Sarah Gabriel (4 page)

She touched the cool stone, seeking comfort in its familiarity. Beneath her fingers it felt different some-
how, as if it shimmered under her touch. Surely that was her imagination, for the stones of Duncrieff only came to life in the presence of love, or so the old legend said.

The two Highlanders murmured on, and her captor turned to look at her with clarity and intensity, suddenly, as if he knew all her thoughts.

Choking back a sob of frustration and temper, Sophie tugged on the rope to annoy him, if nothing else. He tautened the rope as he spoke with the older man, bringing her closer.

Sophie had no choice but to go with the stranger who had snatched her away from all she held dear, and who, by turns this night, had been both tolerant and cruel.

But she had no idea what he intended for her—and she did not know what fate would bring if she married against her will.

“What are you talking about?” she asked irritably. “Why did you mention a priest and a chapel?”

“Priest?” The Highlander smiled a little. “I feel an urge to pray, Miss MacCarran.”

“
Tcha,
” Neill said with a derisive snort. “She is a wee bonny thing to be tying like a cow.” He looked at Connor from under his frowning brows. “Sick as well, poor lass.”

“I like this no better than you,” Connor replied tersely. “If I let her loose, we will be all night chasing her over the hills, believe me. I just want this over with.”

“As soon as they discover her gone, there will be men searching the hills for her,” Neill said. “Best if
she’s wed by the time Campbell finds out she’s missing.”

“Exactly. Go ahead to the chapel, and wait with Andrew and the priest until we come. I’ll bring her through the hills to the north. It’s not the easiest route, but no pursuers will take that way. Follow the drover’s track over the hills to the chapel and make sure we have not been followed.”

“Where will you take her later tonight? The search will be in earnest, Kinnoull, until she’s found.”

“They’ll learn where she is when I am ready for them to know it. By then, she’ll be a contented bride. Or so we’ll hope.”

“If any man could please a woman, lad, they say that you—”

“
Truis
—be off with you,” Connor said curtly.

Neill grinned, then turned and ran into the shadows.

Connor glanced at the girl. Under her long, lightweight dark cloak, her satin gown was the color of bright embers. With her blond hair slipping loose about her face and shoulders, she glowed in the mist and moonlight like a fairy queen.

For a moment he wished that he could make her happy as his bride. He was not off to a good start.

But life’s recent lessons had taught him that he was not destined for happiness, beyond what scraps he could claim for himself—his music, his books, a few peaceful hours now and then for dreaming of a future that might never be.

Broken man, laird, unrepentant Jacobite, and dedicated cattle thief, Connor had become a dark legend in these hills. Once he would have been a suitable
husband for the sister of a clan chief. He had been rightful heir to a fine holding, the son of a viscount, educated in France.

In the last three years he had seen his father arrested and taken to his execution, had lost his home and his mother, had seen the inside of a jail cell himself. He had looked through the loop of a noose straight into the face of death.

As for home and family, as for love—aye, he wanted that. Always had, and always would. How long would Kate MacCarran stay with him, he wondered, once she learned about her husband’s role in her brother’s troubles—and perhaps in his death? She would hate him for it, Connor thought. Either way, she would not care to play Lady Kinnoull to his landless Lord Kinnoull.

Well, he would do his best to keep her safe for a little while, and guard her from whatever threat Duncrieff had perceived. He would keep her long enough to fulfill his promise. That would have to be enough. A lifetime of contentment and love was a daft expectation.

And this night’s work was not going to net that dream for him.

H
olding the rope taut to assist the girl, Connor led her over the crest of another hill. The route was rough with rock, exposed to wind, and so steep in places that they had to follow the shoulders of the slopes. But it was the safest track, for he knew that no one would pursue them here.

The girl struggled behind him, so uncomplaining that he had to admire her spirit. He had removed her gag, worried that it compromised her breathing. Since then she had stayed quiet. No doubt she had little air to expend on words.

Frankly, he was concerned for her. “How are you faring?” he asked, stopping to allow her a chance to catch her breath.

She shot him a sour glance. “I’m on my feet and following along—what more do you expect?”

“Well, you sicked up earlier,” he said. “I’m not heartless, though I know you may think it.”

“I do think it,” she retorted.

Connor grunted in wordless reply and turned, tugging on the rope to lead her along.

The mist had nearly dissipated here, though it filled the glen below. Overhead, the moon drifted in and out of clouds. There would be rain soon, Connor thought, glancing up.

He turned and walked backward for a bit to guard her progress, going slowly to set a comfortable pace for her sake.

She looked like a Renaissance angel in that fancy gear, he thought, the dark cloak fanning like wings, that red-gold gown with its snug bodice and billowy skirts shining like flame. The silver chain and pendant at her throat sparked like a star.

She was delicately made, her shoulders, arms, and hands slim and pale, her feet small in a pair of pointed shoes that must be beastly uncomfortable. Soft flaxen curls haloed her head and slipped down to frame her face with its perfectly shaped features, her beautiful eyes, the exquisite swell of her lips, the lovely but stubborn line of her chin.

He had not expected Katherine MacCarran to be a beauty.

Well, he had simply not thought about it. Having never met her in person, he had seen her from a distance and thought her bonny. But he had avoided encounters with her to safeguard his involvement, and hers, in Jacobite activities. He remembered her across the market square one afternoon—a pretty thing, slight and nicely made, with golden hair.

But he had not expected such heart-stopping
beauty. In that spectacular gown, she was no less than a living flame. Looking at her stirred desire in his body like a spark from an ember.

Frowning, he reminded himself that he was here because she was a hellion and her brother wanted her married off for her own protection.

But she had offered him forgiveness. Sincerely offered it.

If she was a glittering angel, then he was a demon to do this to her.

At the top of another hill, Connor reached out his hand to her, stopping on the peak. Her breaths sounded rapid and wheezy.

Frowning, he took her shoulder and turned her around.

“Take off your stays,” he ordered.

She wrapped her free arm around herself and tried to whirl away. “For love of God, what about the priest?”

“He will not care whether or not you wear stays,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding her question. “Take them off.” His fingers searched at the back of her waist for ties, ribbons, hooks of some kind.

“I will not,” she said haughtily.

“How d’you loosen these damn things,” he muttered, groping at the overlap between the stiffer bodice and the wide, soft gathers of the skirt and finding them joined. He snatched next at the tiny hooks that fastened up the back of the dress.

She gasped, and he realized that she was frightened. “Stop—this is a savage thing to do to me!”

He sighed harshly. “Then you take the stays off, or at least loosen them. You cannot breathe, my girl.
Here,” he said, drawing his dirk from its sheath at his belt.

“No!” She squirmed as he held her by the waist.

“Keep still. I am not threatening your virtue,” he barked.

“You have a knife!”

“Every Highland man has a knife, madam.” He ripped through the lower stitches. A knot broke and the lacings loosened. He pulled at them. “Officially, we have only the dull knives that King George allows us to use for eating our peas. Or so the English think,” he added, yanking.

“Let me do that—you will ruin it,” she said, reaching back with one hand, the other still roped to Connor. She worked the seams and lacings in some mysterious feminine way, Connor saw, and a gap opened at the back. She drew a deep breath. Another.

He glimpsed the pale, smooth skin at the small of her back. A hot lightning strike of desire sank through him.

“Fasten the back of the dress again,” she said, pulling at the sleeves of the gown, which slipped down over on her creamy shoulders. She glanced at him. “Please, Sir Ghost. I cannot manage the rest of this beastly climb with my gown hanging off of me, though I must thank you for allowing me to loosen it.”

“Well, you need to breathe,” he muttered, oddly discomfited by her expression of gratitude. Frowning, he joined the hooks and eyes as best he could near the top, leaving a gap at her waist where her stays were now open.

When he saw the slender curve of her lower back, the sight went straight to his groin like an arrow. He tugged her cloak over her and stepped away, glad for
the blast of cool air under his plaid. Tugging on the rope, he moved ahead.

“Hurry,” he said gruffly. “Now you can go faster. We have little time.”

“You truly are a beast,” she muttered behind him, her gratitude apparently forgotten.

“If you’re bothered about the dress, I’ll buy you another.”

“You’d have to steal a lot of cows to pay for it.” Temper colored her voice.

“Cattle,” he corrected coldly. “I’d have to steal a lot of cattle.”

He led her around the shoulder of another hill, sparing her the steeper climb over it. For a while they walked in silence, though inwardly he steamed.

Beast—aye, he thought. He was the worst of rogues to drag her over the hills and force her into marriage. His behavior was savage, his treatment of her inexcusable. As a husband, he had little to offer a wife, and he did not like the reminder of it.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Not far.”

Behind him, she stumbled over a rock, nearly lost her balance. He reached back and caught her safe, then took her hand with its bracelet of rope and led her along beside him.

She accepted his grasp. “Thank you.”

He scowled. He deserved no thanks after what he had done, what he planned to do. “For a hellion, you’re a polite wee thing,” he said.

“Hellion?” she asked. “Not me.”

He huffed a doubtful laugh and kept her hand tightly in his, the rope swinging between them.

His unflagging stamina was beginning to annoy her. “Slow down,” Sophie said. “My feet hurt.”

“It’s not far now. You seem to be doing fine.”

“You are not climbing mountains in corsets and skirts and dancing shoes. I wish I had a simple plaid and a pair of tough brogans.”

He glanced back at her. “Aye, you’d look fine in those. But you can take off the corsets if you like. And the skirt, too, if you please. Best leave the dancing shoes on for now. Your feet are not toughened up to manage Highland hills.”

“I have no intention of running about in my delicates. And none of me is tough enough for these hills. Slow down,” she said. “Stop. Let me go, and I will find my way home, and we shall forget this night ever happened.”

He stopped, turned. “Miss MacCarran,” he said slowly. “I cannot let you go. And we have only a little farther to walk. I promise. And I always keep my promises,” he added.

Instead of leading her onward by the rope, he set his arm about her shoulders to lend her his support. At first she resisted, but his strength felt like a shield, and a calmness exuded from him that strangely reassured her.

In the moonlight, he reminded her of a dark angel, his face handsome and compelling, his size imposing, for he was tall and robust. Moving with the graceful power of a stag on a rill, he was clearly at ease with the natural world around him.

Though he was a savage Highlander by appearance, and his behavior was ruthless, there were intriguing layers in her Highland captor’s character. He spoke like an educated man, and showed her
small courtesies, taking her hand to help her over rocks or runnels of water, slipping an arm around her shoulders when she tottered on a slope. For that, she was grateful. For the rest, she was puzzled more than frightened.

As they walked, she relished the cool, fresh wind that rippled through her hair, and savored the scents and the raw strength in the hills. All the years she had been on the Continent, she had desperately missed Scotland. Now she felt as if she had truly come home—even in the company of this Highland stranger.

For a moment Sophie felt like his equal, not his captive. Power and passion flowed through her like water pouring down a mountainside. The Fairy’s Gift seemed to stir in her, the power that gave her the talent to bring flowers to life in gardens, the talent she had otherwise suppressed. She had been longing for adventure in her sheltered life, and this Highlander challenged her to find her courage, to fight for her freedom. Something stirred within her, awakened, in his presence.

She touched the fairy crystal on its chain at her throat, a constant reminder of her secret obligation. To protect her gift, she had hidden in the convent, burying her innermost yearnings, learning to cultivate peace. But she had not found true peace or fulfillment. She had always yearned for something more in life.

The Highlander held out his hand to assist her over a cluster of rocks. Sophie stumbled as she came down to the ground, and he caught her against him, preventing her from falling.

Her arms looped naturally around his neck and
her body slid against his. Feeling his hard torso pressed to hers, she looked up at him, stunned by the warm thrill of that sensation. His fingers, cupped at her back waist, slipped a little inside the gap in her stays.

The shock of that warm contact, skin to skin, caught her by surprise. She gasped. He did not let her go, looking down at her.

“Just what,” she said a little breathlessly, “do you intend to do with me, sir?”

He did not answer. His grip on her waist tightened. Slowly, he leaned down, brushed his nose against hers, while her heartbeat slammed. Then his lips touched hers.

The kiss was tender and warm, and so quickly done that she found herself wanting more—when she should have been insulted, or alarmed. When he pulled back, she only stared, stunned.

He took her hand and the rope, and turned to lead her through a pocket of mist in a dip between two hills. Sophie walked in silence, her heart pounding fiercely.

After a few moments he slowed his pace and looked down at her. “I beg your pardon, Miss MacCarran,” he murmured.

She glanced up at him. “Wh—What?”

“I beg your pardon,” he repeated, and then lengthened his stride, forcing her to nearly run, her gown rustling like a whipping wind.

Bewildered, her head still spinning, she wondered if he apologized for that swift, searing kiss or for setting a pace she was hard pressed to match.

Abducted, dragged about, kissed by a man whose name she did not even know, Sophie felt a glimmer
of irritation begin again. He told her little, rarely answered her questions. Her entire world had gone topsy-turvy in the space of a few hours, and all he did was murmur an apology.

Bunching her skirts with one hand, she did her best to keep step with him. When he halted on the ridge of the next hill, she closed her eyes, lifted her face, and drank in the cool, brisk mountain air.

The Highlander touched her arm. Sophie opened her eyes.

Ahead she saw a chapel.