Sarah Gabriel (3 page)

He lifted his head and watched as two figures appeared through the mist. Recognizing Neill and Andrew by their shapes and their familiar strides, Connor waved.

Andrew approached and looked down at the plaid-draped girl. “Is this the one?”

Connor rose to his feet, helping the girl to stand. Wound inside the plaid, she stomped hard on his foot, then began to shriek. He clapped a hand over her mouth. She twisted.

“Aye, she’s the one,” Neill drawled.

“Hellish, is that what they call her?” Andrew spoke in Gaelic, as had Neill.

“Something like that,” Connor responded, holding fast.

Andrew leaned toward the girl. “Do not misbehave, lassie,” he said in English, “or the Ghost will see you pay dear for it. He’s a braw man and a daft one, and it’s best to give him no more trouble.”

“It’s he who is giving me trouble,” she snapped from under her plaid covering.

“Daft, is it,” Connor growled. Andrew and Neill grinned as they watched his wrestling effort with the writhing, stomping girl. “Have you two anything to report, or are you standing about in the mist for your health?” he asked irritably.

“The men came out of the water complaining like bairns but only soaked,” Neill said. “Now they’re searching for the lass, thinking she fell in, for her horse came back to them. The other lady is howling like a wounded pig.”

“And the priest is waiting,” Andrew said. “We left Roderick and Padraig with him.”

“Those two!” Connor huffed. “The priest would escape from their watch if he had but one leg. Sorry, Neill,” he added.

“
Ach,
it’s true, though they’re my sons and I love them well. Andrew, go back to the church and guard the priest yourself. I’ll travel with Connor and watch his back.”

Connor nodded. “Send the lads to Castle Glendoon. We’ll be going there after we take care of the matter with the priest.”

“Aye, then.” Andrew nodded.

“What are you talking about?” The MacCarran girl swiveled her head under the plaid.

“Does she not have the Gaelic?” Andrew asked.

“I do have the Gaelic,” she said in that language, her words stilted but her accent good. “Please say it again.”

“Enough,” Connor barked when Andrew began to recount the conversation. He hoisted the girl over his shoulder again and headed across the hill. Neill followed, while Andrew ran off over the hills toward the old church where the others waited.

She seemed heavier suddenly, and he realized that she deliberately made herself a more awkward burden by going totally limp. He gave her a tap on her firm bottom to let her know he was not fooled by her antics nor would he slow.

Aye, he told himself, he’d far rather be seated beside his hearth with his fiddle on his shoulder just now, alone and cozy. Solitude and music always eased, for a while, life’s grievances.

Instead he packed an unwilling bride through murk and mist on the strength of a promise. He did not know where this night would lead him, but with every step he took, he knew that he shouldered far more than a stubborn wee lass.

What did he have to offer a bride, after all? A run-down tower, a barren plot, a few cows, a scattering of sheep. A little music if she pleased, a few dreams to share, a passionate touch to give. Would any of it be worth a damn to such a fine and fiery lass, the sister
of a chief? She would want a husband to make her proud. A husband to love.

Love.
Once he would have welcomed that.

He plodded on, and she calmed, probably exhausted by her efforts. She seemed lighter in his arms as he walked onward.

Strangely, he felt as if he carried his own destiny.

S
he felt ill. Folded over the brigand’s hard, wide shoulder, her head hanging down, Sophie sucked in a breath to quell the feeling, but that did not help, and she feared losing her extravagant supper altogether. She needed fresh, cold air desperately.

“Stop,” she begged. “Please stop.”

His step did not lag.

Sophie tried to calm herself and master her roiling stomach, but it remained uneasy. Not only had she been carried off by force, but she now bounced along nearly upside down after too much food and wine taken at Sir Henry’s house earlier that evening. The snug stays beneath her gown did not improve matters, either.

When she left the convent in Flanders weeks ago to journey home to Scotland, she had craved adven
ture after six years of such a quiet life. The prospect of marrying Sir Henry did not promise excitement, or even happiness. She had wanted to be free of that, and even wished that something daring, something wild and wonderful, would happen to her.

Now she had more adventure than she could want in a lifetime. Be careful what you wish for, Sister Berthe had always said—if your wish is sincere, it will come to you, and you had better know what to do with it.

Sophie closed her eyes, thinking of the elderly nun who had been the gardener at the English Convent in Bruges. The little French nun had often advised her, and the other students, to learn wisdom from the flowers. Cultivate grace, gentleness, sweetness, and beauty, Sister Berthe had said; display a sunny nature, and bloom with kindness and compassion. Flowers teach forgiveness and happiness, Sister Berthe had said; flowers teach love, comfort, and peace.

Well and good in the convent gardens, Sophie thought. Sister Berthe had spent her adult life as a nun, never living in the secular world. She had no idea what it was to be stolen away by a Highland outlaw, flung over his shoulder like a sack of meal, and threatened with dire consequences.

Her younger sister, Kate, would have known what to do. Kate, who had gone to London for a few weeks, would never have allowed herself to be carried off by madmen. Had any attempted, there might have been Highlanders lying on the misty moor groaning when she was done with them. Kate had a natural charm that brought men to their knees—and when they did not fall adoringly around
her, she knew weaponry, and the sharp side of her tongue was a marvel.

But Sophie knew she had no such courage or fire in her. She and Kate had both inherited what was called the Fairy’s Gift, a touch of natural magic inherent to MacCarrans, but both girls had the fairy’s temper, too. Sophie had spent years learning to subdue hers, and she had taken well to the peacefulness of convent living, putting her innate abilities into flower gardening.

All that stood her in little stead now. Besides, she had already tried forgiveness and tolerance. The outlaw had been uninterested in either. And she found it nearly impossible to meditate upon cheerfulness or gentleness with her head smothered in a smelly old plaid.

“Please,” she croaked. “Mr. Ghost—Sir Ghost! I need air.”

He paused, then set her on her feet, steadying her while he loosened the plaid that covered her head and face.

Gasping in the cool, damp air, Sophie felt a hideous wave of sickness overtake her. Dropping to her knees, she retched helplessly into a heather clump at the Highlander’s feet.

He sank to one knee beside her and took her shoulders. Dimly, she felt his hand pass over her hair, pulling it back from her face while her stomach cleared itself.

“Water,” he snapped in Gaelic to his comrade. “Now!”

Head spinning, Sophie sat back while her captor unwrapped the bulky plaid from around her, freeing her arms. She shoved at her tousled hair, which was
sliding out of its braiding, and found her lace cap, a flat pinner, barely clinging by a silver pin to her hair. Using it as a handkerchief for her mouth, she grimaced and threw it into the bracken.

All the while, she could not look at the Highlander. How embarrassing to be vilely sick in front of him, she thought. He would think her a weakling when she needed to appear strong.

She had tried valiantly to fight and resist him, to face up to him—and her finicky stomach had undone all of it. The sumptuous dinner and wine she had consumed at Sir Henry Campbell’s table that night had been far too rich for her, but perhaps she would feel better, clearer, now.

His comrade brought a dripping cloth, which her captor used to wipe her lips. She sucked at the wetness.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thirsty…I need a drink.”

“Not yet. Can you stand?” He helped her to her feet and rested his arm around her shoulders while he spoke in rapid, quiet Gaelic to the other Highlander.

The pressure of his arm felt good, somehow, a shield and a comfort. She allowed herself to lean against him while he conversed with the men.

She glanced around. They stood on the slope of a high hill. The fog was thinner here, filtering the moonlight that spilled over the slopes and flowed over the misty glen. The Highlander had climbed higher than she had realized.

Turning, she saw that the moonlight was strong enough to show her captor in better detail, even in darkness. Looming over her was a warrior angel. Or was that a trick of mist and moonlight? she wondered. He was tall and broadly built, his face hand
some by virtue of natural symmetry: strong cheekbones, a square jaw shadowed with whiskers, straight dark brows over deep-set eyes that in daylight might be blue or green. His long dark hair waved loose to brush the collar of his shirt. He frowned down at her, his expression somber.

She tilted her head and studied him. He radiated a quiet, earthy power, although she saw an unexpectedly impish quirk in the shape of his lips. Pride and inner strength showed in that face. She saw, too, keen intelligence and a hint of surprising gentleness in his eyes and mouth.

Then she realized that he had been studying her while she was looking at him. She looked away.

“If I do not wrap you in the plaid,” he said, “will you walk where I take you?”

“I’ll walk home,” she snapped, and stepped away from him.

He caught her arm. “You’ll come with me.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

He did not reply. Taking her arm, he led her down an incline to a fast-flowing runnel. He knelt beside it, rinsed his hands, and scooped water in his cupped palm, rising to offer it to her.

“You said you were thirsty,” he explained. “I have no cup.”

She blinked at him in surprise. Then she tentatively touched his hand, bringing his palm close to her mouth, and sipped.

The water was cold and refreshing, and his skin carried an earthy, manly scent. Standing so close to him, her lips touching his flesh in a strangely intimate way, she did not feel awkward or embarrassed
this time. She felt that surprising sense of being in his protection she had experienced earlier.

But this man did not want to protect her. He clearly had another intention by snatching her. Her cheeks flamed, and she remembered the moment when he had seemed ready to kiss her. And she had nearly responded—not to her captor, but to the man she sensed existed beneath the surly Highland brute.

But she could not allow that to happen again.

Swallowing, lifting her face, she stepped back hastily.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He bent slightly and scooped her into his arms. She gasped as he began to carry her again.

“Oh please, no,” she said.

He stopped. “Will you be ill again?”

“I do not think so. But I will not be carried. It makes me feel sick. And all that carrying could hurt you.”

“I stole you away, lass, and you care about the state of my back?” Sounding bemused, he set her down. “If you will not be carried, we can conduct our business here. Neill!” he barked, looking over his shoulder. “Fetch the priest. We’ll wait here.”

He spoke the last in Gaelic, but she understood what he said. “No.” She stepped away. “I’ll walk.” She was tempted to ask him why he wanted a priest.

“If you’ll walk, you must keep step with me.”

“I can do that.” She lifted her chin.

“We’ll see. Whoa—come back here,” he said as she moved away. He grabbed her arm, then drew a length of rope from inside the pouched folds of his belted plaid.

“Rope?” she asked, stunned. “Rope?”

“I brought it along in case you did not want to come with me earlier.”

“I didn’t then, and I don’t now,” she said pragmatically. “Stop that!” He wrapped the rope snugly around one of her wrists, then knotted the other end around his own wrist.

“My apologies,” he said quietly.

“You are truly mad,” she said, outraged by the makeshift leash. When she pulled, it only tightened further. “This is not necessary!”

“I cannot risk you running off over the hills at night. You might get lost or be injured.”

“Oh, and you will not injure me, I suppose.”

“I will not.” His answer was calm, even soothing.

She could hate him for that mellow voice alone, she thought.

That deep, true-pitched tone belonged to a king or a bard. It was too good for a rogue like him.

“Come ahead. We’ve a distance to go yet.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He gave the rope a tug and stepped away. Sophie had no choice but to follow or fall to her knees. She stumbled along, glaring at his back. The leash was less than a yard long, but as she moved with him, mist drifted between her and the outlaw.

“My kinsmen will find me,” she said, “if you have not murdered them all.”

“I do not do murder,” he snapped.

“You steal women and drown men. You betray your friends.”

“I never,” he growled, “betray friends.”

She was too angry herself to care. “You will have no chance to betray anyone else. Allan!” she called
impulsively. “Donald! Help me—I’m up here!” Her words rang out.

The Highlander spun, pressed his hand over her mouth and snatched her close. His comrade hurried toward them, speaking rapid Gaelic. Her captor snapped out an answer, then drew from his sporran the damp cloth that he had earlier used to comfort her. Now he gagged her mouth with it, tying the ends at the back of her head.

Sophie glared at him in outrage.

He inclined his head and turned away, holding fast to the rope looped around her wrist.

The other Highlander, a sinewy older man with a shock of iron-gray hair and scruffy beard to match, spoke sharply, clearly disapproving of the rope. Her own Highlander—she thought of him that way now—snapped a reply that quelled all protest. The men murmured in Gaelic, while Sophie strained to listen.

She had learned Gaelic in childhood from relatives and servants in the family household at Duncrieff Castle, but she had heard it infrequently during her years on the Continent after her father’s exile from Scotland. Now she could grasp only some of their words, unable to follow their pace, but she was certain that they mentioned a priest once again.

A cold frisson of alarm slipped through her. Priests and mass were sometimes hidden even in the Highlands, where there was tolerance for the small proportion of Catholics like her own family. A pack of brigands, were they of the Roman faith, would not plan to confess their sins or attend mass in the middle of the night.

The Highlander meant to marry her that night—
or else intended to deliver her to another man who schemed to become her husband. Had Sir Henry Campbell ordered this? Her heart quickened with dread.

At Kinnoull House earlier she had been so concerned for her brother’s welfare that she dared not reveal how much she hated the idea of marrying Sir Henry, but he might easily have deduced it from her avoidance of his advances. Her clan needed the local magistrate’s cooperation to help their chief, who had been arrested two weeks earlier on charges that remained vague. Espionage, Sir Henry had hinted. Although in her heart Sophie did not doubt it, she kept her suspicions and fears to herself.

Perhaps the magistrate had sensed her reluctance—and her repulsion—toward the idea of being his wife, and decided to force the marriage on his own terms.

“Please,” she gasped around the gag. “No priest!”

The Highlanders stopped to stare at her. Her captor reached out to loosen her gag for a moment. “What?”

“No priest!” she repeated.

“You have more Gaelic than I thought,” he said.

“Then be careful what you say,” she snapped.

He pulled the gag up again and continued to speak with the other man, their discussion so fast that Sophie could follow only words and phrases here and there.

She thought again of the magistrate’s cold, fishy hand on hers, of his tight smile and gimlet eyes. Had he arranged the abduction, sending for these Highland ruffians as soon as she and her party left Kinnoull House?

If not, then the Highlander himself planned this, and she could not imagine why. Since he knew who she was, he at least knew of her brother. Did he think her wealthy, as the sister of a chief? Did he want to be associated with the MacCarran name? But Duncrieff was only of modest means these days, and Robert sat in jail in Perth with a threat of treas on over his head. Forfeiture was more likely for Duncrieff than wealth now.

She reached up a hand to touch the small pendant at her throat, a sparkling bit of smoky crystal set in a tiny silver cage on a silver chain. The ancient stone had been given to her ancestors by a fairy, long ago, and embodied the family legends for Sophie. Its power and protection would carry through her life if she used it well, or so said tradition.

The little crystal, and the touch of fairy blood in her veins, bound her to an unspoken promise. She could marry only for true love. If that was not honored, so said the legend of Duncrieff, bad fortune would come not only to her, but to her clan. The well-being and the future of Clan Carran could depend on the wise use of the small fairy stone by its wearer.

And it was said that the tiny crystal could effect a miracle—just one—should true love be in jeopardy. Otherwise, its fairy power could wreak havoc for its wearer, and for those around her.

Sophie knew she could not marry Sir Henry Campbell, although her own father had promised her to him before his death to meet some obligation. Nor could she marry the Highland stranger who had stolen her on some whim.