Sarah Gabriel (5 page)

T
he rectangular medieval building was roofless, its peaked end walls jutting upward into the misty night sky. A door in the side wall gapped open, and two arched windows pierced a far wall. A stone cross with a center roundel thrust upward in the yard.

“I know this place,” Sophie said slowly. “It’s Saint Fillan’s chapel. This land is owned by the MacCarrans—by my brother,” she added, looking up at him.

He took her arm and moved forward. “Aye. Come ahead.”

Panic rose within her. “I will not—I know what you want.”

He stopped. “Aye, and what is that?”

She lifted her chin. “I refuse to be married in there.
Is the groom waiting inside? Did Sir Henry pay you to steal me?”

“I would not take a penny from Campbell.” His fingers tightened and he leaned down, his gaze intense. “You and I are to be married in there, Miss MacCarran.”

“What!” Although he had said as much before, it suddenly became far too real. Her heart slammed. “You steal me away, tie me like a criminal, and now you want to force me to marry you?” Her voice nearly broke. “Here, on MacCarran property, as if this were sanctioned by my kin and my clan? I will not do it.” She yanked back on the rope.

“You have no choice. I have the right.”

“The right? I do not even know your name! What gives you the mad idea that you have a right to force me to do this?”

He moved ahead. “You’re one for questioning a man.”

“You’re one who deserves questions,” she snapped.

He huffed in grudging agreement and pulled her along with him. Although he exerted little pressure, his iron will was a compelling force. Summoning dignity, Sophie walked beside him over the wind-blown grass. But when he led her onto the stone porch step, she hung back.

“Enough,” he said impatiently. Lifting her, he carried her over the threshold and set her on her feet inside the ruin.

Terror and excitement swirled in her gut. The eerie church was cluttered with stones and weeds. Roofless, its walls broken, it held nothing inside but a single cracked altar stone. Candles glowed there, and three men stood waiting.

She gasped, pulled back. The Highlander dragged her toward the flickering light at the far end of the nave.

Sophie recognized the two Gaels from earlier. Between them stood a priest in a black frock and pale shawl. His thin hair wisped about his head like a dandelion puff. In the play of mist and darkness, he seemed to waver slightly.

“No,” she whispered frantically. “Please—no. Listen to me. I do not want this.”

The Highlander set his hands on her upper arms. “We will be married here tonight. I’ve given my word to do this.”

She stared at him. “Well, I did not set
my
troth upon it!”

Without reply, he leaned down and pulled her hard against him, touching his mouth to hers. The kiss was thorough this time, his lips warm and incredible upon hers. A sensation spilled through her body like warm honey or sunshine, and she yielded, melted, in his arms.

Years ago she had been kissed by a suitor, often enough to know how to respond. But she had never been kissed like this. Never, but by this one man.

Her limbs faltered, so that she welcomed his strong support. Her hands found his chest, her fingers twisted at cloth. Meaning to push him away, she somehow drew him closer.

Once it began, she did not want the kiss to end. She wanted to melt like this in his arms—her body demanded more, craved it. She sighed, sought another kiss.

He drew back. “Now you’ve given your troth.”
Turning, he took her arm and pulled her deeper into the church.

Gossamer streams of mist and moonlight spilled downward, and Sophie walked ahead, simply stunned.

“The priest is drunk,” Connor hissed as Andrew and Neill approached him. The girl had begun to twist out of his grasp again. She had gone still and silent after the kiss, but his heart still slammed, and every fiber in him vibrated like a fiddle string. Pulling her close, Connor frowned at the priest.

The old man did not waver from infirmity, as Connor had at first thought, but from a more temporary influence that he could smell from several feet away.

“The man can barely stand,” he muttered to Neill.

“Roderick and Padraig gave him a flask of my wife’s best whiskey while they were waiting. It put him under quick,” Neill whispered. “He would not do this without payment immediately, and it was all we had. I did not know he was a
misgear
.”

“A flask of yourwife’s best whiskey could put anyone under—even a drunkard—damn quick,” Connor said between his teeth.

“He was the only priest we could find,” Andrew said. “You insisted on a Catholic ceremony, and you wanted it to be held up here. We did what we could.”

The bride had begun to breathe in great steaming gulps, glaring at all of them. Andrew sidled away from her.

Connor swore under his breath. The old priest smiled and waved them forward.

“Good evening, Father,” Connor said.

“Father Henderson of the Small Glen parish—this is the groom. And his bride.” Neill smiled pleasantly.

The priest smiled, too. “And what a bonny bride.”

The bonny bride tried to twist free, but Connor held tight. He motioned for Andrew to buttress her on the other side.

“Here, mistress.” Andrew spoke in English and held out his hand to her, his tone shy. A small bunch of flowers drooped in his large fist.

“Oh!” She reached out. “They’re beautiful.” She took the bouquet and admired it. “Snowdrops and crocuses! And you found a daffodil, too.” She sniffed the flowers and smiled up at Andrew, who blushed to the roots of his fair hair.

Seeing that smile, Connor felt thunderstruck. Lovely and unexpectedly impish, with a hint of a dimple, her smile was like a candle flaring.

Then she glanced at him and the light vanished.

“I don’t see why you smile at Andrew,” Connor said, though he knew he sounded petulant. “He helped snatch you, too.”

“But he brought me flowers,” she said, her face still half hidden in the petals. “I love flowers.”

Connor scowled. “I did not notice any flowers.”

“You would not have picked them if you had,” she retorted.

That was probably true, but he was not going to admit it. Nodding curt thanks to Andrew, Connor wished he could have earned that enchanting smile for himself. All it had taken had been a few limp flowers. Still frowning, he turned his bride’s shoulders so she faced the priest.

Father Henderson wavered where he stood. Neill propped him up with a beefy hand on his shoulder.

“What is wrong with him?” The bride leaned toward Connor.

“Drunk,” he answered succinctly.

“I will not be married by a sodden priest!”

“Aye, you will, and so will I.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders.

She leaned toward the priest. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Father Henderson,” she said in a sweet tone. “I’m sorry, but there will be no wedding tonight. These Highland men will take you home now.” She shot Connor a searing glance.

Andrew edged backward. Connor reached out to hold him in his sentinel position. “No one’s going anywhere.”

“No wedding? But I was promised a keg,” the priest said.

“What?” Connor looked at Neill.

“A keg and a cow,” Neill said. “For his parish.”

“You will not pay for my wedding with stolen cattle and whiskey!” The girl had followed their Gaelic, Connor noted. Then she leaned back in that damnable way she had, like a donkey on a country road.

“At least we’re paying something for it,” Connor said, dragging her close again. “Being outlaws and all.”

“But old Saint Fillan’s is haunted,” she argued. “We should leave this place—”

“We’ll chance the bogles in the night,” Connor said. “No more excuses. Father, proceed.”

“Dearly beloved—” the priest began.

The bride suddenly looked at Connor. “You said you had given your word. To whom?”

“I’ll explain later.” He held her shoulder so tightly now that he feared she would bruise.

“We are gathered here—” the priest went on.

“You’ll explain this
now,
” she insisted.

The priest looked startled. Neill and Andrew exchanged uneasy glances.

Connor sighed. “Gentlemen, please excuse us for a moment,” he said, then took her arm and dragged her around to the other side of the altar.

“Who paid you to steal me?” she demanded.

“No one.” He lifted his palm for peace. “Stolen brides are commonplace in the Highlands. My own parents had just such a beginning.”

She flapped her flowers in the air, their sweet fragrance strong. “And look at their son! Tell me about this promise.
Now.
Please,” she added hastily.

Connor smiled a little—she was such a contradiction of wild cat and kitten. He leaned down, choosing his words carefully. “I have your brother’s permission to marry you.”

She gaped. “I do not believe it.”

“Read this, then.” Reaching into his plaid, he drew out the folded paper.

She opened the crumpled, stained page warily. Light from the altar candles spilled over the page as she read the message. Connor could smell the sweet fragrance from her limp posy of flowers. Frowning, she caught her breath as she read, then glanced up. Connor saw that her face had gone pale.

“Is this note…stained with blood?”

“It is,” he said gruffly. “His own.”

She swallowed hard. “‘I, Robert MacCarran of Duncrieff,’” she read in a near whisper, “‘do request and grant permission to Connor MacPherson of’…what is that word? Something is crossed out, replaced by ‘Glendoon.’”

“Glendoon will do.” He would not tell her that the words Robert had scratched out had been “Lord Kinnoull.”

“Connor MacPherson—that is your name?” She glanced at him.

He nodded. “Read the rest.”

“‘—to wed my sister, Katherine Sophia MacCarran. Signed, Robert MacCarran of Duncrieff—’”

“‘Chief of Clan Carran,’” he finished for her. “It’s dated two weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for you to return to Duncrieff Castle, Katherine.”

“This looks like his signature, but he would never—”

“He did.”

“But my father promised me to Sir Henry Campbell.”

“That engagement is broken as of now,” Connor said fiercely. “Your brother told me that he wanted that marriage prevented. I was happy to oblige.”

“By stealing me away? By intoxicating the priest so he would not remember who he married this night?”

“That,” Connor said, “was unintentional.”

“Sir Henry will kill you for this.”

Connor narrowed his gaze. “I’ll take that chance.”

She drew her slender brows together. “If this was agreed between you and Robert, why is his blood on the page?”

“He had the note in his shirt when we were attacked in the hills. He was pistol-shot, bleeding freely. He gave me the paper and insisted on my promise.”

“Insisted,” she repeated. “I do not believe it.”

“Regardless, it will be done.”

“If you were with him the night he was arrested, why did you not prevent his capture?”

His heart slammed. “I did what I could.”

“They say that you betrayed him.”

“I did not. Trust me—or not. We have no time to discuss it now.” Nor was he ready to tell her the rest—that Rob had been near death, that he had done all he could to save him.

Nor would he tell her that it had lately been rumored that Rob MacCarran had died in prison only days before. If so, news of his death might be kept secret to avoid an outburst of further rebellion among Perthshire Highlanders loyal to the Stuart cause.

Katie Hell had espionage ties herself, and he would have expected her to know some of this already, but she seemed unaware. “This cannot be his blood,” she whispered.

“It is.” Connor had not wanted to show her the note because it was stained with her brother’s blood. But she had the right—and he knew now she had the fortitude—to see that paper.

Tears welled in her eyes and she touched the handwriting, her fingers graceful and trembling upon the page. “How can you claim to be Robert’s friend?”

“I am. And I did not betray him. All I want to do is keep my promise to him and do what he wanted done. What
he
wanted,” he added. “Not me. You wanted the truth. Now you have it.”

“He would never expect me to marry an outlaw willingly. It would take force.”

His nostrils flared and pride and hurt turned within him. “Your brother knew you would not be
willing. He suggested that you be stolen. He meant only to protect you by doing so.”

“I think you forced him to agree. You attacked him and demanded this, thinking you would get a wealthy bride—and then you betrayed him to the English.”

The words cut like a knife. “Why would I do that? I have no need of a bride right now. And the man had no time to pen a wee missive, Miss MacCarran—believe me. He had it on his person when I met him. He planned this, and I gave him my word. And I will keep it.”

“You cannot keep it if the bride refuses.”

“Lass,” he said impatiently, “we are done with pretty speeches.” He led her back around the altar to stand before the priest. He circled his arm around his bride.

“Two cows, Father, and two kegs, if you get on with it,” Connor said.

The devil himself held her fast at the altar while the priest droned the wedding Latin. Trapped in her groom’s encircling arm, Sophie glanced up at Connor MacPherson.

The warrior angel had vanished, replaced by the handsome villain whose scheme she could not fathom. She leaned away, but he pressed her close. She felt the warmth of his body, smelled wood smoke and the tang of sweat, felt his dirk handle jutting into her ribs. His fingers gripped her shoulder. She knew if she tried to scream or protest, those fingers would clamp over her mouth.

But her protests would not stop this wedding, she
knew that now. Had MacPherson told the truth about Robert’s bloodied note? She shuddered, uncertain why her brother would promise her to a Highland fugitive. It made no sense at all.

The signature was Rob’s, she was sure, but the Highlander might have forced his decision and his hand. But if her brother did want this marriage, perhaps he needed her compliance to help him somehow.