Sarah Gabriel (7 page)

He took her hand, striding onward. “Come ahead, madam.”

“Where are we going? To an outlaw’s hideaway? A cave, perhaps? Might we have a fire, and some food?”

“Luxuries. Next you’ll be asking for a bath and a lady’s maid. Or would you rather have a musket and a powder horn of your very own?” He cocked a brow at her. “How far does that taste for adventure run?”

“I should never have mentioned it—a silly fantasy. I don’t have the courage of a midge.”

He looked sideways at her. “Several midges, I’d say.”

“All I want now is a bed…alone. You will give me that tonight, sir, if you please. That is, if you have a bed.”

Every part of him tightened with deep, dark excitement. “A heathery nest for a Highland thief.”

“No real bed, no hearth, no home—you are a true fugitive. A genuine brigand.”

“Fierce as wolves, I am. Now hush it.” He rather liked the sound of her voice, so lovely upon the night breeze. He had to admit he even liked her chatter. A little of it, at least.

“I will not stay in a filthy outlaw cave for long, I warn you. I am more content in a house, where I can putter about.”

“Putter as much as you like later. For now—shhh!” He reached out with his free hand to cover her mouth, not with haste and strength as before, but gently this time. So gently.

Touching her like that was a mistake. Her lips under his fingertips were moist, luscious, felt nearly as good as kissing her had felt.

Not yet, he told himself. Go easy, until he had puzzled out the situation and knew where he stood in it. He lifted his hand.

“You’re talking as much as I am,” she pointed out.

He cast her a quelling look.

She did not seem quelled. But then she sneezed delicately, and coughed. Connor drew out the flask and offered her a little more of its contents, against his better judgment. After she swallowed two or three times, he took it from her and sipped some of its clean burn himself.

They resumed walking, and his bride leaped the next runnel without his help. She giggled and threw her arms wide.

“Be silent,” he hissed, drawing her close with one hand.

“Or you shall gag me?”

“I shall.”

“Tie me up?” She tipped her head.

“Aye,” he growled. She was enjoying this now. “That whiskey did more than warm and restore you, I think.”

“Aye, it’s relieved my fear of brigands.”

“And your fear of almost anything,” he drawled. Little wildcat, he thought. What the devil had he taken on tonight?

Grabbing her wrist, he stomped onward.

“A man without a hearth needs no wife.”

He turned. “What?”

“Why did you steal yourself a bride if you do not have a home and do not seem to care about that? This is not the Middle Ages. You did not need to steal yourself a wife. A man does not always need a wife, but for…” She shrugged.

“But for what?”

“Love,” she answered. “A commitment of hearts and minds under the bevol…benevolent guidance of heaven.”

He huffed. “Be quiet, or you’ll find out quicklike one reason that a man needs a wife.”

“A man does not always need a wife for that. There are women available in most towns who will—” She stopped.

He glared down at her. “Who will what?”

“Take care of his needs,” she answered. “In fact, I have heard that some men prefer to take care of their own needs.”

“Jesu, madam!” He stared in sheer astonishment. “You’re an outspoken wench. Where did you learn such nonsense?”

“In the convent school. The other girls knew a good deal about men.”

“So they claimed. Now hush it.” He glanced around warily, but likely they had not been followed this way.

“It may be the spirits. I am not used to imbibing.”

“So I see,” he muttered, and pulled her onward.

E
merging from a cluster of evergreen trees that fringed a steep slope, Sophie heard the thunder of a waterfall. She followed MacPherson, pine needles pungently crushing underfoot. Peering ahead in the darkness, she saw white water streaming down like liquid moonlight over a shelf of rock.

Closer, she saw a black gash in the earth where the water poured into a frothy burn. The Highlander’s grip on her hand gave her a solid sense of safety as she looked around.

“Oh,” she said, raising her voice over the sound of the water. “It’s so wild and beautiful here!”

Without reply, he tugged on her hand and led her along the edge of the gap toward the falls. She followed his guidance. If she trusted him in no other way, she knew by now he would keep her safe out here.

Sophie watched his broad-shouldered back swathed in plaid. His legs were powerful, his climbing step longer and brisker than hers. He exuded raw strength and animal grace in every movement.

As she thought about where he was taking her, dread and something deeper, something exciting, turned in her stomach.

He carried his secrets easily. All she knew about him beyond his name was that he preferred to avoid soldiers and the fact that he knew her brother, for good or evil. Her mind was left to conjure the rest.

He led her past the roar of the falls—a white horse’s tail spilling over steep black rocks—and above it, so that the roar receded behind them. Making their way uphill, they followed the track of the wide, rushing burn, walking so close to the banks that her slippers and the hem of her gown grew wet.

In the misty darkness, Sophie could see little more than the lacy swirl of the burn, the rugged contour of the slopes. She was sure they were still on MacCarran property, which extended miles past the chapel. In all, the Duncrieff MacCarrans held twelve thousand acres, encompassing much of the glen and its hills. A modest estate by some standards, but vast enough.

Stepping in a pool of cold water, she yelped. Her shoes, impractical heeled slippers with thin soles and silver buckles, were unsuitable to rugged walking. Her toes were chilled through, and blisters were forming on her heels.

The whiskey that warmed her earlier had faded from her blood. She felt near exhaustion and grateful for MacPherson’s assistance. His strong, capable hands were always there to pull her along, to lift her, to support her.

At the peak of the long hill, the wind whipped cold and the burn gurgled in its gorge, which had grown quite deep. Sophie stopped when MacPherson did. He pointed.

Across the burn’s gap and over a long meadow, a castle perched on the rise of another hill. Washed in moonlight and mist, its dark silhouette rose against a black sky.

The broken bones of the structure thrust into the night, a jumble of cracked walls and jagged half towers. Its windows gaped empty, without a glimmer of light, and a crumbling wall ringed the yard. Thin mist swirled around its base.

A soulless place, desolate and bleak. Sophie shivered.

“Is that your home?” she whispered.

“It’s where I stay,” he replied. He took her hand and walked along the burnside. They came closer, keeping the burn and the meadow between them and the castle. The angle of the old ruin changed, and Sophie gasped.

“I know that place! Glendoon…aye, I thought it sounded familiar to me. I have not heard the name since childhood. It was once the seat of my clan. No one has lived there for centuries.”

“Your ancestors deserted it long ago, after rock slides turned this area into a devil’s tub.”

“I used to hear stories…. They say it is haunted.”

“The ghosts won’t harm you.”

She caught her breath. “Have you seen them?”

“No, I’m too practical for it, I suppose. But those ghosts have saved my life a few times.”

“How can that be?”

“No one ventures up here unless they have to, be
cause of the long, hard climb, and because of the legends—it is not a good place. No blessings of home and happiness here,” he said.

“There used to be, long ago.”

“Perhaps. But if visitors come too close, the Glendoon ghosts keep them away with their unearthly moans and shrieks.”

“Shrieks?” She gulped.

“It’s proven a benefit to the outlaws who hide here.”

She wondered, suddenly, if he was teasing her. She hung back on his hand when he tugged her forward.

“Come along. There’s nothing to fear. They’re MacCarran ghosts. They’ll be delighted to welcome a kinswoman.”

Sophie looked behind her. “I…please, you must let me go—”

“What happened to your appetite for adventure?”

“It does not extend to screeching ghosts. This was all a terrible mistake, Mr. MacPherson. We should never—I should not have agreed. Outlaws are one thing, but ghosts…I do not think I can face them.” She leaned back. As a child, she had suffered nightmares about ghosts and bogles. Even as an adult she was not keen on the dark. And she had heard long ago that ghosts inhabited Castle Glendoon, though no one she knew had seen them.

She tried to free her arm, twisting to face the long hill. She would have fled down it had MacPherson let her go.

“That way,” he said, leaning close, his voice low in her ear, “lies a treacherous descent, as you know. Would you make it safely, alone in the dark? And this way,” he continued, turning her toward the cas
tle again, “lie ghosts and outlaws. Which will you choose, my lass?”

She stared at the castle’s black silhouette, feeling the outlaw’s hands warm upon her shoulders. Then she glanced again at the dangerous incline, shuddering.

“Call upon your courage, lass,” he whispered. “There’s an adventure in either direction.”

Drawing a breath, heart racing, Sophie closed her eyes. She felt as if she stood on a cliff, about to step out into open air. For a moment she reached up to clutch the silver and crystal pendant at her throat, wishing its dormant, rumored magic could impart some guidance. She breathed slowly, then knew. Just knew.

She must go to Glendoon, with him.

“Wherever I can find a hearth and a pillow, and a cup of hot tea,” she said, lifting her chin, “that way will I go.”

Wherever I will find love
, she had wanted to say,
I will go there
—but she kept that thought to herself. If her fairy stone urged her toward love, she was not likely to find it here.

“Aye then.” He took her arm. “Come with me.”

Heart pounding, she walked beside him, warily eyeing the castle that loomed on its black hill.

She glanced at the gorge that held the burn, which served as a natural moat for the castle grounds. Its walls were too steep to climb down. “Where is the bridge?”

“If we had a bridge, anyone could come up here.” MacPherson pointed across the gap. “We’ll have to jump.”

She gaped at him. “Jump!”

“Or we can walk all the way down the hill again and find a cave for the night.”

She paused, sure that he was challenging her again, for his tone had a wry twist to it that signaled humor or testing. Though she felt tired and miserable, she would prove to him that she could take each new hurdle he showed her with grace and some courage. Sophie had her pride, as she sensed he had his.

Letting go of her, MacPherson stepped back a few feet, then ran forward and leaped the gorge, straddling the air like a dancer, to land easily on the other side.

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “Come over.”

“No.” She backed away, turned, thinking to run while he was separated from her—but she stopped, looking down that dark and treacherous hill.

The Highlander leaped back again, landing beside her, taking her arm before she could move. “The jump is not far. It just seems so because of the deep gorge. I think you can do it.”

“You
think
?” She gave him a scathing look. Then she yanked away from his hold and turned to walk along the edge of the bank. “Surely there is some other way to get across. Not everyone leaps this place—or did, when there were living people and not ghosts inside Glendoon,” she snapped.

“Well actually, there is,” he admitted.

“You could have told me that!” she fumed.

“The leap is faster, and I thought you were anxious for your tea…and your bed.”

“Hateful man,” she said. “You just wanted to see if I would jump after you. I will not. I am tired and I
have no more patience. I want to rest. Where is the crossing?”

“Two miles up this slope. Keep climbing and you’ll find an easy place to cross.”

“Leap across here if you want, sir. I’ll take the safer route. But I will have tea for my trouble.” She picked up her skirts and walked away. He did not follow. Was he really letting her go so readily? She glanced around, wondering suddenly if she could risk trying to escape from up here.

“Watch out for wildcats,” he called after her.

Though her heart quailed at that, she did not turn. A moment or two later she glanced back to see him not far behind her. Sophie felt relieved, but she would not ask about wildcats, or wolves, either, though she glanced about uneasily.

Raising her skirt hems, she picked her way along the side of the gash. Farther up the slope, less than a quarter mile, the gorge lessened considerably, cut up a steep incline, and the burn became a shallow slice through rough grass. Smooth stones offered a secure crossing not far ahead.

At that spot, Sophie sat on the grass beside the bank, her amber satin gown, with its laces and frills, billowing around her. The dress had been a gift, made in Paris, from her widowed mother, who now lived there after remarrying. Sophie treasured the gown, and tonight was the first time she had worn it. After the evening’s escapades, she feared that the irreplaceable dress and its underskirt were ruined. Frowning, she pulled off her shoes and stockings, and did not glance up when the Highlander strode toward her.

She stood, lifted her skirts, and stepped onto the
first stone. Squealing involuntarily at the shock of cold water sloshing over her feet, she sought her balance and proceeded to cross to the next stone.

“Aha,” MacPherson called. “You’ve discovered my secret.”

“What,” she said, stepping forward again, wobbling slightly, “that your guests must cross the River Styx before they are permitted to reach your portal, Sir Cerberus?”

“Something like that.” He sloshed into the burn and strode from rock to rock, sliding past her with a hand at her waist. She felt a quick thrill as he touched her briefly.

Reaching the opposite bank first, he turned and extended his hand. “Are you prepared to pass into the underworld, Persephone?”

His fingers were long, his palm large and flat. She saw strength in that hand, and mysteries untold. Another thrill shivered through her. This man had some sort of magic over her, she thought. She should be angry with him, resentful, anxious to escape. Instead she felt full of anticipation, as if her body, her spirit, thrummed with excitement. In a way, she was relishing this extraordinary night.

Or was that whiskey, exhaustion, and shock? What would she think tomorrow?

She gathered her wits. “So long as there is a cup of tea in it, and a place to rest, I’ll come over to your world, sir,” she replied with dignity.

Stepping on the bank, she whisked past him without taking his hand. He chuckled behind her and turned with her as she walked onward. She smiled a little to herself.

For a moment she thought of her sister, Kate, who
had lately gone to Edinburgh to fight for their brother’s rights in the Court of Sessions. Kate was reputed to be the hellion in the family, doing what she pleased with boldness, bravery, and charm, so different from her, since she kept to herself, preferring the convent instead of returning to Scotland with her siblings after their father’s death and mother’s remarriage. Now she understood a little of Kate’s courage and confidence, and it felt very much like freedom.

Freedom—even though she walked into the unknown with her captor, her new husband, beside her.

Pausing to shove her feet into her shoes, carrying her stockings, Sophie crossed the grass toward the castle. MacPherson moved ahead of her, his legs long and powerful. She admired the way he walked, she thought then, with animal grace and the confidence of a king.

The castle loomed over the meadow like a dark and silent beast, its black shell mysterious and eerie. She slowed her step. All of a sudden she was reluctant to go inside, even with rest and hot tea in the offing. The place was a harbor for thieves and ghosts. Her sense of adventure and freedom were fragile dreams, after all. She lacked the courage for this. She stopped, stared.

Then she heard barking—the low monotone of a large old dog, the yelps and higher barks of other dogs. She hesitated. The Highlander looked back at her, held out his hand.

The sound was not ghostly, but comforting somehow. In her childhood, dogs barking excitedly at the gates had been the herald of a beloved master returning home. Her father kept loyal, friendly dogs,
and she had loved them. As the barking continued, she heard delight in it, not a threat.

She glanced curiously at the outlaw who had insisted that this was not his home. Refusing his hand, she walked toward the front gate set in the ruinous curtain wall.

He reached the gate first, which was comprised of two immense iron-studded wooden doors set into the stone wall. He pulled it open, the hinges creaking as he shoved. The barking quieted expectantly, but for a few throaty woofs.

“Welcome to Castle Glendoon,” Connor MacPherson said with a bow. “Or what is left of it.”