Sarah Gabriel (29 page)

One of the guards noticed, and called the alarm. Campbell, who Connor could not see from his vantage
point, shouted out an order. Two red soldiers went off in pursuit, shouting to the Highlanders to halt.

Duncrieff and Neill came to their feet then, exchanging glances, as the two redcoats raced away. A shot was fired, and Connor looked toward the runners, relieved to see both of them still on their feet.

Grabbing the end of the longest fuse, Connor took the flint from his sporran, flicked it a few times until he got a spark, then lit the wick. It sizzled, smoked, and began to burn.

He gestured for Thomas to follow as he made his way along the riverbank. Waiting while Andrew and Roderick slipped out of sight, and waiting for the fuse to burn closer to the black powder, Connor readied himself to run toward the men on the slope.

Turning, he saw Sophie on the hillside then, with Campbell. They were moving toward Duncrieff.

“Robert,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “We heard you were dead—” She hugged him with one arm, but he could not hug her back. Then Campbell dragged her back a step.

“What the devil—” Rob said. Sophie shook her head to discourage him from saying more or endangering himself.

“Neill,” she said. “Are you harmed?” She looked toward him.

The older Highlander shook his head. “And you, lass? Are you in need?” He glowered at Campbell.

“I’m fine,” she said, though Campbell held her fast. She looked at Robert. “Kinnoull and I were married.”

“Aye?” His light blue eyes gleamed. “I’m glad to hear that.” His face turned hard quickly and he
looked at the magistrate. “Campbell, let her go.”

“That does not suit.” Campbell pulled on Sophie’s arm.

She twisted in his grip. “You have no right to hold my brother or threaten my husband,” she said. “No right at all.”

Campbell slid a pistol from inside his frock coat, out of its belt sheath. Rob leaped to his feet, hands tied behind him, and snarled. Campbell let go of Sophie, then grabbed Rob’s arm and held the pistol to his side.

Neill leaped to his feet, too, and Campbell snapped an order to the guard, who lifted a long musket, pointing it toward Neill. “Stay here with him,” he said, then turned to Sophie.

“You’ll come with me,” he said. “And if you don’t, Duncrieff will not make it through this day alive, though I kept him alive for the past three weeks.”

“Kept him alive?” she asked, stunned.

“He has been holding me at Kinnoull House,” Rob said. “I was ill at first—and not sure of my surroundings. He took me out of the Tolbooth and brought me here. Allowed me to recover, for which I must thank him,” he added, nodding to Campbell, “but that is all the gratitude he deserves.”

“Just so,” Campbell said. “Both of you—this way.” He began to walk. “A little stroll, and we’ll discuss this.”

Sophie hurried along beside them as Campbell dragged Rob with him, under threat of the pistol, and headed toward the bridge. Its span was unfinished, she saw, but complete enough to walk upon, lacking a top finishing layer of cobbled stone. The parapet that jutted up on either side was incomplete as well.

With the two men, she mounted the bridge and came to the peak of its arch. From there she looked down at the winding course of the river as she leaned out a bit.

Connor was there, as she had hoped he might be, for she had glimpsed him and his friends earlier. He crouched at the side of the river, out of sight of those on the bridge. Then he glanced up and met her gaze.

He appeared shocked at first, then angry, brusquely motioning for her to get off the bridge.

She shook her head and calmly turned away.

Campbell moved toward the parapet with her, and she angled in front of him, blocking his view.

“What is it you want, Campbell?” Rob asked. “Leave my sister be—you have no quarrel with her!”

“I should let the lady go, shouldn’t I? But she is my fiancée, as you no doubt recall, Duncrieff. We’ve had a falling out, but that will be righted soon enough.” He kept his pistol trained on Robert.

“You have Kinnoull House,” Robert said. “You took it from the MacPhersons. Do you intend the same for the MacCarrans?”

“I had a chance once,” Campbell said, “to head a clan. A rare opportunity, and something that your father and I agreed upon—but he died, and you, Duncrieff, filled his shoes. Unfortunately, you proved even more a rebel than your father. Many Highlanders are flocking to the Stuart cause, and the MacCarrans are solidly among them. They have some influence among their Highland peers. I wish to guide them toward better political wisdom.”

“That’s madness,” Robert snarled. “You could never influence or lead my clan.”

“Once Sophie is chief,” Campbell went on, “I will
make decisions on my wife’s behalf. I can sway this clan away from supporting Stuart’s foolish claim to the throne.”

“You did all this,” Robert growled, “to further the political cause of the Whigs and fat King George? You’re a Scotsman yourself. Where is your loyalty?”

“I have loyalties that you cannot possibly understand. Weeks ago it seemed necessary to move you aside quickly, possibly have you killed outright. But luck was with me when you were arrested. Your brother was staying at Kinnoull House, my dear,” Campbell said, “when you were there, not so long ago.”

She gasped. “You were there that night? Oh, God.” She reached out for her brother, but Campbell pushed the pistol into his throat.

“Rob—he has a mad thought to claim the gold of Duncrieff. I’ve told him it’s but a legend. We’ve only got a cup.”

“One cup,” Rob agreed. “And a lot of legends. That is hardly worth this madness, Campbell.”

“I will judge that for myself, once I hold Duncrieff Castle. I had a bit of bad luck,” Campbell mused, “when MacPherson stole Sophie away and married her. But I’ve been after that lad for a few years now. He’s no innocent. I’ve watched him for a while—I suspected he and his lot have been doing the damage to the military roads.”

Campbell leaned over the parapet.

“MacPherson!” he called. “Show yourself! I know you’re down there somewhere. If you want your wife to live, you had best come out.”

Clinging to the underside of the bridge, Connor swore. He watched the fuse shorten, inch by inch, and he had heard some of the conversation on the bridge. The fuse had burned too far now. He could not reach it to cut the sizzling end away from the rest.

The bridge would blow apart, and Sophie was there, standing on it, with Duncrieff. His heart slammed.

He had asked her to stay home—he had never really expected her to listen, but hoped that she might. If anyone had a chance of talking Campbell out of whatever mad scheme he had created, Sophie did—but not on the crest of that damned bridge.

He cast a glance at Thomas, who had worked his way downriver, following the muddy bank. He hoped the boy had sense enough to keep hidden as long as possible, until he could use that faithful aim where it was needed.

Casting an uneasy glance at the fuse, Connor came out from under the bridge, walked up the bank, and turned.

He spread his arms wide to show he was no threat, and walked toward the arched bridge.

“I suspect your true quarrel is with me, Sir Henry. Let them go, and you and I will settle this between us.”

“No doubt you have some resentment toward me,” Campbell said smugly. He pressed his pistol end to Rob’s neck. Sophie looked alarmed, pale, turning to glance at Connor.

He did not look at her. He could not, for if he did, he might falter. She was his strength, and she was his weakness.

“I suppose so,” Connor admitted. “My father was
dispossessed for his crimes. You took advantage of that.”

“I did,” Campbell said. “Any man might have done the same—a chance to own a fine estate. Two fine estates, and a clan in the offing, had you not interfered with my engagement to Miss MacCarran,” he growled.

“Let them go,” Connor repeated, thinking of the burning fuse, trying to count out the seconds in his mind. “Your quarrel is with me, not them.” He stepped on the bridge.

Campbell stepped back, dragging Rob with him. Sophie stood stranded in the middle, eyeing Campbell warily.

Connor looked casually over the side of the bridge. The fuse was very short now. He was sure of it.

Below, he saw Thomas aim his pistol, saw him point it upward at Campbell’s back as he edged along with Duncrieff trapped in his grip.

Connor gauged the distance between him and Sophie, and tried to judge the time that had passed. Glancing again toward Thomas, seeing his fervent gesture, he knew there was little time indeed.

Lately he had discovered a chance at happiness, and that chance stood on the stone bridge, staring at him with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

He could not cause any harm to come to her now.

He saw the crystal stone winking on the chain around her neck, and he realized that he loved her in the way she wanted—truly. Passionately. He would do anything for her. Anything.

And if it took all he had, life and limb and soul, he would get her off that bridge, and her brother with her.

“Sophie,” he murmured softly, taking a step nearer to her, nearer to Campbell. “Do you know that I love you?”

She stared at him, and he saw her catch her breath. She nodded, and touched the stone at her neck.

“It is too late now for whatever miracle you carry around in your fairy stone,” Connor said. “But I want you to know that this is true love. It is.”

She gasped again, tears filling her eyes.

“Can you swim?” Looking startled, she nodded.

He moved closer, looked at Campbell. “Let them go,” he warned in a louder voice. “They have done nothing to you. It was all my doing—my crime. I took your bride away. Took your chances away for what you craved most. Let them go, and deal with me.”

“I might,” Campbell said, “if you were to die, sir.” He took the pistol from Rob’s neck and aimed it at Connor.

Connor was already moving in that instant. He rushed toward Sophie, grabbed her, and threw her over the side of the bridge into the river, where she had a chance to escape the explosion. Turning with a roar, Connor spun and knocked the pistol from Campbell’s grip with a thrust of his elbow, then rushed into Duncrieff, tipping him off the bridge as well, into the water with his sister.

All of this in a moment, and in the next moment the bridge, the very air, shattered. The water split, tons of stones collapsed like so many pebbles, and Connor felt himself propelled outward as if blown from the barrel of a gun.

As the earth and river seemed to roar and crash apart, as water spewed skyward, the arched bridge
fell apart as if it weighed nothing at all. Sophie screamed, and surged through the water. But Rob held her fast, where they crouched in the water at the side of the river, and now Padraig was there, his face still bloodied as he jumped down from the bank to join them. Another lad, golden-haired and armed with a long pistol, joined them also.

They all stared toward the bridge, and Sophie felt the impact of the explosion in her ears, so that sounds were muffled. And she felt the impact of the moment in her very heart.

For it broke the instant she saw Connor tossed into the air like a straw doll. He went down with the debris, with the rocks, sank and did not come up. The water heaved and sprayed, and she counted the seconds. He did not rise to the surface.

“Oh, God,” she groaned, turning away, turning back. Her brother’s hands were tight on her arms, or she would have thrown herself into the water, too. “Connor!” she screamed. “Connor!”

Then she remembered what he had said.
It is too late now for whatever miracle you carry around in your fairy stone….

This is true love. It is.

It was not too late—it could not be. Whatever sacrifice she would have to make, she would make it gladly, a thousandfold, if Connor could only be safe.

She touched the stone, and wished, and waited. Watched the surface of the river, where debris floated. She saw part of Campbell’s gray coat, and did not want to see the bulk that lay beneath it. He was clearly gone, taken by the storm of explosives that had destroyed the bridge.

Watching, waiting, she could hardly breathe. Something constricted her heart, her sides. She squeezed the stone and prayed more fervently, more sincerely, than she ever had before.

She looked at the water, which had begun to grow calm again, despite the wreckage upon its surface and the wreckage of her life.

“Oh God,” she sobbed, and turned to Robert. “Connor—he’s gone—” She could hardly get the words out.

“He’ll be fine,” her brother said. “Conn is always fine.”

She blinked up at him. Roderick had said the same thing once. She stared at him, wondering how he could be so callous, so casual, when her brother smiled at her.

“Conn is always fine,” he repeated. “Look.”

She whirled. He was crawling up the bank, drenched in mud and sopping, but he was moving.

Sophie plunged through the water, splashing, falling and sinking, climbing up again, until she reached the bank and began to run through mud and sloppy muck.

He sat there, waiting for her, and rubbed a hand over his face. Then he grinned, his smile flashing white amid the grime, his eyes impossibly green.

As she neared him, he reached down and grabbed her outstretched arm, half dragging her toward him.

She nearly threw herself at him, looping her arms around his neck, crying and laughing. Connor lowered his head, pressing his wet cheek to hers, the mud and water dripping from both of them.

“Mrs. MacPherson,” he murmured, pulling back
to smile, sweeping his hand over her brow and her head, pulling the dripping tendrils away from her face. “Mrs. MacPherson, I love you.”

“Aye, Connor MacPherson,” she whispered, kissing his lips, kissing him again as she spoke. “And since this is true love, some sacrifice must be made now that the fairy crystal has brought you back to me.”

“And what sacrifice is that?”

She pulled at his shirt, at the sopping plaid sliding from his shoulders. “When we get home, I think we will be sacrificing our clothing, both of us.”