the distant mountains. “You played the sun awake.” Beyond the castle, over the mountains, dawn bloomed pale in the sky.

“Supper is ready,” Mary said, hurrying into the large garden toward Sophie, “and Kinnoull and
Neill are nearly here, and likely hungry. Unless ye need me, mistress, I will go back to Balnaven with Neill. Or shall I stay to serve the food? Though I canna find all the pewter tankards—odd. And we canna use the pretty wineglasses that Connor’s mother owned—ye’ve planted those in the gardens.” Mary looked bewildered, gazing at a neat row of upended green glass goblets, their rims sunk into fresh earth.

“I’m using them for cloches,” Sophie said. She stood, wiping her hands on the apron she wore while working in the garden. “They’ll protect the seedlings and keep them warm until the weather improves. I hope you do not mind.”

“Hinny, what’s in this castle belongs to ye now,” Mary said, “not me. Though I wonder what has become of the pewter tankards. Perhaps Kinnoull and the rest drank ale in them and left them somewhere. Well, I’ll go then, if ye dinna need me further tonight.”

“Thank you, Mary. And do go home, please.” Sophie picked up her skirts to walk with her toward the garden gate. “I will see to everything here.”

“Thank ye, mistress. I’ll be back in a day or two. I’ve chores to see to at home.”

“Come back when you like. I can manage the kitchen and the household on my own.”

“Ye’ll make this old place the home that the laird wants. He needs ye here, does Kinnoull.”

Sophie caught her breath at that, felt a swirl of happiness. “Thank you.” Just days ago she would not have thanked anyone for saying that the rogue needed her. Now she realized that she needed him as well.

“
Och,
aye. And Neill needs me more than he will admit. We’ve not been together much lately.” Sophie saw the pretty flush in Mary’s cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes.

After years of marriage, Mary still felt a love so strong and true that the return of her man brought fresh excitement. No matter how long or short the separation, no matter how many years they had been together, the Murrays’ love for one another still burned bright.

Sophie wanted that feeling in her life, too. She knew love already budded within her, but she did not know if her hasty marriage could weather the turmoil of its beginnings to flow into years of happiness and contentment.

Fingering the crystal at her throat, she turned toward the kitchen door as Mary headed for the front gate. Then she stopped and turned again. Walking past the new sprouts in the kitchen garden, she walked round the edge of the tower.

Connor and Neill came through the gate, and Mary went to her husband. Connor looked up and stopped, watching Sophie as if he was as unsure of the moment as she was.

With trembling fingers Sophie tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smoothed her skirts. Then she hurried toward him.

“K
innoull, what do you think of the good news?” Padraig called as he came through the yard, tugging on Fiona’s rope.

Connor, crossing the yard after supper, stopped to look around. “News?” He was concerned that Andrew and Neill had not yet returned from a mission that evening to watch what the soldiers were about and report back to him. Since the theft of the powder keg, he knew they must all keep a wary guard.

“The chickens,” Padraig said, coming closer. “They are laying again. My mother collected over a dozen eggs, and made that fine oatmeal pudding for us. And I just found six more eggs.”

“Mary mentioned that and I did think it odd,” Connor said. “I wonder what set the chickens to laying again.”

“And there are shoots coming up in the garden already where Mistress Sophie planted her seeds, have you seen?”

“Weeds,” Connor said. “Grasses. It is April.”

“No, beans and sweet peas, I’m sure of it, coming up already, and getting tall fast. And there are daffodils and buttercups sprouting in the front, more than I’ve ever seen. There are some little purple flowers, too. The yard is thick with them. Have you noticed?”

“I have,” Connor murmured. “Perhaps it’s all the rain we’ve had. And it is spring—plants are bound to grow.” Nonetheless, he glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen garden, where he had seen Sophie last.

“Maybe the old curse of Glendoon has lifted.” Padraig grinned.

Connor frowned. “This old ruin has been a barren place for years, long before I came up here. My small crops of oats and barley have failed, most everything has failed. Last summer was a bleak season.” He shrugged. “Much as I’d like to believe the curse is broken, I would not be so quick to say so just because we have a few flowers and some eggs. Take Fiona back to her stall, if you will. Have you persuaded her to give any milk at all?”

“That’s the other strange thing. She filled the large bucket today, so Mother said.”

“The entire bucket?” Connor raised his brows in surprise. “She’s given scarcely more than a half bucket since her calf died. Bonny lass,” he told Fiona, patting her wide rump as Padraig led her away.

Turning, he saw Andrew MacPherson and his brother Thomas running around the side of the keep
at a fast trot, with Roderick loping past them to wave frantically to Connor. Noticing that the MacPhersons were out of breath and agitated, Connor ran toward them.

“What’s happened?” he asked curtly.

“Campbell!” Andrew said breathlessly. “At the bridge! Red soldiers came there when we were setting the powder—”

“We were going to wait until later tonight,” Connor said.

“It was my fault, Kinnoull,” Thomas said. “I went ahead with it, and Andrew and Neill Murray came after me.”

“He’s already set the charges in the stone,” Andrew said.

“It’s done?” Connor demanded.

“Set, but not blown. The lad did a fine job,” Andrew said, “and we helped him. But we were going to fetch you for the rest of it tonight. As we were leaving,” he said, gasping for breath, “Campbell and three dragoons came by, with a prisoner between them. They were about to cross the new bridge—it is not finished yet, but good enough for crossing. The soldiers caught Neill and Thomas and took them down.”

“Caught Thomas?” Connor asked, looking at the lad.

Thomas turned his face to show a purpling bruise. “Campbell let me go,” he said, sounding humiliated, “and told me to bring a message to you.”

Connor reached to brush his thumb over the boy’s cheek, feeling a rising dark fury. “What message?” he growled.

“You are to meet him at the bridge now if you want
Neill to live,” Thomas reported. “You are to bring your bride with you.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“He wants Mistress Sophie,” Andrew said. “He is serious, Connor. I’ve never seen the wee man in such a rage. Cold anger. I would heed him.”

Connor narrowed his eyes. “And if I do not?”

“He will be killing Neill Murray and the other prisoner.”

“Who is that? One of the MacCarrans?”

“Duncrieff himself.”

Stunned, Connor stared at him. “You saw him?”

“We both saw him,” Thomas said. “Campbell has Neill and Duncrieff, too, and he wants your bride in exchange…for Neill. Not for her brother.”

“I’ll go with you,” Roderick said.

“We will, too,” Andrew added. “Conn—he says he has an arrest warrant for you, for stealing the MacCarran lass. And he is intent on arresting her MacCarran kinsmen for conspiring with you to take her. He says she is his rightfully betrothed fiancée.”

“Campbell was cuckolded, and I feel for the man in that regard,” Connor said, “but this goes far beyond that complaint. He has something else in mind.”

“He has Duncrieff,” Andrew pointed out. “He wants you as well, and he wants the lass. Which one of you can he control best, and which ones are disposable for his ends?”

“He wants Sophie.” Connor nodded. “If he does away with us and marries her, he will control a Highland clan.”

“And the fairy magic of Duncrieff,” Sophie said.

Connor turned.

She stood a few feet behind him. She must have come around the corner while he and the others were talking. He forgot all else for a moment. She was pale, her hands clenched.

“I’m going with you,” she said.

“No,” he replied.

“My brother is alive.” She twisted her fingers together. “I have to go to him.”

“I’ll bring him to you,” Connor said.

“I want to see him now,” she said stubbornly. “With you. And I want to know where he has been all this time.”

“I expect we must ask Sir Henry about that,” Connor drawled.

“Sir Henry has wanted something from the MacCarrans from the beginning,” she said. “It was his suggestion, this match with me years ago, and my father relented, gave his promise in return for assistance—which he never got. If Campbell will go to these ends now to gain me and to gain some hold over the clan, he must want the Fairy Cup, and its magic.”

Connor huffed. “Absurd. He wants something more than wishes and fantasies. He wants a political hold in Perthshire, and he can get that through marrying you—if your brother, and now your husband”—he inclined his head—“are eliminated first.”

“And perhaps he thinks that if he can harness fairy magic, he will have even more power. He asked several questions about our legends the night we had dinner. He was very curious about it, and kept examining my crystal pendant.”

“Perhaps he just liked being close to you, madam,” Connor said. “Come, lads. We’re going down there.”

“I’m coming with you,” Sophie insisted again.

“No,” he said sharply, and took her arm to guide her back to the kitchen. He strode so fast that she shuffled to keep up with him. It reminded him of the night he had taken her, dragged her over the mountains, forced her to find her courage. Now he would have to ask even more of her, if he were taken, if this went badly for all of them.

“This is partly because of me,” she insisted.

“It’s also due to what I did. And I will solve it. You,” he said, leading her through the doorway, “will wait here.”

“Not while Sir Henry kills you and my brother!”

“My love, he will not have the chance. We will fix this.”

“How? Highlanders are not even allowed to carry weapons!”

“That has not stopped us before. And when did you become a militant wee nun? Go inside, please.”

“You are still healing from your injury. Let me go with you. I’ll plead with Sir Henry myself.”

He laughed harshly. “And what will you tell him?”

“That I never intended to marry him. That I wanted you to take me,” she said simply.

“Aye?” he murmured. “Unfortunately you will not have the chance to tell him that. Stay here and out of sight.”

“He wants me there, or he means to harm all of you.” She looked up at him, her eyes clouding like a stormy sea.

“I’ll be fine. And you will wait for me.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “Will you?”

“Do you still intend to keep me shut away here, when there is no reason for it?” He sensed her anger mounting.

“If you prefer to be with Sir Henry Campbell,” he said in a bitter tone, “I can take you to him later. Not now.” He let his voice go cold, while his heart pounded.

“Since you intended to marry my sister, not me, why should you care what I do?”

His heart gave an odd flip. She was all he wanted, and he had not yet told her. The feeling burned in him, though he fisted his hands. “I’ll go, and you’ll stay, and that is that.”

“Do not risk your life for me. I have to help my brother—my clan. Connor, please understand,” she added in a whisper.

He took her hands. God, she felt so good to touch—so good and comforting—and though there was no time for even a thought of it, he desired her. Her fingers gripped his.

“I want you to stay here,” he said firmly. “We have much to do, the lads and I.”

“I heard. What bridge?” she said, still persistent.

“The bridge to my heart,” he said. “I think it has been breached.”

“Connor, I must come with you,” she whispered.

“No, love.” He bent his head to kiss her. He thought she might refuse, but she inclined her head in complement to his, her mouth gentling beneath his own. He forgot all else—the urgency, the pistol pressing into his side, the lads waiting by the door.

All the while his heart slammed hard in the cage of his ribs, and something deep inside him opened that he once thought would always be closed.

“Padraig will stay here with you. Keep inside the castle,” he added. “Do not come out for any reason, do you hear?”

“I cannot promise anything.”

“Did you learn no obedience in that nunnery?”

“I need not obey you in this or any matter, but what I feel is right.”

“I never expected obedience—just common sense. Your brother wants you in my keeping, and we all want you safe. All will be well. I promise.”

She looked at him, her eyes limpid, beautiful. “And you always keep your word, Kinnoull.”

“By God,” he said. “I do.”

He turned and went through the door, where the others waited in the kitchen garden, with its pale green sprouts and flowering buds out of nowhere.

Connor and the others moved quickly, their legs accustomed to Highland miles. The healing wound in his side still smarted, but the snug bandaging helped as he moved. And he would not have cared about serious pain had it been there.

As they descended the slope that led away from Glendoon, Connor kept scanning the hills. The skies dimmed toward twilight, and he saw no red soldiers anywhere. Andrew, Thomas, and Roderick ran along with him.

He motioned them along a high drover’s track, rarely used now, that followed the tops of the hills without dipping into the glen to follow the river. This way was shortest to Kinnoull, and they ran at a steady pace. Up here there would be no question of horses or carts. Only strong legs and strong hearts could take them where they needed to go.

Far off, he saw a few red soldiers, easily visible in scarlet and white as they moved through the glen on some mission. Connor knew where he was going and did not stop, nor did his three companions. Soon they reached the pass between the hills and ran along the high shoulder of a hill above the river’s winding course until they were in Kinnoull territory. The river was in spate, brimming with spring rains and melting snows from the mountains, and flowed fast and full between its banks. In the hills above, Connor and the other Highlanders ran fast and hard along their course as well.

Through the gathering darkness, now, he could see the bridge spanning the river. No one was near it, but men were on the gentle slope that led from the riverbank between the bridge and the house.

Kinnoull House, glowing pristine in rosy sandstone, sat proud and high on its green lawns against a backdrop of dark pines, set among lush gardens like a jewel. And he had no time to look there, no time to yearn for what was lost.

Neill sat upon the hill, his hands bound behind him. Three guards with muskets stood about, and Connor saw Campbell, too, in gray, so that he looked like a man turned to stone.

At his feet sat another captive in ropes, tall and lean, fair-haired and handsome.
Duncrieff.

Connor ran ahead, motioning the others onward.

Sophie lost repeatedly at cards that evening, disappointing Padraig, whose twin had told him tales of her gambling magic. Pleading headache, she retired early to climb the stairs to her bedchamber.
Every fiber of her being felt alert to some danger she could not name.

She stopped in the dark stairwell, her lantern casting bright patterns. Her brother was alive, thank God, and she had to see him. She could not wait.

And she realized that she had to be with Connor, together with him, and her brother and the others, in this. Danger or none, whether he lived or died, whether she stayed here or left entirely, she would never be the same again.

He was the most exciting, dangerous, beautiful man she had ever known, could ever imagine. She could not easily walk away from the spell he had cast over her.

Nor could she stay here while men were in danger for her sake, and while Connor placed himself at risk for her, her kin, and his friends.

Touching the crystal pendant, she sensed its quiet power. The magic of the stone, and the fairy blood within her, seemed to call to her in a way she had never felt before. Holding it, she felt filled with a longing for love, for Connor, and a sense of incompleteness without him.

In that moment she made up her mind.

Connor had given her his word, but she had made no promise to him. If anything went awry for them tonight, only she could right it. Only she had a hope of convincing Sir Henry Campbell that it was pointless to covet her or any hold over Clan Carran—if that was possible. She had to try.

Hastening to the bedchamber, she raced to the wooden chest beneath the window. Setting the lantern down, she opened the chest and rifled care
fully through its contents—folded garments of all sorts, she noted, an array of colors and fabrics, undergarments, gowns, kerchiefs, stockings, shoes, cloaks, shawls. There was no time to examine them all.