Sarah Gabriel (8 page)

S
hutting and barring the gate behind them, Connor took his bride’s arm and guided her into the shadowy yard. The dogs ran toward him, the two cairn terriers reaching him first. They leaped up, paws waving, tails going like mad. Behind them came the brown and white spaniel, more dignified in his demeanor than the terriers, who were always ecstatic to see him—or anyone, Connor thought wryly. Two sets of small, muddy paws batted at his legs as Connor bent to greet them.

“Hey, Una! Scota! Bonny wee girls.” He rubbed each terrier in turn, then gave his attention to the quieter spaniel. He glanced up to see his bride bend tentatively to greet Una and Scota when they scampered over to her. The spaniel was already sniffing her hand, and within moments she was murmuring
to his dogs, smiling, charmed and wholly charming.

The last of the dogs, a shaggy dark wolfhound, hung back from the others, watching them with customary wariness. He had spent his bark and waited with dignity for Connor to walk toward him and ruffle his fine old head, which he did. “Hello, Colla,” he murmured.

He turned to look at Katherine Sophia. “The dogs will not harm you. The wee cairns are Una and Scota,” he explained as she patted them. “The spaniel is Tam, and this is Colla.” He stroked the tall wolfhound’s shoulders. “He’s deaf and very old, but he’s still a fine sentinel. He can bark like a hound of hell when he wants to. Come ahead, madam.” He reached out and took the girl’s arm, leading her across the yard. The dogs followed.

A crumbling curtain wall encircled the castle grounds, the whole dominated by the massive keep, a four-story tower, partly ruined yet still strong. As they walked, Connor sensed her fatigue, and something more—a tremor of dread or excitement. He felt something like that himself, for his own heart pounded too quickly.

“This way.” He led her up stone steps to the second story tower entrance. “Easy, the steps are cracked in places,” he warned. The dogs scrambled up with them to wait by the door.

Connor opened it. Remembering that this was the girl’s wedding night, after all, he lifted her in his arms to carry her over the threshold into the dark foyer. She gasped and circled her arms around his neck in surprise.

He nearly tripped on the terriers in the foyer, then set down his bride and walked toward the scarred
oak and iron door that led to the great hall, shoving it open.

“Go on,” he told the dogs sternly. “Go inside, the lot of you. Stay,” he warned, when little Una gazed at him, trusting and hopeful, tail and ears erect. “You’ll sleep by the fire tonight.”

When they went inside, he closed the door only partway, knowing the dogs would set up a reliable ruckus if anyone came to the gate. He would have invited Duncrieff’s sister into the great hall, but he knew she was tired and would not want a tour of the dubious wonders of his ruined castle. She needed to rest.

Taking her hand, he led her up the narrow spiraling steps. The dark stairwell was relieved by thin moonlight through arrow-slit windows. When they reached the next level, with its narrow stone landing, he opened a wooden door.

The room glowed with faint light. Connor lifted his bride again, carrying her over that threshold into his private room.

When he set her on her feet, she sagged with weariness. He guided her to a tapestry-covered chair beside the fireplace. In the hearth, peat embers licked with blue flames gave off a musty, cozy fragrance.

Mary Murray, Neill’s wife, had been here earlier, he realized. She had freshened the fire with peat bricks and left food and drink on a table near the hearth. Lifting a cloth from a pewter trencher, he saw oatcakes, cheese, a few slices of cold mutton. A crockery pitcher contained lemonade, which he knew would be made from the precious store of lemons and loaf sugar which Mary sometimes bought at the Crieff market.

A wedding gift, he realized. Mary was particular about sharing her loaf sugar.

No one else was in the castle with them. Connor knew the feel of the place, knew it was empty but for the animals out in the byre and the ghostly sense that lingered throughout the place. No one would return until morning.

He and his bride were alone.

A powerful sensation stirred deep in his belly. He crossed the room, hands trembling as he removed his sword and pistol and laid them on an oaken table be side the door. Then he went to the window to tug on the velvet drapes, making sure they were drawn, so that cold air did not leak in and light did not filter out.

The girl leaned her head against the high back of the chair and closed her eyes in silence. He heard her sigh.

He turned. His four-poster bed dominated the room, its green embroidered curtains drawn back. The forest green coverlet, stitched with flowers by his grandmother’s hand, had been drawn down to reveal fresh white linens and plumped pillows. Mary’s careful touch again, he thought.

His footsteps were muted by a thick Flemish carpet as he returned to the fireplace to pull a willow stick from a tall box. Lighting that, he used it to flare the wicks of a few candles stuck in brass and pewter holders.

The room leaped to life, gleaming wood and glittering fabrics. He loved this room for its comforts and its privacy, and the familiar pieces reminded him of the home he had lost.

His bride sat straighter in her chair. She stared
around the room, and he saw her wide-eyed astonishment.

“This is no outlaw’s cave,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s cozy.”

“It’s like a jewel box,” she went on. “A treasure room.”

He shrugged again, but inwardly agreed. The furnishings were of polished cherry and oak, the handsome bed was imposing, the rugs underfoot were rich with color. The candlelight brought out the glitter of brass, pewter, silver, even the gilt threads in the tapestry chairs. A small black japonaise cabinet gleamed, as did a small tabletop inlaid with mother-of-pearl, where a glass decanter glowed with pale gold whiskey.

“Where did you—” She hesitated. “Did you steal these things?”

Connor gave a rueful laugh. “These belonged to my family.” His mother’s treasures, his father’s pride—things from Kinnoull House filled a few rooms in Glendoon. Connor had removed whatever he could from the house before Sir Henry Campbell had taken it over two years earlier, leaving the rest behind out of necessity. No doubt Campbell now made good use of those things.

What he stored here at Glendoon reminded him of a gracious home, a happy family. His close kin were gone now, some scattered to France, some dead. Of the old, proud line of the MacPhersons of Kinnoull, he was the only one left in Scotland.

“What a beautiful vase,” his bride said, looking up at a blue and white vase on the mantel. “Is it Chinese?”

“Aye. My mother used to fill it with roses every
summer.” Why had he told her that? He rarely shared the details of his life with anyone, and he had known this girl only hours. Yet though he preferred to keep his secrets, he felt strangely at ease with her.

“It is a lovely home,” she said.

“It is a storage place,” he replied. “That is all.” Connor fought the urge to tell her any more about these things or about his past. With her luminous eyes and gentle ways, she would listen and understand—and he might reveal too much, and crack the shell he had formed around himself.

His bride gazed thoughtfully at the elegant furnishings and the ruined walls that held them. Then she looked at him.

He knew what she saw. A savage in a gentleman’s room, a rough Highland man clad in a worn plaid and threadbare shirt. Like the ruined castle, he did not suit these costly things.

His plaid, in dark greens and blues, was faded, his linen shirt rumpled, but clean. His brogans were worn, too, his muscled calves wrapped in tartan stockings and leather thongs. A few days’ growth of whiskers shaded his jaw, and his dark hair was long, unkempt, its thick waves not controlled in a queue.

Aye, savage. He waited for the awareness, the disappointment, in her lovely eyes. Their color, he could see now, was somewhere between seagreen and sky blue—magical and fairylike. He kept himself still, feeling awkward when he should be taking charge, acting the brigand who had stolen the bride. But he waited.

She smiled a little. “Mr. MacPherson, thank you.”

Not expecting that, he narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

“For bringing me here. I thought your outlaw’s lair would be…different. A nasty dark ruin. But your home is beautiful.”

He frowned. “Most of the rooms are uninhabitable.”

“But you live here very comfortably.” She waved her hand.

“I keep some things here.”

“Where is your family?”

“Gone. Exiled, some of them.”

“I understand. The same happened in my family. We have that in common, sir, and more. We are both of Jacobite stock, or so it seems.”

“We are,” he said.

She stood and stretched, her torso and arms gracefully slim, her hair slipping down in tousled golden knots. Even bedraggled and exhausted, she was lovely. She belonged among beautiful things, he thought. He had been raised with privilege, but he was rough-edged and somber now.

“Are we…alone?” She looked around.

“But for the mice and the ghosts. Neill’s wife, Mary Murray, comes here now and then to do some cooking and laundry, and her sons help with the chores. But no one is here now.”

“So you live here alone, then? I thought your band of merry outlaws would be here, too, plotting cattle thievery and more bride stealing.” She slid him a glance.

“I do not have a merry band. Neill Murray and my cousin, Andrew MacPherson, and a few others, are tenants of Glendoon. They have homes nearby, but they come here as often as they please. I am alone here otherwise, but for the dogs. Until now.”

“I expected a group of desperate brigands.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow,” he replied lightly.

“None of this is a jest, Mr. MacPherson.”

“I’m aware, Mrs. MacPherson.” He looked at her intently.

Then he dropped to one knee to take up a poker and jab at the embers in the fireplace. The peat was glowing nicely and needed no tending. But Connor needed an excuse to turn away from his bride’s beautiful, curious gaze.

Now that she was here in his private chamber, there was one part of the obligation left to fulfill. She had handled the shock of her abduction, marriage, and wedding journey well so far. He admired her for it. Would she accept the rest so readily?

He must make her his own. If she came with child quickly, the marriage would be irrefutable. Duncrieff had counted on that, Connor knew. Although he owed more to the MacCarran than he could say, and would keep his promise, the price was high.

He had not planned on a wife and family so soon. First he had meant to regain his rightful lands before considering the future. He had little to offer a bride otherwise.

As he stabbed at the peat bricks, blue flames licked upward and the sweet, earthy, chocolatelike smell of the peat wafted toward him. That fragrance always evoked a sense of home for him, even more so than the furnishings. The family possessions were a constant reminder that he was not at Kinnoull House and that his family was gone. They sometimes evoked loneliness, memories.

But the sweet smell of burning peat gave him a pure sense of home and comfort no matter where he was.

His bride stepped closer, her bright gown rustling beside him. He glanced up. Amber satin and golden hair, creamy skin and extraordinary eyes. God, he thought, she was beautiful, like a blessing in this gloomy place. She glowed like a hearth fire, and the sight of her curving figure made his own body surge.

He jabbed at the embers again, yearning for something deep, something missing, that he did not want to name.

Light illumined his face as Sophie gazed down at him, feeling as if she saw him clearly for the first time. As he worked at the fire, she was free to study him.

His face had the natural symmetry of true beauty, a harmony of elegant shape and proportion, the strong, firm jawline, the slight arch of his nose, the curve and quirk of his lips, the long, powerful throat. His eyes were satiny green framed in black lashes, his dark brows straight.

As he twisted the poker, she saw how strong and nimble his hands were, his forearms supple where muscle shifted beneath the skin. Wide shoulders worked smoothly beneath his shirt, and his long legs were tucked beneath him as he knelt.

He was a beautiful man, she thought, despite the scruff of dark beard, the overlong hair—a glossy dark brown, unkempt just now. The marks of sun and wind and laughter framed his eyes. In her mind she put him around thirty years of age, her brother’s age, several years older than her own twenty-two.

His body was tall, broad, hard, his Highland garments faded but well-kept. He carried an air of wildness, strength, of something untamable, a man who
knew his mind and his heart and his needs, who would be fierce about loyalty and honor.

Beyond his physical beauty and imposing presence, she sensed a code of honor in him. And yet he was an outlaw, at the very least a rogue and a rebel.

In this modern age of knowledge and discovery and social sophistication, she thought, he was something timeless, a warrior with the courage of a lion, and the heart of one, too.

Was it the whiskey, she thought, or fatigue, or did she indeed sense honorable magic in this man? He had stolen her away, had taken her future and her hopes. Yet there was an intriguing nobility about him.

She glanced away, feeling the burn of her secrets. She was familiar with what a man and woman would do together, how their bodies fit like hand and glove, how passion could both rule and delight them. She had lost her virginity at the age of fifteen, and in return had experienced only a faint shadow of what love and passion might be like, initiated in a clumsy encounter with a boy scarcely older than she had been. She had let her own wild passions lead her down a merry road to a dreadful mistake. Love had not been waiting there, but disgrace.

Fate had thrown her into this sudden marriage and this strange wedding night, but it was perhaps the single situation where she would not have to explain why she was not a virgin. A brigand stealing a bride had no cause to complain about the state of the goods, she thought sourly.