Sarah Gabriel (6 page)

“Answer him,” her groom said.

The priest repeated his request for her name.

She glanced around, delayed the moment, thinking frantically. Saint Fillan’s was the ancient chapel of her clan. Suddenly there was something she had to know, a sort of proof.

“Why did you bring me up into the hills for this wedding? You could have found a church closer,” she whispered.

“Your brother wanted it done here, though I do not know what difference it makes. A church is a church. Say your name, lass, for God’s sake,” he said between his teeth.

She frowned. His answer confirmed that Robert may truly have wanted their marriage. Long ago, wedding unions in the MacCarran chief’s family had always been performed at Saint Fillan’s, and she and Robert, and their sister Kate, had always vowed they would hold their own weddings here, too.

Keeping silent, delaying while her would-be groom glared down at her and the others stared, she realized that marrying Robert’s choice for her—brigand or not—meant that she did not have to marry Sir Henry Campbell.

Bless Robert, she thought, for an ill-guided at
tempt to help her escape the burden of her future. Drawing a deep breath, she took the greatest chance of her life.

“Sophia,” she whispered hoarsely. “Katherine Sophia MacCarran.” Her brother had used her proper birth name in his note of permission—another bit of proof.

The priest intoned on, and woodenly she repeated her vows. Connor MacPherson said his own vows, and the priest pronounced them man and wife.

Married.
Her heart slammed, the world spun around her.

Connor MacPherson leaned down and kissed her. His lips were warm and gentle on hers, and though she did not return his quick kiss, her limbs trembled and her heart thumped like a drum.

The shadowy chapel seemed to collapse around her. Sighing, she sank downward, and felt her Highlander grab her waist. She batted at him and fought against fainting while he held her up, pulled her against him. She could not appear weak, not now. Courage—she had to find it, keep it.

He led her outside, pushing her down to sit on a broken block of stone. “Breathe,” he said. “Slowly.” He kept his hand on her shoulder.

Her breathing was rapid, panicked, and she struggled to suck in enough air. MacPherson’s hand on her shoulder was calming rather than entrapping, as if he lent her his own control.

Turning, he spoke to the older Highlander—Neill, the man was called—who handed over a silver flask. MacPherson opened it, handed it to Sophie.

“Drink,” he said. She caught a waft of strong whiskey.

“I do not imbibe hard spirits.” She pushed it away.

“It will revive you. I won’t have you fainting away. This night is not yet over.”

She glanced at him, her heart pounding at the clear implication. In silence, she took the flask, touching it warily to her lips. Swallowing, she felt the first harsh burn in her throat and coughed. A mellow taste and a bloom of inner heat followed, surprisingly pleasant. She swallowed again. Another cough, another wave of warmth. Relaxing a bit, she inhaled, breathed out fully.

“I do feel better. Thank you,” she said.

“Go easy,” he murmured when she raised the flask to her lips a third time. He took it, drank some himself, and tucked the flask in the folds of his plaid. Then he held out his hand.

Refusing his support, she stood shakily. The whiskey had sparked a little strength in her. “What now?” she asked dully.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her elbow.

H
is bride hung back on the rope, jerking it to catch his attention. Connor slowed his stride, turned. He had set a hard, fast pace toward Castle Glendoon, and she had kept up with him, though she was likely taxed beyond endurance. He did not feel good about that, but he wanted to get her to safety quickly.

“I’m cold,” she said. “I’m tired. My shoes hurt, my skirts are damp, I am hungry. And I do not know where you are taking me. I do not even really know who you are!” She blurted the last bit in an irritated tone.

With his left hand resting on his sword hilt, he held the rope taut in his right. “I suppose you want to rest for a bit.”

“I want to go
home.
”

“That cannot be arranged.”

“Then take me to your home, so that I can rest.
Alone
,” she added. She sent him a dark glare in the moonlight.

“I do not have a home.” He did not know why he said that. Customarily he kept his life and his feelings private—few needed to know his business, his thoughts, his heart.

“None?” She looked astonished. “Even brigands and thieves have homes. Surely you have a house—even a hut or a cave.”

“There is a place where I stay. I do not call it home.”

“If it has walls and a hearth, it will do,” she said peevishly. “I just want somewhere to sleep. Somewhere safe. And I want a cup of tea.”

Tea? Did she expect him to brew tea for her, rub her feet, sing her a bedtime lullaby? He extracted the flask from his plaid. “For now, another sip of
uisge beatha
will have to do for both of us.”

She took the flask readily, tipped it to her lips.

“Just a bit,” he warned, then retrieved it from her to take a long swallow himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

He resumed walking, as she did. Then she hastened to catch up to him, rope swaying between them. “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacPherson,” she said. “I try not to surrender to my temper.”

“You seem quite at ease with your temper,” he replied dryly.

She glanced at him, her hair slipping loose of its braiding, her eyes wide. Connor glanced away, feeling guilty enough without that fey and beautiful gaze fixed on him.

“Nonetheless, please forgive me. You have shown some kindness in this situation, and I do appreciate it.”

Connor blinked, looked at her. Her apology seemed sincere. Not sure how to answer, he said nothing, acutely aware that he held her tether in his hand.

“We don’t have far to go now,” he said, in lieu of accepting her apology. “Less than two miles.”

She sighed, shoved back her hair, trudged onward. She looked spent and bedraggled, yet she had an elusive, luminous quality that he found fascinating. “Mr. MacPherson, I must rest soon, or you will have to drag me the rest of the way by this horrid rope, or carry me like a sack of wool.”

He paused. “If you need to stop, there are some bushes over there—see the flowered ones? They will give you some privacy.”

“I did not mean—oh, very well. But not with you holding this rope. Untie me, please.” She held out her wrist.

He hesitated, then reached out to work at the knots. “For a moment only. If you think to run—”

“I know very well what you would do. Thank you,” she murmured, as the rope loosened. “It’s kind of you.”

He glanced at her warily, his hands stilling on hers. “You are quick with thanks where it is not necessary.”

“I was raised to be polite—and my convent education taught me to express my appreciation for all things. It is a habit now.”

“I see. Convent?” he asked curiously.

“My father was exiled from Scotland years ago. My siblings and I were all educated in France and Flanders. My sister and I went to a convent school.”

“Ah.” Kate and Robert MacCarran had returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, he knew. The other sister had stayed in the convent, he recalled. “I spent some time in France myself. Many Scots with Jacobite leanings have found their way there, or even to James Stuart’s court in Rome, at one time or another,” he added.

“That’s true—our family certainly did,” she murmured while he worked the knots. “Where is your home, sir?”

His fingers released the knot, but a gate closed within him. He did not want to tell her that he had grown up at Kinnoull House as the privileged heir to a viscount. And he was not about to admit that his father’s forfeited lands now belonged to Sir Henry Campbell—who would have made her mistress of Kinnoull.

All Connor had was the empty title now. He had married her partly to spite that other suitor, but he had no fine home to give her. He stood over her, feeling cumbersome and shabby in her refined presence. But he was proud—he had that. He did not want to hear her appreciation or her sympathy for his sad tale.

Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, so soft it made his breath catch. Pulling the rope free, he stuffed the hempen curl inside his plaid, then rubbed her wrist where it was chafed.

“My home is gone, and my family is gone, too,” he finally answered. “I rest my head where I will and do what I please. But I will spare you a cozy nest of plaid and heather on a hillside tonight.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a shy hint of a smile. “But I’m so tired I could fall asleep anywhere, and
count myself fortunate to have a place to lay my head.”

“I’m sure you would.” He stepped back. “There, you’re free—for now, at least. Best be careful. That bush is prickly gorse, and full of thorns.”

She shot him an eloquent look and walked like a queen around the other side of the cluster of gorse dropping out of sight.

“Do not think to run off now that the rope is gone, Mrs. MacPherson,” he called amiably.

“Mr. MacPherson,” she called back, “that is not my name.”

He laughed to himself. He could not help it.

A mile or so on, the sound of the falls grew louder, and he felt its moisture in the atmosphere. Connor took his bride’s hand to help her once more, and met her gaze in the moonlight. She smiled at him, bright and beautiful and quick, the smile she had bestowed upon Andrew for the gift of a few flowers.

Now Connor suspected that her brilliant eyes and happy expression were not due to the thrill of his presence, but rather to the contents of the flask he carried.

She had emptied at least a third of it, though she coughed each time she swallowed. He had taken some himself to warm and revive him—but he had stopped, for it made him too relaxed, too eager to think about kissing her, touching her, when he should think only of getting her safely to shelter.

She stumbled a bit and sighed. “I’m very tired. It’s a long way, this thieves’ den of yours.”

“It’s not far now, I promise.”

“And you always keep your promises,” she re
minded him. “If my brother will hold you to a promise, I will hold you to this one. It had better not be far.”

“Trust me. Careful, Katherine.” He assisted her in crossing the slippery stones that bridged a small stream.

“Do not call me that. No one calls me that. We were married tonight, but we are not familiar enough to use christening names.”

“Mrs. MacPherson, then, or even Mrs. MacCarran by Scottish custom.”

“Miss MacCarran,” she corrected primly. “Scottish women do often keep their own names after they wed. But I do not know how long we shall be married, you and I,” she added coyly.

“If you expect to be widowed courtesy of your kinsmen, I assure you that will not happen.”

“My cousins have a justifiable grievance with you. But I am not so wicked as to wish murder upon you, despite what has happened tonight…and what you intend to do later.”

Halting, he looked down at her. “Just what do you think I intend to do?” he asked in a deathly quiet tone.

She did not answer, but her keen glance showed her thoughts.

He drew her toward him slowly. Her breath quickened and shadows curved between her breasts. “I suppose you think I have a wicked turn of mind,” he murmured.

Her pulse beat at the base of her throat. “I am aware of what will happen soon enough.” She lifted her chin.

She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen,
and he did not want to frighten her—though it might be too late for that. But he could not resist leaning closer.

“If I was as wicked as you think, madam,” he intoned softly, “I would have done that to you already, with the heather for a bed. Why wait to bring you to my devil’s nest, hey?”

She did not flinch, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, nor did she move away. She only watched him. Her courage and will seemed as fine as good steel.

With his free hand, he touched her hair, smoothing the gossamer strands that fluttered in the breeze. He traced his knuckles over her cheek and cupped the side of her face in his hand. He let his fingers slide into the thickness of her hair, so soft and cool to the touch that he took in his breath sharply.

“Tell me what you think should happen,” he whispered as he rubbed his thumb over her cheek. He lowered his head and felt her breath gentle upon his lips. “What you want to happen.”

She tilted her head in his hand, closed her eyes, and did not speak. But he knew what she thought, as if the thought were his own. He felt her heart beat in tandem with his.

Her eyes drifted shut. “If you were to kiss me again,” she whispered, “perhaps we would see…what would come of that.”

Desire swept through him like a crashing wave. Slipping his arms around her, he lowered his head and kissed her, his heart leaping like wildfire.

Another kiss followed that, a chain of kisses, and he could not seem to stop. Each felt deeper, more exhilarating than the last. She tasted of flowers and
mountain air, with a hint of whiskey. As she gasped and pressed closer, Connor forgot all else but kissing her. No barriers existed between them, no danger, no doubt, neither of them a stranger to the other.

She tilted her head and sighed, lifted her hands to cup his shoulders, opened her mouth slightly under his, and he let the kiss intensify, parting her lips with his own, tasting the moistness within. He felt himself harden and fill, wanted desperately to sink into the luscious sensation of her.

The feel of her firm body against his inflamed him further, and the heavy pulsing need began, a craving that could not be satisfied with kisses. He traced his fingers along her neck, smoothed over her shoulder, brushed lower, so that his fingers shaped the creamy curve of her upper breast and the stiff roundness of the bodice beneath. He slid farther down, to the small, taut span of her waist confined in stays and satin. Moving his hand under her cloak, he found the spot at the small of her back where he had earlier torn the stitches of her dress to loosen her stays.

He did not know what was happening to him—he could not take her here, now, like the brute she believed him to be. He would not surrender to the desire that skewered his mind away from logical, reasonable purpose.

Heart pounding, he felt her lips quiver against his, questing for more. He summoned inner strength and broke away.

For a moment he tipped his brow to hers and held her by the waist, catching his breath. She touched his jaw, her fingers gentle as butterflies. Her touch was poignant, and forgiving as well. Connor squeezed his eyes shut.

He did not deserve her forgiveness, her gratitude. He did not deserve to kiss her as he had done.

“I do not even know you, Connor MacPherson,” she said softly. “And you should not be touching me at all…but when you do, it feels…right, some how.”

He exhaled a rueful laugh. Inside, he agreed. Lovemaking with her would be magnificent, he realized, beyond any dream or hope he could ever have. Each time they kissed, he sensed her passion rising hot to meet his own.

Silent, he could think of no good reply to her words. He had not anticipated the desire he felt for her, which went beyond simple lusty urge. Hellions and temper fits he could understand and handle, but he had not expected sweetness and thankfulness in his stolen bride. Nor had he been prepared for his own strong feelings and reactions.

Marrying an impetuous virago to protect her was one thing, but he felt a new sort of quicksand beneath him.

“I want you to know,” she said, “that I am not frightened of what may happen next.” Yet her voice quavered. “If my brother intended us to marry, he had his reasons. Likely he wanted to help me escape my father’s promise to Campbell of Kinnoull.”

“Sir Henry,” he snarled, “is not of Kinnoull. He rents the damn place. And he has no right to you.”

“Not now. Though Sir Henry is a decent man, I’m sure, I did not want to marry him. I tried to bring up that subject when I dined with him this evening, but he would not give me a chance to talk about it, and scarcely listened to me on other topics.”

“Because he is not a decent man, madam,” Connor growled.

“Every man has his strong suit, Mr. MacPherson. Sir Henry expressed genuine concern and distress for my clan’s troubles. But I am grateful to you for rescuing me from marriage to him.”

How had she managed to put such a shine on it? He frowned. “I am no hero. Do not think it.”

She tipped her head. “I confess, Mr. MacPherson, that I am rather enjoying being stolen away.”

“Enjoying it?” He stared at her.

“It is…rather thrilling.” A coy sparkle danced in her eyes. “I have a deplorable craving, sir, that has never been satisfied.”

Connor wished she had not said that. Somehow her words shot straight to his groin. He waited.

“I have a taste for adventure. It is a lamentable quality, along with my temper. And my craving has never been met until tonight.”

Adventure? The girl had acted as a Jacobite spy for a year or more, or so her brother had hinted—what more excitement could she possibly want? Connor scratched his head, bewildered.

“We all need backbone in life, and you have your share, lass, believe me.”

She shook her head. “Not me. But I will apologize for my impulsive temper. I cannot always control it. But I still disagree with you regarding this night’s work.”

“Aye so, we have differing views on that,” he acknowledged.

She could turn with the wind, and he was hard pressed to keep up with the changes. Feisty but grateful, timid yet brave, prim yet passionate…she was both hellion and angel. Turnabout witch, he thought, frowning.